A Defense of College Thesis Projects

At Princeton University, almost all undergraduates are required to write a thesis. The results always remind me how much creativity flows throughout the student body: One student fermented wine with ancient techniques for his classics thesis, while another wrote an algorithm for estimating the waiting times at Disney World. The laborious task is a defining feature of our education, and it distinguishes us from students at most schools. Princeton students have even turned the noun “thesis” into a verb, so you might hear a student say, “I’m busy thesising this afternoon.” Seniors celebrate their newfound “PTL,” our acronym for “Post-Thesis Life.”

I wrote two: one for my politics major and another for my creative-writing certificate. My 120-page politics thesis, “The Republic of Drunkards,” explores the history of the addiction diagnosis in the United States and the emergence of the temperance movement. I argue that temperance advocacy was motivated by concern for the nation rather than the health of the addict. While researching the expansive topic, I often felt as though I was digging through sand, and I kept uncovering seashells of information. I spent many mornings analyzing colonial regulations of taverns, medical pamphlets documenting the consequences of frequent alcohol abuse, sermons denouncing intemperance, and meeting minutes of church conventions deliberating abstinence teachings. By stark contrast, my 90-page creative-writing thesis, “Pleasure and Other Pain,” is a short-story collection with no overarching theme; I wrote about Catholicism, Covid-19, drug abuse, and Title IX. I did absolutely no research, although some dialogue excerpts and characters were inspired by my own interactions.

About the Author

Abigail Anthony

Abigail Anthony is a staff writer at National Review.

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At Princeton University, almost all undergraduates are required to write a thesis. The results always remind me how much creativity flows throughout the student body: One student fermented wine with ancient techniques for his classics thesis, while another wrote an algorithm for estimating the waiting times at Disney World. The laborious task is a defining feature of our education, and it distinguishes us from students at most schools. Princeton students have even turned the noun “thesis” into a verb, so you might hear a student say, “I’m busy thesising this afternoon.” Seniors celebrate their newfound “PTL,” our acronym for “Post-Thesis Life.”

I wrote two: one for my politics major and another for my creative-writing certificate. My 120-page politics thesis, “The Republic of Drunkards,” explores the history of the addiction diagnosis in the United States and the emergence of the temperance movement. I argue that temperance advocacy was motivated by concern for the nation rather than the health of the addict. While researching the expansive topic, I often felt as though I was digging through sand, and I kept uncovering seashells of information. I spent many mornings analyzing colonial regulations of taverns, medical pamphlets documenting the consequences of frequent alcohol abuse, sermons denouncing intemperance, and meeting minutes of church conventions deliberating abstinence teachings. By stark contrast, my 90-page creative-writing thesis, “Pleasure and Other Pain,” is a short-story collection with no overarching theme; I wrote about Catholicism, Covid-19, drug abuse, and Title IX. I did absolutely no research, although some dialogue excerpts and characters were inspired by my own interactions.