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My good friend and colleague Dr. Morton Berg died unexpectedly at age 82 on March 15 of this year. He had been ailing for some time but not enough to keep him away from his office. He had always worked longer and harder than most of us, and he enjoyed it. Now it is difficult to conceive of his absence, because his presence remains so vivid.
His was a stolid, thoughtful, and affable presence, free of the need to impress. In fact, he was unduly modest, and could be annoyed by pretense in others. But in spite of himself, he leaves a very distinct and memorable impression for those of us who had the pleasure of knowing him.
He was a quietly determined person and would stand his ground firmly but respectfully. We could always count on Morty to take a wise and thoughtful position in difficult situations, and to persevere. If you sought his opinion, you might have to wait a while to hear it. A long silence would ensue. You could hear him thinking, carefully, but it was always worth the wait. Something wise, refreshing, and beautifully expressed usually followed. Morton had a flair for language and for finding a unique and sometimes surprising perspective.
His family and his work were at the centre of his life, but he also knew how to play, at tennis, for example, or sailing his lovely vessel, the Audax—a suitable name, because when he took delivery of the boat he did not yet know how to sail it. At bridge, he characteristically persevered. And he was an avid reader, scholarly and well informed in the ways of the world. He read widely and was a long-standing devotee of the New Yorker and the Sunday Times, since his early years as a psychiatric resident in New York City.
He always impressed me as an exceptional Menshenkenner, as someone with a keen nose for character. His written reports of interviews with