The theory of dissertations in the Humanities is that this is the last step for a scholar in proving her ability to participate in the dialogue and creation of the scholarly world. By the time she gets to the diss she will have gone though eight or so years of coursework, theoretically increasing in specificity as she goes, half a year or so of concentrated reading in her chosen field and a moderately grueling examination (both written and oral) on that field by a committee of scholars who specialize in it also. If she passes the exam, that's supposed to be the proof that established scholars of her field think she has pretty firm knowledge of it. Then comes the last step: she has to write a book length study (250 pages is the general target length) that makes some kind of original contribution to the study of her field. This is the proof that she knows what to do with her knowledge.
The part I hadn't entirely understood until now (working on my own diss) is that this isn't just a silly holdover from a day when it was possible to make significant and original contributions of that length without going hunting for some absurdly tiny detail no one else has dealt with before because it really isn't all that interesting. Nor is it just a sort of advanced hazing, though the entire Ph.D. process can be looked on that way. It's also, in a weird sort of way, a very extended trust exercise.
For those who never did theater or teamwork camp or such, an example of a trust exercise is standing on an elevated surface (table, box, ledge, etc.), putting your hands in your pockets or crossing your arms, and falling backward into a group of people, trusting that they will catch you before you crack your head open on the ground. There are lots of other versions, of course, but this is a favorite.
See, in the field of literature at any rate, you spend those eight years of classwork learning to be progressively more and more critical of other scholars' work. The point is always to find the holes and see if you can fill them in. Looking for a diss topic is the same thing on a large scale. I got comparatively lucky; I was very taken with a huge poem that very few people were even willing to read, much less write about (500 plus page poem by Melville, really cool). Even when I changed my mind about that, Women in Melville is still a very lightly studied subject with all sorts of room in it. For most people, it's a bit harder. By the time you have a topic, the find-the-holes mindset is pretty thoroughly ingrained.
Then comes the kicker.
In order to write something this long, you have to rely on other people's work. It isn't practically possible to do all the research yourself (as my director worked for three months to convince me while I was writing my prospectus). You have to find people who have already done research in the areas that support your own ideas, cite them and then trust their arguments to support yours. It isn't easy, but it is a remarkably comforting feeling when you finally manage it.
So the dissertation is also an exercise in community bonding. It isn't just the basic experience of going through hell that connects scholars after the dissertation is done. The diss itself leads you though the process of becoming part of the scholarly community; it places you inside that strange economy of simultaneous trust and critique.
A very strange experience.
For someone else's highly entertaining rendition of the Ring trilogy as the diss proccess, check this out.
Last modified: 08/23/08
First Posted: 4/14/2001
© 1998-2009 Emily Ravenwood