Invention: A Life

James Dyson

Invention

A Life of Learning Through Failure

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This book is dedicated to Deirdre, without whose love, encouragement, advice, tolerance and forbearance, none of this would ever have happened. Also, to Emily, Jake, Sam, and our wonderful grandchildren, who make the closest of families and whose enthusiasm for creating things flourishes so strongly.

Introduction

In 1983, after four years of building and testing 5,127 handmade prototypes of my cyclonic vacuum, I finally cracked it. Perhaps I should have punched the air, whooped loudly, and run down the road from my workshop shrieking Eureka! at the top of my voice. Instead, far from feeling elated—which surely after 5,126 failures I should have been—I felt strangely deflated.

How could this have been?

The answer lies in failure. Day after day, with the wolf at the door, I had been pursuing the development of an ever more efficient cyclone for collecting and separating dust from a flow of air. I built several cyclones each day, conducting tests on each one to evaluate its effectiveness in collecting dust as fine as 0.5 microns—the width of a human hair is between 50 and 100 microns—while using as little energy as possible.

This might sound boring and tedious to the outsider. I get that. But when you have set yourself an objective that, if reached, might pioneer a better solution to existing technologies and products, you become engaged, hooked, and even one-track-minded.

Folklore depicts invention as a flash of brilliance. That eureka moment! But it rarely is, I’m afraid. It is more about accepting failure to be able to achieve that moment of ultimate success. Funnily enough, engineers who are good at inventing things are never satisfied with their latest creation. They tend to look at it quizzically and say, I now know how to make it better, which is a wonderful opportunity! This is the start of their reinvention, marking another leap in performance.

If would-be young inventors could see that pioneering a cure for Alzheimer’s, for example, is not about eureka flashes of Archimedean brilliance but more about an intelligent pursuit of diligent research, they might be less discouraged by the notion that brilliance is a prerequisite for their research. Research is about conducting experiments, accepting and even enjoying failure, but going on, following a theory garnered from observing the science. Invention is often more about endurance and patient observation than brain waves.

I wanted to share my story as the first cohort of Dyson students graduate from Dyson University—for them, and all of us students dedicated to the pursuit of curiosity, learning, and embracing the joy of making things. It is a story told through a life of creating and developing things, as well as expressing a call to arms for young people to become engineers, creating solutions to our current and future problems.

Graduating fifty-two years ago from the Royal College of Art, I wasn’t trained as an engineer or scientist, originally studying fine art but graduating with a degree in industrial design. I remember being excited that I would be making a product that I had helped design, but not having a clue about volume manufacturing or marketing. I was naïve and eager to learn, with a bloody-mindedness not to follow convention, to challenge experts, and to ignore doubting Thomases. I am also someone who is prepared to slog through prototype after prototype searching for the breakthrough. If a slow starter like me could succeed, surely this might encourage others.

Now it’s not just me facing a steep learning curve. I’m inspired by an extraordinarily talented team, hell-bent on creating new technology and delivering it to our millions of customers around the world. We share the same belief in pioneering our own way, with the same determination to overcome difficulties. Their loyalty and dedication is what has built Dyson into a global technology company.

My vacuum story began forty-two years ago when I was determined to develop a cyclonic system for separating dust without a clogging bag. As with most research and development, the early days were spent testing prototypes in order to discover certain truths about dimensions and shapes. This is the essential groundwork of learning the art, before starting the experimental work that might lead to a quantum leap. I looked forward to going to work, hoping that maybe today I would discover something new and inch my way forward.

Usually covered in dust, the failures began to excite me. Wait a minute, that should have worked, now why didn’t it? I was scratching my head, mystified, but then had another idea for an experiment that might lead to solving the problem. I was getting deeper and deeper into debt, yet happy and absorbed, thanks to the support of my wife, Deirdre, who allowed us to put our house and home life at risk, while the bank was kind enough to lend us money. She and our children offered encouragement, love, and understanding, despite what was on the line. Without that, and the loyal support of close friends, I would have given up.

Invention is so very important today because young people are passionate about saving the planet, improving the environment, and finding cures for life-threatening diseases. I believe that these problems can be solved by the diligent application of research and development. I would love to see more children and university students motivated to become engineers and scientists to make the breakthroughs that they so want to happen. We should be encouraging the young to become doers, to help them strive to solve the problems of their age while looking forward to a better future.

