PhD blog: 23
Graham Foster
- September 2008.
The story so far... Graham is in the second year of his part-time PhD at Manchester Metropolitan University. He is researching American literature post-9/11.
On obsession
One of the authors I’m studying died last week. It was a shock; he was only 46 and it was an apparent suicide. David Foster Wallace was an incredible talent and one of the authors I am most excited to study as his books are textured, detailed and incredibly large (both in scope and physical size). But his death affected me very strongly. Over the past week or so I have learnt a weird and startling thing about my study: I am entrenched in the work (that much I already knew), but to the degree where I feel I have a personal connection to the authors I am studying. Yes, I know this is completely irrational and in saying it I probably come across as a self-regarding cock, but it’s true. I only really realised it when David Foster Wallace died, and how unbearably sad it made me. It could be that I am in a unique (or at least unusual) position here. At the beginning of my PhD, all the authors I am studying were alive, living, breathing human beings who were living in and commentating about the world I too inhabit. They were also reasonably young, relatively close to my age. How can I not feel a personal connection to them?
Perhaps this isn’t so unusual and these conditions are not the only way to establish that personal connection with the chosen focus of your doctoral study. I know it happens to biographers; they begin to dream about their subject, begin to understand them in a way they probably could not do with a real life, human relationship. Is this amount of scrutiny healthy? I imagine it’s most definitely and irrefutably not. Is any obsession healthy? But we human beings were not designed for healthy living, and we are more than content to throw ourselves into harm’s way countless times.
While I am undertaking an explorative PhD, based on the thoughts, emotions and inner lives of other humans, I imagine doctoral students in other fields feel a similar burn. You have to obsess, go further than anybody else, whether you are studying art or science. It’s unavoidable and scary. It can also make you act in very odd ways. For example, on hearing about David Foster Wallace’s death, I had two reactions:
The first was the aforementioned grief and sadness. Strangely I had just started reading his novel The Broom of the System when I heard the news and I thrust myself further into his writing. I don’t know if this is a kind of tribute, or a revelling in what has now become a rare delicacy. In any case, it seems fitting to do this and it’s great to remind myself just how great a writer he was.
The second reaction was altogether less human. The research part of my brain took over and I coldly began gathering articles, obituaries and tributes to David Foster Wallace with a ruthless single-mindedness. Unfortunately, there was no other option. I had to strike while the news was fresh and the articles were being written (it’s much easier to record the bibliographic information if you use the actual paper article, rather than the internet version of it). Now this is over, I can get back to the business of appreciating the writing, however, it still feels odd like the loss of someone I have known and interacted with (it goes without saying that I never met him). And if I put my cold-hearted research hat on again, it’s also an event that could plausibly change the shape of my PhD.
What’s the point of this post? Well, I guess it’s that a PhD is really the only time in your life when obsession will be rewarded. And if you think you are incapable of this obsessive focus, then it could be that doctoral study will be a very difficult task. It’s workaholism without the suit and tie and without the monetary rewards or the company car, but often with direct benefits of working for yourself and the pleasure of watching your own project blossom. I wonder if the university supplies a twelve-step programme after my research is completed?
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