PhD blog: 21

Adventures in solitude

I went to the dentist this morning. I only mention this because she was the first human being I’ve spoken to face-to-face in days. The only others are my work colleagues at the off-license, where I still put in a few hours to help with the upcoming direct debit of fees.  

This is how I’ve found research, the nitty-gritty of working on a PhD. It goes in cycles. Some work you can dip in and out of, such as rereading novels and such. It’s much easier to engage with the primary texts. Right now, I’m deep in secondary reading: theory, philosophy, history … you name it. Deep is the correct word to describe this heavy load of reading, as it often feels like a submarine activity. I don’t mean that in a bad “I’ve made a huge mistake doing a PhD” sort of way, but meaning that it takes over your whole mind, submerges your consciousness and distances you from the mechanisations of the “real” world, so getting back into the swing of a social existence can be difficult. Even rousing yourself from this information rich and complex bed to write a blog post is rather difficult (which is why I’m probably making such a ham-fisted effort here). 

I know some readers may be thinking that this sounds very bad, a horrifying way of life that leads to alcoholism and insanity. And for some people it would, but therein is the point of me writing about this. If you can’t be alone, if you can’t sit and be quiet without feeling the weight of your own mind upon you, then doing a PhD will be a torturous and crushing affair. You end up flying solo for many long hours at some stage (and remember I am only at the beginning), and the books you read are not the easy-to-put-down page-turner types. Completely investing in it is the only way to do it.

 

I have talked before about the importance of the research office as a communal gathering place. I’m not the kind of person that can read when anyone else is around, and so the office would be a very unproductive place for me to go, but I have seen people reading in there. But what I have said underlines the importance of the office once again. Without that anchor you are adrift. I am comfortable with my own company, used to being alone for long stretches, but I still need a connection to humanity. (Sorry to write about this again. As it stands I’m still unsure of the future of the office. It’s a worry).

Through the front door

Other than this, it’s important to know when to stop. I don’t, as I think I’ve mentioned. I work weekends, evenings, nights, mornings – anytime I can fit study around paid work. This isn’t good for the social part of the brain. Once you start these bouts of solitude, the longer they go on the more difficult it is to come out of them. The outside world becomes scary. Like eating a huge butterball turkey all to yourself, the books that you read have a kind of doping effect on the brain when it comes to stepping out the front door. You don’t want to do it; you become both satisfied with and dismayed at your isolation. This goes away almost as soon as you enter a social situation, but the hurdle is getting out of the front door.

This is another reason postgraduate study is nothing like undergraduate study. Most people think I am living in halls or in a shared house, drinking every night and not getting up until after midday. A lot of people ask how many lectures I have a week and when I say zero they snort. There’s no getting away from these moments of isolated work. They have to be done. No man is an island except he who is delving into doctoral research (even if a causeway does open up at low tide).

Anyway, I’m digressing and rambling. I should stop. The fact is that if you are passionate about your study then this is a minor thing. Even so, I need to go out and talk to real live humans now…

Read Graham's previous blogs

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