During my career, I have tried to seek out those young people who can make the world a better place. I have seen what miracles they can achieve. This book is aimed at encouraging them. Some may well become heirs to my heroes—inventors, engineers, and designers—who make their appearance in these pages. Like them, they will not find it easy and they will need oodles of determination and stamina along the way. They will have to run and run hard, which is how my life story began…

CHAPTER ONE

Growing Up

There are moments—long moments—when the sea, sky, and sands of north Norfolk beaches coalesce to form a seemingly infinite horizon. And when the early tide washes in and the ground beneath your feet reflects the big skies like a giant mirror, it can feel as if you are running through some ethereal space free of visible boundaries or restraint.

The first thing I knew I was good at, and something that I had taught myself as a teenage schoolboy, was long-distance running. Once through the pain barrier, I found I had the determination to keep on running. Running early in the morning or late at night through that hauntingly beautiful landscape proved to be more than a ritual challenge. It was an escape from school, allowing me to think that anything and everything was possible.

Not that my thoughts were particularly focused. When I left school at eighteen, my headmaster, Logie Bruce-Lockhart, wrote to my mother saying, We shall be sorry to part with James. I cannot believe that he is not really quite intelligent, and I expect it will be brought out somehow somewhere. And to me he wrote, "The academic side, although we have to pretend it is important, matters comparatively little. You will do all the better for not having masses of tiresome degrees full of booklearning [sic] hanging around your neck. Good luck at the Art School." At the time I enjoyed the double negative in the letter to my mother and hoped that something would be brought out, but like him, I had no clue where that might be. Later, I thought how refreshing it was that a headmaster was quick to say that life isn’t just about academic achievement.

Bruce-Lockhart, a kindly, lively, and witty man, was a champion of the individual. A true countryman who loved music, birds, and painting in watercolors, he had won five rugger caps for Scotland and served with the Household Cavalry during the thick of the action as his armored car pushed into Germany in the fiercely fought ember days of the Second World War. He was to become a lifelong friend. I last saw Logie shortly before he died in 2020.

School was Gresham’s in Holt, remote and largely car-free then, a handsome Norfolk market town 130 miles northeast of London in that part of England, East Anglia, that curves out toward the North Sea and faces the Netherlands. Founded in the reign of Bloody Mary, or Queen Mary I, during the sixteenth century, Gresham’s, where my father was Head of Classics, had educated any number of highly individual and unorthodox young men who went on to both fame and infamy, such as the poet W. H. Auden; composer Benjamin Britten; artist Ben Nicholson; the notorious spy Donald Maclean; and Lord Reith, who founded the BBC. Several celebrated engineers and inventors attended, too, among them Sir Martin Wood, who developed the whole-body superconducting magnets that led to MRI (magnetic resonance imaging), and Sir Christopher Cockerell of hovercraft fame. Then there was Leslie Baynes, the aeronautical engineer who came up with the world’s least powerful powered aircraft, the lightweight Carden-Baynes Auxiliary of 1935.

As a teenager in the early 1960s, I had taken my foot off the academic pedal. Not that I was lazy. Quite the opposite. I threw myself into almost any nonacademic activity, like sports and music. I chose to play the bassoon at the age of nine because I hadn’t heard of it, because it was different and promised another challenge. And then there was drama as both actor and set designer, although my design of flyers for our house play, Sheridan’s The Critic, was not so well received. I’ d produced these in the guise of scrolls rather than folded paper in spirit, or so I thought, with the era of the late eighteenth-century play. Your programs are a disgrace, Dyson, said my housemaster. Programs should be flat. And that was that. My last school play was The Tempest, playing Trinculo alongside Tim Ewart’s—the future ITN News at Ten anchor—Caliban.

Art was not a subject much celebrated at school. Sitting down in my sixth form with a career officer—an ex–Royal Air Force chap with a handlebar mustache—he suggested that given my love of the great outdoors, I might want to think of becoming an estate agent, working in what Americans call real estate. Or possibly a surgeon. I did go to see an estate agent in Cambridge, who told me I ought to be an artist. I also went for an interview at St. George’s Hospital on Hyde Park Corner, where it was suggested I might be happier taking up… art.

Though the idea of being a surgeon held a certain if fleeting appeal, my one great love aside from long-distance running was art. I had been painting seriously from the age of eight or nine. What I really wanted to do was to go to art school. Ever since my encounter with that career counselor at Gresham’s, I have been wary of either accepting or giving advice. It may be well meant, yet it is often wrong. Encouragement is something else. My view is that if the advice chimes with one’s instincts, then the advice may be good. It should be more of a reaffirmation.

