ABSTRACT
In the 1970s, when I (Kegan) was a doctoral student at Harvard in Lawrence Kohlberg’s shop, Jane Loevinger’s visits were anticipated with something like the eagerness, curiosity, and trepidation a family might have awaiting the arrival of an outspoken, stern but loving aunt whose tough-minded integrity concealed a sympathetic heart. Ordinary colleagues say highly critical things about your work behind your back and respectful things to your face. Loevinger was just the opposite. She would leave a trail of overturned vanity in her wake, and then months later you would hear from a colleague how highly she spoke of what you were up to.
