The good student is so out of necessity. Deeply damaged, bereft of a part that would make sense of the rest, they have been searching for wholeness for as long as they remember. It's as though someone long ago robbed them of their centre, their core, their happiness, so they use the work to build a new centre, an artificial one because they know nothing of natural, being ever out of joint. They willingly do the work – they must – it's either that pain or the pain of living death – though some are more obsessive than others.