Art, however, was not the post-school career or way of life my teachers had imagined for me. Given the fact that my father, Alec, was a Classics master, my elder brother, Tom, an Open Classics scholar at Cambridge, and my elder sister, Shanie, equally brilliant academically, it had felt as if my scholastic career, at least, was preordained. And I was good at Latin and really enjoyed Greek and Ancient History. I was, though, a third child and like many third children felt an almost pathological longing from early on to prove myself by going my own way.

My father, a Cambridge Exhibitioner who had taught in Kenya and fought in Abyssinia, had come back from serving in Burma with Bill Slim’s 14th, or Forgotten Army, in 1946 minus teeth and hair. The war in Burma had been extremely tough, and Dad—twice mentioned in dispatches—had been in the thick of the action at Imphal and in sniper-infested jungles. He had fought alongside Indian, African, Chinese, and American troops and with militias of Shan, Chin, Kachin, Karen, and Naga tribes, too. The British themselves, with allies and troops drawn from many parts of the world far beyond Europe, had been a minority of those who defeated the Japanese in Burma and the Naga Hills.

I remember my father as an ever-cheerful polymath. He ran the school cadet force as a major, coached hockey and rugby, and taught me to sail dinghies on the Norfolk Broads. He used to wake me up early in the morning to catch the spring tide down at Morston. He did so following a stormy night in 1954 when the sea floods had swept across the mudflats, marshes, and valleys of north Norfolk. This wasn’t a matter of simply jumping in the car and speeding out to find the boat. Our car, an old Standard 12, powered by a Jaguar engine, if I recall, demanded a hand-crank start with a violent kickback and suffered frequent breakdowns. It was certainly an adventure.

My father played tenor recorder in a group, produced school plays—I still have his margin notes in miniature volumes of Shakespeare—and was happy pouring molten lead to cast miniature soldiers and working wood in his workshop. He wrote a children’s book, The Prince and the Magic Carpet, about India that he illustrated with charming watercolors. Happily, my grandchildren love me reading it to them and chime in with the magic words Dhurry dhurry ooper jow to set the carpet flying. He was able to spout spontaneous and suggestive limericks. In his obituary, a member of staff said how much they enjoyed his humour which often veered into the Rabelaisian. He was an amateur photographer who developed his own prints, sticking them in precious albums. He was always up to something that involved us, whether it was feeding the chickens, allowing us to stand leaning out from the running boards of the car, or putting stage makeup on the Gresham’s School actors.

When my father met my mother, Mary, she was only seventeen, the daughter of the slightly remote vicar of Fowlmere, a village in Cambridgeshire, and a very artistic mother who painted glorious watercolors. My paternal grandfather was a distinguished retired headmaster who lived with my grandmother at the nearby village of Thriplow. My mother and father had met at a local social event and arranged a quick wartime marriage in 1941. Their honeymoon was brief. My father was in the army. Missing out on university, having attended the Perse School in Cambridge—I don’t know how her parents could have afforded it—my mother had volunteered for the Women’s Auxiliary Air Force. She pushed aircraft positions across a vast map of Europe at RAF Tangmere in West Sussex. An important strategic airfield from the Battle of Britain onward, Tangmere was much popularized in war films with Winston Churchill looking down from a balcony to the map below.

My sister Alexandra (Shanie) was born in 1942 and my elder brother, Tom, in 1944. They were wartime children. I was born in 1947. At home in peacetime Norfolk, there was no television, never enough heating, no new toys, and few, if any, consumer goods. We had just enough money to get by. The large Victorian house was divided into three. This was the Age of Austerity and, until I was seven, that of ration books, too. We grew our own vegetables and collected eggs from our hens. Sometimes we walked to the Regal in Holt to watch films. As children, though, we had something even more entertaining and truly priceless: the free run of Gresham’s grounds, playing fields, tennis courts, and swimming pool throughout the holidays. Gresham’s, it is said, has more acres than pupils. The vast and often empty Norfolk beaches were close by.

