In 1965, when I began to do research for my Ph.D. dissertation on Victorian women writers, feminist criticism did not exist. Virginia Woolf's letters and diaries were scattered and unpublished . Scholars still called Elizabeth Gaskell Mrs. and Frances Burney Fanny. No one edited women's studies journals, or compiled bibliographies of women's writing. At the University of California at Davis, where I was studying, Theory was not even a shadow on the sunny horizon, and the New Criticism, F.R. Leavis, Northrop Frye, and seven kinds of ambiguity marked the boundaries of my critical sophistication. I had chosen my thesis topic in part out of lingering anger at my undergraduate college, Bryn Mawr, where English majors were required to read every tenth-rate male Romantic poet and Elizabethan dramatist, but virtually no women, and in part out of my own devotion to the Victorian women writers. Professional opportunities for academic women seemed so limited in the mid1960s that I felt paradoxically freed to write about the books I liked, rather than the ones most likely to get me a job. Gwendolyn Needham, my thesis adviser at the University of California at Davis, was sympathetic to my ideas and demanding about my scholarship, but my dissertation, The Double Standard: Criticism of Women Writers in Victorian Periodicals 1845-1880, was a hybrid, an attempt to write about women in an outmoded and inadequate critical vocabulary. Princeton University, where I actually wrote most of the dissertation as a faculty wife from 1966 on, did not hire women, but it had the fabulous Parrish collection of Victorian fiction, and all the Victorian journals were still on the open shelves, although only the first volume of the Wellesley Index to Victorian Periodicals was available to help me identify anonymous reviewers. By 1970, when I got my Ph.D. and had my second child during the same month, the mood of the country had changed, and I had become an active member of the women's liberation movement. I had spent the summer of 1968 in Paris with my husband and daughter, living in a communal household of French, English, and American students and professors in the aftermath of the politically transformative ve'nements of May, and I had been involved with the anti-war protests at the MLA that December. In Princeton, a branch of N.O.W. opened in 1969, and I joined immediately. There were only seventeen of us at the beginning, but we were full of energy and organized a daycare center (still running), consciousness-raising groups, a newsletter which I edited, a booklet on sex-stereotyping in children's books, a state conference on women's rights, and trips to meetings with groups in New York and Philadelphia. By 1970, I was president of the group, had started writing for Radical Feminism, had joined the advisory board of the Feminist Press, and was editing an anthology called Women's Liberation and Literature. At Douglass College, the women's college of Rutgers