How one American inventor unknowingly unleashed two of the planet's greatest environmental disasters

Economic Times

10-05-2025

Thomas Midgley Jr., once hailed as a genius, invented two revolutionary solutions—leaded gasoline and CFCs—that unknowingly became environmental disasters.
In the annals of invention, few names echo with such tragic irony as that of Thomas Midgley Jr. Hailed in his lifetime as a chemical wizard who solved the mechanical ailments of a rapidly modernizing world, Midgley's innovations were initially celebrated as miraculous breakthroughs. Yet in the cold clarity of hindsight, his inventions are seen as environmental catastrophes of epic scale — twin disasters that humanity is still struggling to undo. One soot-blackened, gasping century after he stood before journalists in 1924, grinning as he poured a lethal chemical over his hands and inhaled its toxic fumes to prove a point, the damage is still unfolding.
Midgley didn't just change the world — he unintentionally poisoned it. It was a time of boundless belief in science. The United States was roaring through the 1920s, driven by the promise of machines, speed, and petroleum. In this high-octane climate, Midgley — a chemical engineer working for General Motors — was tasked with fixing a problem that threatened the future of automobiles: engine knock. After testing thousands of substances, Midgley struck upon tetraethyl lead, a compound that silenced the problem and gave birth to 'Ethyl' gasoline. At a press event, he theatrically doused his hands in the compound and inhaled its fumes to allay public fears. But soon after, he himself would fall ill. The irony? He was already poisoned, and so was the world.
Despite the already known dangers of lead, which can severely impair cognitive development — particularly in children — the product was a commercial success. It powered cars and economies. It also contaminated soil, poisoned air, and irreparably harmed generations. The World Health Organization still estimates that a million people die each year from lead poisoning, long after the compound's use was banned in most countries.
Having seemingly solved one global dilemma, Midgley turned to another: how to replace the toxic and flammable gases then used in refrigeration and air conditioning. Again, he succeeded — and again, the consequences would prove catastrophic. In 1930, Midgley introduced Freon, the first chlorofluorocarbon (CFC). Marketed as safe and efficient, Freon transformed daily life. Air conditioning became accessible. Spray cans became ubiquitous. But the molecule's stability — once its greatest virtue — was its deadliest flaw. CFCs rose into the stratosphere, where they began to eat away at the ozone layer, Earth's natural sunscreen.
It wasn't until the 1970s, decades after Midgley's death, that scientists realized what had happened. A hole in the ozone layer had opened above Antarctica, threatening all life with heightened UV exposure. The global response was swift — by 1987, the Montreal Protocol aimed to phase out CFCs. Even so, scientists estimate it will take another 40 to 50 years before the ozone layer fully recovers.
Leaded gasoline, despite its known risks, was not fully phased out globally until 2021. Its final holdout, Algeria, continued sales into the 21st century. And even now, aviation fuels still contain lead additives. A 2022 study found that half of all Americans alive today may have been exposed to dangerous levels of lead as children — a staggering public health legacy tied back to Midgley's 'miracle fuel.' In both cases — Ethyl and Freon — Midgley was hailed as a savior, awarded medals, lauded in scientific journals, and immortalized by institutions. But his tale did not have a heroic end. Stricken by polio in 1940, Midgley became severely disabled. Ever the inventor, he designed a contraption of pulleys and ropes to help him move independently between his bed and a wheelchair. But on November 2, 1944, he became fatally entangled in his own device. Officially ruled a suicide by some, his death has long been shrouded in tragic symbolism — a man strangled by his own creation.
According to a report from CNN , some historians including Radford University's Bill Kovarik, Midgley may have been haunted by guilt in his final years. 'He had a tremendous sense of guilt,' said Kovarik. 'The lead poisoning could have contributed to his psychosis.' Today, it's tempting to paint Midgley as the villain — the man who, more than anyone else, broke the sky and poisoned the air. But historians warn against such simplification. He was, they argue, a cog in the great industrial machinery of the 20th century — a man responding to the demands of corporate giants like GM and DuPont, within a society intoxicated by progress.
'Had it not been Midgley, I'm sure it would have been somebody else,' said historian Gerald Markowitz according to CNN . 'He was just an employee.' Indeed, his story is not just about one man's fatal brilliance. It is a cautionary tale about the blind pursuit of innovation, the arrogance of unchecked industry, and the long shadow of scientific oversight. It is about how the very notion of 'progress' was once considered an unquestioned good — even when it poisoned the Earth in the process. Today, as we stand beneath a slowly healing ozone layer and breathe in a world still contaminated by lead, Midgley's story remains both a haunting warning and a call to humility. Science can illuminate, but it can also blind. Invention can uplift, but it can also entangle. Midgley didn't live to see the damage unfold. But his tale is far from over. It lingers in the air we breathe, in the soil beneath our cities, and in the sky above our heads — a legacy both invisible and inescapable. And perhaps, just perhaps, in remembering him, we can remember the cost of forgetting caution.