I have refrained from writing this until now, because I continued to hope and pray that he would return as he had left—proud, brilliant and creative. But the passing of time does not always bring welcome news. And so, I would like to share a few thoughts with you about a man named Schrock, who came to influence my life and my work more than anyone I have ever known.
For a graduate student stumbling on the infinity of complexities that confront him in his efforts, there is nothing more treasured than that rare teacher who opens the heavens and shows you the stars; that teacher who pushes you further than you ever dreamed you could go; that teacher who believes in you when you have not yet learned to believe in yourself.
I do not wish to characterize Nick Schrock as a saint, because he was not. But he was an intense and gifted man who was hopelessly devoted to his students and his work. Not everyone liked him, but they did respect him. He was not conventional; he was eccentric and moody and sometimes strange. Yet to his students, those fortunate souls who basked in the dynamics of his intellect, he was the asymptote of all our endeavours.
He led you to where the air is thin
There are some who say he could not teach. Well, that is certainly a matter of opinion. No, he did not give you a set of notes to be thrown back at him on a final exam, or a summary of what everyone else had said. Schrock led you to the top of the mountain where the air is thin and the theories are yet to be tested.
If you kept at it long enough, the skies would begin to clear and you would see a ray of light. For you had learned what Schrock had intended all along—you had learned to think.
You left his class somewhat disturbed and uncomfortable, because the pieces of the puzzle simply did not fit together, and you thought they should. So you trudged home in the ice and snow and fog, with books in your arms and books in your pack, and that troubling feeling of uncertainty. But if you kept at it long enough, the skies would begin to clear and you would see a ray of light. For you had learned what Schrock had intended all along—you had learned to think.
By conventional standards, Schrock did not publish a great deal, and yet he managed to push forth the boundaries of his discipline with keen insights that had eluded lesser scholars. The themes of his papers snapped at you, and you quickly realized the great gifts this man possessed. He made his mark early by publishing in one of the economic profession’s top journals while he was still a graduate student.
Those high standards would serve as the hallmark of a distinguished academic career that was tragically cut short. He resisted the temptation, though many do not, to improve his status and augment his salary by publishing “technical nonsense.” That was simply not his way. Still, his work was recognized by the great writers in his field, and there is no doubt that in the end, he stood on the frontiers.
He was always a theorist, with all the beauty and elegance that the term connotes. He was self-confident but never arrogant. And he understood, perhaps as most great thinkers do, that good work is seldom done by humble men. He gave so much of himself to his profession and even more to his students. For he was, in the words of Carl Sandburg, “both steel and velvet … hard as rock and soft as drifting fog.”
More than 40 years have now passed since I walked out of Nick Schrock’s classroom for the last time. I can still close my eyes and see him standing there, slightly dishevelled in his flannel shirt while staring intently at the ceiling, lecturing on the subtleties of John Maynard Keynes’ classic treatise The General Theory of Employment, Interest, and Money.
The term paper that I wrote for his course would become my first published paper in economics, but it would be years before it found its way into print. This research was supposed to be joint work with my revered professor, and publishing it was just too painful a reminder of what had been lost.
So, for those of you who did not have the privilege of knowing Nick Schrock, I wanted to tell you just a little bit about him. Because, you know, he was very special to me. He was my teacher and my friend, and my intellectual debt to him is beyond measure.
Nicholas Schrock, Professor of Economics at the University of Colorado, was killed while travelling to a teaching assignment in Mexico in the summer of 1982. He was 42 years old. A link to the New York Times article about Professor Schrock can be found here and a follow-up article here. This essay was first penned in the fall of 1982 and was recently revised.
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image 1: Noel Bauza; image 2: Oliver Griebl
