For certain subjects it's clear: Prove that something existed that nobody has noticed so far. Answer a question that has bothered us for decades. Introduce an entirely new hermeneutic to your field.
You heard it here first: I am NOT going to do any of those things. I have a perfectly fine sense of my own capabilities, and they are not nill, so I do not mean this self-deprecatingly, but I am not one of those who will write a ground-breaking, stop-the-presses dissertation. (And incidentally, I'll be perfectly satisfied and proud of a career that includes nothing of the sort.)
But I do want to write a good dissertation. I'd kind of like to write a damn good one. It's just very hard to figure out what the criteria are, and then how to achieve that.
I know I don't want it to be "wrong." That would be awful. Gotta not be wrong. But not being wrong doesn't exactly lead to being "right." I'd like to make a "compelling" argument, but if I succeed at that, it doesn't necessarily mean my argument is "convincing." And even if I'm both "right" and "convincing," my work might still not be "interesting." And even if it's "interesting," that doesn't mean it's "important."
Oyoyoy!
Then there's this problem, especially when working with midrash. Let's say I'm commenting about a given story in rabbinic literature. Then someone comes along and says, "Meh, it's just a story. It's a good story! But stop making it into such a big deal. It's clearly just about [fill in the blank]." A major scholar at this graduate student conference at Princeton that I'm at right now has essentially done that to both me and another student. How do you counter that?
Here's my advice to myself: What do you do? You make suggestions and see if they resonate with colleagues and teachers. You don't assume you can prove anything, and you dismiss those who would dismiss you because of that. You find your voice, knowing that while yes, there are a million things that could be said about this stuff, you have something of your own to say. You accept that, inevitably, some people won't like your work. And inevitably, some people will. You try to decide whose opinion matters to you, and you refuse to be paralyzed by insecurities, fears, and ego.
At least you try. And sometimes you remind yourself: It's just a job.
It's not just a job. It holds the pillars of heaven and earth togehter.
ReplyDeleteAhhh the difference between Israeli and American talmudists. :)
ReplyDeleteThe *real* difference is that we don't *get* jobs, so we have to have cosmological hallucinations.
ReplyDeleteJenny:
ReplyDeleteI'm not an academic (although like you, I'm a Joint Program graduate) and my take on midrash is different than that of the scholar who says "Meh, it's just a story."
When I learn midrash with my daughter, I want her to think "what is the purpose of this story? Why do Chazal bring it down out of all the other stories out there? What does it try to answer? What does it say about the 'author'? What might it say about the author's time?" Recognizing that we don't have the academic tools, it's not always possible to answer all those questions (not to mention, my daughter's not yet 11), but these questions should be asked about all midrashim. No such thing as "it's just a good story." Heck, if learning it in context of a gemara, you have a whole host of other questions.
Don't let some academic bigwig crush your interest in it. Just because s/he doesn't have the breadth of mind to recognize that it could be important doesn't mean it's not.
Thanks J-Dub. (When did you graduate? Are we buddies?)
ReplyDeleteFear not, my interest is not crushed. There are plenty of other academics that I trust who don't say things like that, and I'm getting better are figuring out responses to the ones who do.
I don't think we know each other. I'm old (GS/JTS '93, Law '96). I found your blog through Pit's blog. I know him from his days at Student Life at JTS back when I was an undergrad.
ReplyDelete