The large Victorian house was divided between three families. We children were a tribe of sort, our imaginations fed by books that most English children knew—the Famous Five and Secret Seven by Enid Blyton and, especially, Swallows and Amazons by Arthur Ransome. And, we were all children of teachers at Gresham’s. I was the youngest of three families of children and so, I suppose, had something to prove. I was also the smallest of my tribe, and in class at school. I shot up, quite suddenly, when I was fifteen. As children we did things probably banned today for being far too dangerous: we built hazardous tunnels, climbed challenging trees, and were often grazed, grubby, and out of breath. We each dug our own den to start the tunnels, and then connected them by trenches. Logs or timbers were spread across the trenches and rusty corrugated iron placed on top. It was an interesting lesson in structures and amazingly nobody was buried alive. Those days were truly idyllic.

In 1955, when I was eight, we were motoring back from a beach holiday in Polzeath in Cornwall, which I would remember until that moment mostly for uncomfortable boils on my bottom. We stopped for a picnic on Dartmoor. I set off alone along a track exploring the high bracken. Around a corner I discovered my father being violently sick. Before I could say anything, he said, Don’t tell Mummy. It was typical of him not to want to cause alarm. I felt immense love and compassion for him as we made our way back to our family.

Dad died the following year, in 1956, when he was only forty. He had been thirty when he came back from Burma. Three years later he was diagnosed with cancer. Throat and lungs. He took school lessons speaking through a loudhailer. Jim Wilson, a former pupil, recalled in the 2016 Old Greshamian Magazine, Looking back, one can readily recognise his courage continuing to teach using a microphone and speakers to amplify his voice. At the time, did we really appreciate the bravery and determination this must have taken?

His last days were spent in Westminster Hospital. He had said goodbye, holding a small leather suitcase as we waved from the back door. He set off to Holt station and caught the train that steamed him to London. That was the last time I saw him. His brave cheerfulness chokes me every time I recall the scene. It is impossible to imagine my father’s emotions as he waved goodbye knowing that he might be on his way to London to die.

Sixty years have not softened these memories, nor the sadness that he missed enjoying his three children growing up and marrying wonderful people. How he would have relished playing with his grandchildren, of whom there are seven. This was all the more poignant when I observed one of my own grandchildren, Mick, at the age I was when my father died. Mick is loving, bright as a button, and self-possessed, yet still at that age took his ruffled, soft toy puppy to bed with him. He was far too vulnerable to lose his father. I realize how much I missed mine as I watch Mick playing ping-pong with his creative and loving father, Ian.

My elder brother, Tom, my mother, and I had been drinking asparagus soup when the phone rang at home in Holt that day in 1956. As my mother answered the call, I had a naïve premonition of the news. This was surprising as I was unaware at the time that cancer was an inevitable killer. We feared for our elder sister, Shanie, who was away at boarding school. How would she be able to take the news on her own?

I had only just started at Gresham’s and there I was, days later, in the school chapel in short trousers and knobbly knees going to my own father’s memorial service. For reasons I cannot understand, rather than sitting with my family I was in a row of seats with all the other boys who didn’t really understand why they had been dragged to a service that as far as they were concerned was a waste of time. I found this traumatic. They hadn’t meant to be disrespectful, but this was my father.

I felt the devastating loss of my dad, his love, his humor, and the things he taught me. I feared for a future without him. Having recently become a boarder at the school, away from my family, I was suddenly alone. It didn’t do to cry or show emotion, just a stiff upper lip. Ever since, a part of me has been making up for that painfully unjust separation from my father and for the years he lost. Perhaps I had to learn quickly to make decisions for myself, to be self-reliant, and be willing to take risks. Little could be worse than my father dying when he did.

The school’s headmaster, Logie Bruce-Lockhart, and his kind wife, Jo, had arranged for Tom and me to become boarders for a nominal fee as this would allow my mother to go out to work. She took up dressmaking before training as a teacher. Later on, she went to Cambridge as a mature student to take a degree in English. It was my mother who brought me up after my father’s death and influenced my childhood learning. My parents were married for fifteen years, but only really at home together for three, before my father was diagnosed with cancer. This might explain my mother’s ability to survive on her own while raising three children and studying for two higher-education qualifications.

At 5'11", my mother was tall. I don’t remember her having any difficulty with discipline. To me, though, she was mild, loving, and indulgent, although not with money. There was none to spare. She was encouraging. She read voraciously, holding her own with academics at Gresham’s, and spoke French flawlessly even though she had never been to France. When she did finally go, she took us in her Morris Minor. Camping in a cheap ridge tent, she showed me, among many other treasures, the flying buttresses of Chartres Cathedral, the pantiled roofs of Vézelay, and the beautifully austere Cistercian cloisters of the Abbaye du Thoronet. We pitched our tent by the Dordogne and swam in the river long before this patch of France became a British colony.

