The proceedings somehow opened. The talking and laughing and shuffling suddenly subsided … a figure rose; she took her way from among us; she mounted a platform; she spoke for precisely five minutes; she descended. Directly she sat down another rose; mounted the platform; spoke for precisely five minutes and descended; then a third rose; then a fourth—and so it went on, speaker following speaker, one from the right, one from the left, one from the middle, one from the background—each took her way to the stand, said what she had to say, and gave place to her successor. … They were like marksmen, I thought, standing up in turn with rifle raised to aim at a target. Sometimes they missed, and there was a roar of laughter; sometimes they hit, and there was a roar of applause. (Woolf 229)

We're short on charter members, this year, who can speak of the debates waged and principles established when the original forty men gathered in Hamilton Hall at Columbia College to set this learned and professional society afoot. But twenty-five years ago, on the occasion of our diamond jubilee, I wrote up a history of the MLA for the special anniversary issue of PMLA, relying heavily on a work by my predecessor, William Riley Parker. No need to repeat here the contents of that sixteen-page, double-column essay. No need to remind a present reader (as Chaucer used to say in almost any of his delightful exercises in occupatio) of the long record the MLA has in stimulating and helping other humanistic societies along the way or of its long-standing umbrellalike policy of providing hospitality at annual meetings for any number of special groups and interests, from the Milton and Melville societies to the National Council of Teachers of English, the College English Association, and the Modern Humanities Research Association. Now, I believe, it provides local habitation to some eighty-four such. To witness at any annual meeting these days six thousand humanistic scholars and teachers busying themselves for three days with their scholarly concerns is to sense the pulse beats (a little frantic to be sure) of a healthy and civilized activity in a troublesome world.

I was appalled by the invitation to write this essay. Although I have always urged students to become aware of the way they read, of why they read in that silly fashion, and of how they might read more rewardingly, I have never bothered much with the history of my profession. I have written principally on Romantic poetry and nineteenth-century fiction. So the MLA seemed to have adopted the position of Senator Roman Hruska, who, defending one of President Nixon's feebler choices for the Supreme Court, argued that even if what was charged against the nominee was true, nonetheless mediocre minds had as much right as any other group to be represented on the Court. My hesitation at serving as token incompetent was increased by the unanimous advice of qualified modernists, distinguished critical theorists, and kindly strangers on upper Broadway that the task was impossible within the space allotted.

In surveying the contributions of the Modern Language Association of America to the teaching and study of foreign languages in our country, especially during the last three decades, I hope to recapture the mood and spirit of past events and to pay tribute to those colleagues who took leading parts in them. This is not an easy task, but it is a welcome and a challenging one. Many of these colleagues are deceased, others are retired, and few if any of us during those intensely active years, I suspect, gave much thought to the task of gathering materials and memories for a chronicle of the MLA's role in the development of foreign language study. But it was an inspired and inspiring time—one happier than the present for education in our country—and I am grateful for the opportunity to set down a brief, personal, and inevitably incomplete memoir.

The most productive approach to the world of scholarship in 1883 requires starting further back, about 1821, when individuals drawn by a passion for philology and English studies first sought to master a new field and become scholars. Passion is not too strong a word here. During the second and third quarters of the century, despite a lack of opportunity for formal training, despite isolation from European scholars, despite the difficulty of getting books and the absence of encouragement or likely reward, these scholars undertook enormous and very different kinds of projects. Their commitment and scholarship, which earned national and international respect, helped to define the American scholar as a specialist and to shape what they insisted was a discipline suitable for the undergraduate college curriculum. Active both outside and within the academy, they not only generated national recognition of the scholar's need for research libraries and higher education's need for scholars but established the value of teaching English in American colleges and universities. Because of their efforts, by 1883 the world of scholarship, at least in broad outline, was the world we now know. That is, though 1883 marks the founding of the Modern Language Association and therefore an important beginning in the professionalization of the discipline, it also marks the end of a pioneering era in American scholarship.

For those who approach literary studies with literary sensitivity, an immediate problem arises. They cannot overlook style, their own or that of others. Through their concern with literature they have become aware that understanding is a mediated activity and that style is an index of how the writer deals with the consciousness of mediation. Style is not cognitive only; it is also recognitive, a signal betraying the writer's relation, or sometimes the relation of a type of discourse, to a historical and social world. To say that of course words are a form of life is not enough: words at this level of style intend a statement about life itself in relation to words, and in particular to literature as a value-laden act. Thus, even without fully understanding it, one is alerted by a similarity in the opening of these two essays: The Right Reverend Father in God, Lancelot Bishop of Winchester, died on September 26th, 1626. During his lifetime he enjoyed a distinguished reputation for the excellence of his sermons, for the conduct of his diocese, for his ability in controversy displayed against Cardinal Bellarmine, and for the decorum and devotion of his private life. (Eliot, Lancelot 13) One afternoon, Walter Benjamin was sitting inside the Café des Deux Magots in Saint Germain des Prés when he was struck with compelling force by the idea of drawing a diagram of his life, and knew at the same moment exactly how it was to be done. He drew the diagram, and with utterly typical ill-luck lost it again a year or two later. The diagram, not surprisingly, was a labyrinth. (Eagleton, Pref.)

What follows is a personal essay. When I was invited to compose it, I looked back over “A Mirror for the Lamp,” the impressive evaluation conducted by Maynard Mack, George Winchester Stone, and others for the seventy-fifth anniversary issue of PMLA (73.5.2 [1958]: 45–71), and could not find it in my heart to mount a similar enterprise. It seemed to me that in this era of self-expression, an individual statement would be more useful. I was intimately involved with PMLA for some seventeen years, beginning in 1947, with William Parker and Donna Walsh, as junior proofreader and copyeditor, seeing to its manufacture and paying the bills from 1952 to 1955, and eventually handing over as editor to William Schaefer in 1971 (with seven years off for good behavior between 1955 and 1962). I will characterize the journal we inherited in 1947, what we thought we were accomplishing between 1950 and 1968, and what has happened since 1971. I shall try to keep my prejudices in check, but they will no doubt become evident soon enough. One advantage in proceeding in this fashion is that no one else need be held responsible for the errors of either omission or commission.

Scanning the last twenty-five years in the profession and in society, I wonder: what historian could deal with that time in any comprehensive way? But I wish to speak of those years—in which we witnessed such profound social change—not with the detachment of a historian but rather as a participant who, as a woman, welcomes much that has changed and regrets much that has not. Looking back, I find that the profession has changed less than society has. Academics are a conservative lot—old professors have a tenure more durable than society's institutions, whether for the control of money, or women, or sexuality.

When I was asked to write about the impact of society on our profession over the last twenty-five years, it occurred to me that the period also measures my own lifetime as a professional. I took up full-time teaching in 1957, the year before I received my doctorate. I gave my first paper at a Modern Language Association convention around that time, participated in producing two sons, and published my first article. I left one job, joined in antinuke, anti-ROTC, and prounion activities, and got fired from the second job. I remember complaining to my graduate school director, en route to a third job, how painfully remote upstate New York seemed from everything I valued. Said he, flatly, “You can publish your way out of any place.” Perhaps that was so, then; certainly I acted on that instruction. But I never really put it to the test, for somehow my career swerved that splinter and never returned quite to the groove.