One of my most important formative experiences as a scientist was very traumatic at the time. In the spring of 1965, I had finished writing my PhD thesis at Harvard University, in Cambridge, Massachusetts, and had purchased aeroplane tickets to take my wife Betty and our one-year-old daughter with me for a postdoctoral year in Geneva, Switzerland. Only one step remained — a meeting of my thesis committee to approve the granting of my PhD degree in biophysics. No one in recent memory had failed at this late stage. But to my great surprise, the committee failed me, specifying the need for more experiments that eventually required six more months of research.
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