Determined to live well on little money, at home we picked samphire on Stiffkey Marshes and dug cockles from the sand. We went to first performances of Benjamin Britten operas and works conducted by Britten himself, who lived in nearby Suffolk and had been schooled at Gresham’s. My mother played her Kathleen Ferrier and Peter Pears LPs. We read, played charades, and made things. Lead soldiers, model gliders, and diesel-powered airplanes were my thing. I didn’t play with the soldiers or collect them. What I enjoyed was making them, using my father’s equipment to melt lead in a crucible and to pour the dangerous molten lead into molds.

In 1957, when my mother decided on her vocation, she went to Norwich Teacher Training College for a two-year course, presumably on a student grant. She taught at Sheringham Secondary Modern before Runton Hill, a rather good local girls’ public school, offered her a job teaching and as housemistress of a new boarding house. Having to visit a girls’ boarding school suited me, too.

In 1968, three years after I had left home to become a student, my mother decided to study for a degree at New Hall, Cambridge. As a wartime bride, she must have regretted not finishing her secondary education, nor having had the chance to go to Cambridge as had both my dad and my brother. Even so, it must have been depressing for her to have had to survive on yet another student grant and to live in basement digs, as I was doing in London. Although she was ill and hospitalized up to and during her finals, she got a 2:1, a good degree. She then taught English at Fakenham Grammar School for five happy years, where she also thoroughly enjoyed producing plays. Through a bitter twist of fate, in 1978 she was diagnosed with and very quickly died of liver cancer.

My wife now claims that I have inherited my mother’s determination and warrior spirit. My mother did have high expectations. She was also very broad-minded and had a catholic choice of friends of all ages. Enjoying conversation on any subject, hers was a modern outlook. Ahead of her time, she was tolerant of others of all walks of life. She was happy to discuss anything. This may seem odd for a religious daughter of a vicar, yet perhaps any Edwardian attitudes she may have had were changed by the hardships and leveling of society caused by the war.

She coaxed me into seeing and understanding a broad culture. She encouraged my acting in plays, my playing the bassoon, and painting, all things I had chosen to do myself. Occasionally she came along to watch me playing a sport I loved. Perhaps, instinctively, she understood the lessons that sports can teach children. She was never too disappointed with my academic achievements. A keen amateur artist herself, as was my father, she was also secretly pleased that one of her children might be an artist. Later on, she was intrigued when I branched out into manufacturing as well as design.

She and my headmaster Logie shared a vision of education. While academic achievement is its primary purpose, schools can impart other educational lessons. I took part in academic life, and quite enjoyed it, but I didn’t feel competitive about it. I left that to sports and the creative side of life. At thirteen I had to choose between the sciences and the arts. My father’s and brother’s influence led me to choose Classics and, when I was fifteen, I specialized in Latin, Greek, and Ancient History. Other subjects appealed more to me than these and, in hindsight, it is easy to say that I should have pursued math and science, which I enjoyed and was good at. Though nobody at the time would have expected me to have made that choice. I was a frustration to my teachers, and they were disappointed in me. Later on, I did embrace academia, working hard and competitively at art school and the Royal College of Art. Today, I am an avid reader of history books, with mathematics, engineering, and writing a part of my everyday life.

It was playing games, however, that taught me the need to train hard and to understand teamwork and tactics. The planning of surprise tactics, and the ability to adapt to circumstance, are vital life lessons. These virtues are unlikely to be learned from academic life and certainly not from learning by rote. Acting in plays taught me about characters, how to express thoughts, and to emphasize dramatically in speech. Long-distance running allowed me the freedom to roam the wilds of Norfolk while depending on no one but myself. Running also taught me to overcome the pain barrier: when everyone else feels exhausted, that is the opportunity to accelerate, whatever the pain, and win the race. Stamina and determination, with creativity, are needed to overcome seemingly impossible difficulties.

That schools are failing to teach creativity worries me. Life today demands it more and more. We need to create fresh solutions to seemingly intractable problems, to devise new software, to create something different in order to compete in the global economy. The advantage we in the West have relied upon for so long is being diminished. Since almost every country develops technology and exports it around the world, we need to apply the advanced technology we develop at an ever-faster pace, alongside producing the best engineers and scientists. In order to stay ahead, we need to focus increasingly on our creativity.

