ABSTRACT

This essay is an assay, a descriptive weighing of feminist criticism, and an "I say ," a practitioner's account of its controlled and uncontrolled substances. My text is Virginia Woolf's A Room of One's Own, which she began in 1928.1 Woolf's room has become a project that draftily houses us. In her power, failures, and perplexities, she is a major architect and designer of feminist criticism.