Eulogy for my thesis

Frankly, that’s why my acknowledgments section reads like a eulogy — like morose musings for something that’s passed on too soon. If you’ll pardon this abscess of self-indulgence, I believe the funeral analogy rings true. My academic career is all but over.

Sure, there is more work to be done, a few final crumbs left to sweep away: a problem set here, a final project there. But, as far as I’m concerned, they’re just crumbs. My thesis was a chance to contribute something meaningful to my field of study, and now that squandered chance is gone.

I have no plans for a life in academia. No graduate schools in my sights — that is, unless my life as a start-up founder goes horribly wrong. For all intents and purposes, Princeton is the end of the line. And since the thesis is the culminating effort of my Princeton career, I believe that it qualifies as its own kind of tombstone, a commemorative token of an academic life gone by.

And what a token it is.

My thesis will be read, it will be graded — hopefully, with something I can proudly report to my parents — and then ultimately filed in Mudd Library with no other purpose than to potentially embarrass some future version of myself. In other words, my thesis is on its way to an unmarked grave of academic meh-ness.

To be sure, this fate can’t be uncommon. Most theses won’t significantly advance research in their respective fields. Most of these tree-killers have to be duds. But in any case, I truly regret the non-exceptionality of my thesis.

I had hoped while I was writing it, generous as such delusions tend to be, that I might be able to contribute some uniquely compelling work. I had hoped for inspiration. I had hoped to be brilliant beyond my means.

But for all the ways in which my thesis has failed my expectations, I must admit the strange irony of its disappointment. More than anything else that I encountered in my time here at Princeton, my thesis has made me realize how much I’ve loved my education.

It was not straightforward, and it was not easy. At times, I’ll admit, I considered printing my thesis in Comic Sans since Times New Roman and Princeton Monticello all seemed too distinguished for the printing of an overextended joke. But even if there were times when writing the damned thing seemed like its own circle of Princeton hell, the thesis became more than a culminating effort — it was also the highlight of my academic career, confirming for me just how privileged I’ve been to study here.

Even in post-thesis life, I’m still deeply invested in the subject of my thesis. The questions that I couldn’t solve: They still occupy my thoughts fairly often. Even though the paper is finished, it’s hard to let go. There is a part of me that wishes — more strongly than I ever thought plausible — that I could continue studying philosophy, perhaps even pursue a career in academia.

But that’s not the path I’ve chosen for myself. In my time at Princeton, I’ve discovered other interests which, even now, excite me more than anything else. My thesis has not changed that.

What my thesis has changed, though, is my appreciation for the education I’ve been given. It’s painful to know that it will soon be over, just as it is painful to think that I may not have time to seriously pursue my more academic interests in the years ahead.

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On reflection, maybe that’s the ultimate benefit of a post-thesis depression. I can’t shake the feeling that I wish I were still working on my thesis, and maybe that’ll be enough to keep my intellectual life alive. After all, who wants to go out on a dud?

Peter Zakin is a philosophy major from New York, N. Y. He can be reached at pzakin@princeton.edu..