School aside, home life has much to teach us, too. It certainly did for me. From the age of eight, I grew up in a single-parent home, where we had to share the many chores. In our rented part of a crumbling Victorian house in the 1950s, we had no machines for gardening or cultivating. We had a push mower for what was quite a big garden, and a spade to dig the vegetable garden. The washing machine was a static boiler that merely soaked the washing, which was then rinsed in a large butler sink and fed into a hard-to-turn mangle. The one motorized machine we did have was an old upright vacuum cleaner with a cloth bag hanging from its handle. We had no wall power sockets, so we had to stand on a stool in each room and plug it into the central light socket and not allow the vacuum to pull too hard on the cord. It was smelly, dusty, and ineffective. It haunted me for many years!

I have good reason to be grateful to my mother for introducing me to all these home chores. She taught me to sew, knit, make rugs, and cook. My father had taught me to sail. I watched him do carpentry. I taught myself to make model airplanes, to start their engines, fly them, and to repair my bicycle. Doing things with my hands, often as an autodidact and with an almost total absence of fear, became second nature. Learning by making things was as important as learning by the academic route. Visceral experience is a powerful teacher. Perhaps we should pay more attention to this form of learning. Not everyone learns in the same way.

I am someone who likes to learn on my own, by experiencing failure and discovering my own way to make things work. I could put that down to not having had a father after the age of eight to show me how things are done. Yet I have noticed the same trait in both my sons. I witnessed Jake using a lathe before I had the chance to show him how. Sam is a self-taught musician. My daughter, Emily, on the other hand, had skiing lessons and became stylishly proficient, while Jake, Sam, and I eschewed them. We need the visceral experience of trying something out to understand and to be convinced that we are doing this the right way for us. Learning by trial and error, or experimentation, can be exciting, the lessons learned deeply ingrained. Learning by failure is a remarkably good way of gaining knowledge. Failure is to be welcomed rather than avoided or feared. It is a part of learning. It should not be feared by the engineer or scientist or indeed by anyone else.

I did miss my father. Many years later, I was intrigued to learn in a book by Virginia Ironside that 85 percent of all British prime ministers, from Robert Walpole to John Major, and twelve U.S. presidents, from George Washington to Barack Obama, lost their fathers as children. It would be wrong to say the loss of a father is some sort of macabre ticket to success. Perhaps early loss can sometimes inspire people to great achievements?

Even so, my own adventure, in manufacturing and technology, has been quite different from that of my much brighter siblings. My brother became a schoolteacher, my sister a nurse. My own inner demons meant I had much further to run, or sail. As a child I was intrigued by the wording of the telegram sent to Mrs. Walker in Arthur Ransome’s Swallows and Amazons by her absent naval officer husband responding to the Walker children’s request to sail the Swallow to a lake island and camp out on their own. Better drowned than duffers, if not duffers won’t drown. I had no intention of being a duffer.

After my father’s death, I had continued to pursue the Swallows and Amazons life in school holidays with my tribe. I also helped with housework and made balsa-wood planes, some with small diesel engines. Because I had become a boarder, I came home only on holidays. There was no such thing as half-term then and, although physically near, home could seem a long way away. At school in those days, boys were not allowed to have feelings. Any feelings caused by injustice, bullying, or compassion, I suppressed. Teachers there, as anywhere else at that time, could be cruelly sarcastic and wholly insensitive to the emotional lives of their young charges. For fourteen weeks at a stretch there was no escape, no parent to explain or tell us not to worry. I looked forward very much to the holidays.

Whatever the ups and downs of my schooldays, I was aware of a wider life around me in England in the 1950s. Roger Bannister ran the first mile in under four minutes. Edmund Hillary and Tenzing Norgay planted the Union Jack at the top of Everest. Peter Twiss, at the controls of the supersonic Fairey Delta 2, was the first person to fly at over 1,000 mph. D-Type Jaguars won Le Mans three times in row. Crick and Watson deciphered DNA. There was low unemployment, the emergence from Austerity, and Prime Minister Harold Macmillan riding on the slogan You’ve never had it so good. The Commonwealth, meanwhile, seemed a noble replacement for an empire that had colored a quarter of the land in our school atlases pink.

Each week, Eagle, a particularly well-illustrated boys’ comic boasting a huge circulation, featured a center spread color cutaway drawing by the technical illustrator Leslie Ashwell Wood of some new jet aircraft, turbine locomotive, or nuclear power station, and any number of