Recently, I found myself revisiting some of my favourite scientific personalities. It began, as it often does, with Richard Feynman. His book Surely You’re Joking, Mr Feynman! has always been one of those rare reads that makes science feel playful. Instead of the stiff, socially withdrawn image we often associate with scientists, Feynman was full of life. He played the drums, told jokes, picked locks at Los Alamos, painted, travelled widely and made friends with astonishing ease.
Before the Second World War…
That book made me start reading about other great scientists, and I noticed something surprising. Almost none of them fit the modern stereotype of the socially awkward, bookish genius. The deeper I went, the more it became clear that the “nerdy scientist” persona is a very recent invention. Before the Second World War, scientists tended to be remarkably vibrant. They were often multilingual, musically gifted, well travelled, artistic, witty and deeply engaged with people and culture.
John von Neumann, perhaps one of the most brilliant mathematicians who ever lived, was famous for being the liveliest person at Princeton. He enjoyed entertaining, wore well-tailored suits, told humorous stories and drove very fast cars. His colleagues admired both his intellect and his warmth. Albert Einstein travelled widely, loved music and played the violin with passion. He was charming, warm in conversation and adored by friends.
Niels Bohr kept a home in Copenhagen that functioned more like an intellectual guesthouse than a private residence. Students, visiting scholars and friends drifted in and out constantly. His institute was built around open discussion and human connection. Marie Curie, often portrayed as stern and distant, danced, entertained students, formed lasting friendships and even found herself at the centre of a romantic scandal that filled the French newspapers.
Nikola Tesla moved comfortably through New York’s cultural circles. He dressed elegantly, dined in the city’s finest restaurants and was known for his dramatic flair. Enrico Fermi enjoyed hiking, jokes and sports, and was described affectionately by colleagues as remarkably approachable. Ernest Rutherford’s booming voice and humour filled every room he entered. Werner Heisenberg played the piano beautifully and enjoyed long hikes in the Alps. Charles Darwin, usually imagined as quiet and shy, was actually lively and curious during his years on the HMS Beagle.
Carl Sagan also stood out as a reminder that scientific brilliance and cultural charisma can exist in the same person. His poetic, lyrical and warm style captured the public imagination for decades. He used phrases such as “We are made of star-stuff” and “The cosmos is within us” to create a profound sense of human connection to the universe. His television series, lectures and books reached millions, not through cold analysis but through beauty, wonder and storytelling. Sagan became the rare scientist who felt like a companion, a guide and a gentle philosopher all at once.
The more I read, the clearer it became that the pre-war and mid-century scientific world was not made up of reclusive figures hiding in laboratories. Many were genuinely colourful characters who moved comfortably through society, arts and culture.
The Shy ones
Yet it is also true that not every scientist before the war was a social butterfly. Some truly did embody the quieter, inward-facing personality we now associate with scientific genius. Isaac Newton was intensely solitary and kept his private world tightly guarded. Paul Dirac was famously laconic, so much so that colleagues joked a “Dirac unit” was defined as one word per hour. Alan Turing was deeply private, intellectual in a quiet way and often uncomfortable in large social settings. Kurt Gödel struggled profoundly with anxiety and social fragility (the events leading to his death is very sad). Srinivasa Ramanujan, brilliant beyond measure, worked largely in isolation and felt out of place in Cambridge’s academic society. These personalities certainly existed, but they were exceptions rather than the rule.
This contrast made me wonder when the image of the scientist changed so dramatically.
After the Second World War…
Most historians trace the shift to the period after the Second World War. Research became more specialised, more industrial and more technically demanding. The broad, wandering curiosity of earlier centuries gave way to narrower areas of expertise. Laboratories replaced salons, and institutions replaced the wandering natural philosopher.
Then computing arrived. Early programmers worked alone at night, kept unusual hours and formed their own subculture, which later merged with the emerging identity of Silicon Valley. Film and television reinforced this new stereotype by portraying scientists as eccentric, awkward, isolated or obsessively focused on their work. Within a few decades, this became the default cultural image.
What makes this shift interesting is realising how flexible scientific identity has been throughout history. The idea that a scientist must be socially awkward or cut off from broader culture is not only new but historically inaccurate. For long stretches of time, scientists were expected to be well rounded, socially aware and deeply connected to the arts and humanities.
It is fascinating to imagine what science could look like today if we revived some of that older tradition. What if research funding existed for work that combined computing with dance, physics with poetry, mathematics with pottery making, biology with i don’t know, knitting?! What if scientific careers encouraged the same breadth of curiosity that defined earlier generations?
It makes me wonder whether some of our most interesting breakthroughs might come not only from deeper expertise but from richer, more expansive lives as well.