A thesis statement

The first professor I asked to be my thesis adviser said something like, "OK, I mean, I could give you a problem to work on. And maybe you'll work on it — some people do, some people don’t. But even if you do, maybe April rolls around and you haven't gotten anywhere.” His voice trailed off. I think I murmured, “Yes, that's the fear, isn't it?” but my expression must have said more, because he cut in with, “You know what, maybe you should talk to someone else.” I agreed, not really wanting an adviser who all but presupposed my failure. He suggested a different professor, and we arranged to meet. This second professor, after shaking my hand, said something like, "So you want to write a thesis? Don't worry! You'll write a thesis." That was a relief: At least someone thought I would finish.

Of course, if your only goal is to finish — to pass and be forgotten with the rest — you needn't worry too much. Grade deflation has caused no shortage of B-pluses and B’s, and Princeton has large economic incentives not to fail you in the home stretch: They've already invested so much to get you this far, they might as well let you have a relaxed senior spring, and even try to cash in on your fond memories down the road. Also, if you’re lucky enough to know what you're doing next year, the thesis has barely any effect on your future success. All together, the immediate practical ramifications of writing a mediocre thesis are small.

And yet, I hope that doesn't fully comfort you. I hope that you, like me, want there to be something inherently worthwhile in the whole thesis venture; that you want there to be a reason to do a good job anyway. So, as the deadlines draw near and the excuses dwindle, I propose that we supplement the usual channels of procrastination by re-examining the very practice itself. Why do we write a thesis?

I take it that the standard answer runs something like this. Even in an upper-level class, even over the course of an entire major, you rarely do more than scratch the surface. You treat a topic — a period, a conflict, a novel, a theorem — each week and then move on. In a very real sense, all courses are survey courses. The cost of breadth is depth, and a thesis is supposed to balance this out. Never mind how narrow your topic is, just go as deep as you can. Don’t stop until you've understood the subtle connections, the scholarly disagreements and the historical progressions of all the relevant ideas. Don’t stop until you've unearthed the hidden structure behind whatever social issue or natural phenomenon or work of art you're studying. Don’t stop until you’ve written it all down as clearly as possible.

There is something uniquely beneficial, the party line goes, to knowing almost everything about a given subject. Indeed, the specific subject isn't that important: it's the process of planning and carrying out a thorough research program, thinking long and hard, and then codifying your thoughts. The research is different from the research for a term paper, the propositions are different from the propositions on a problem set, and the writing is different from the writing in a writing seminar. Thinking long and hard about something is good for your mind and good for your soul, as beneficial as any other part of the liberal arts education.

That’s the standard argument, but it’s only half the story. In a way, it’s just wishful thinking. After all, writing a thesis is very stressful, and it leaves less time available for course work. Far worse, we all know that many theses will be churned out at the 11th hour, some of them complete bullshit, others honest but still not worth the leather they’re bound in.

Can we really argue that the net benefit is positive? Or should we copy our peer institutions and make the thesis optional, necessary for honors, but not a hallmark of the institution? I doubt that this question has a simple answer, and, in truth, it’s for each of us to decide — anticlimactic a conclusion as that may be. Come June, each newly minted senior will be in a better position than anyone else to decide whether the thesis was a good experience.

As for me, I'm ultimately happy that we have a thesis requirement. I think that forcing people to try their hand at studying something as deeply as possible leads to more enlightenment, on average, than two regular courses would. The system isn't perfect, of course, and we should be open to incremental change, but I think we've got a good thing going on. Indeed, I anticipate feeling similarly about my own thesis: It's not perfect, it's probably wrong in a few places, but I'm glad to have it.