Sometimes, in order to explain to a younger generation the supreme regard in which Barbara Johnson was held by mine, I would resort to saying that she was "a critic's critic." By which motto I didn't mean that we other critics attempted to sound like her, or thought we should. For all its grace and brilliance, her work did not stun us into shame at the imagined ineptness or stupidity of our own, nor did it turn us into parrots condemned to confirm our inferiority through trained mimicry. Certainly, it set us a standard for what literary criticism could accomplish by way of illuminating not only a text but also the very processes of critical illumination. Yet the beauty of this standard was that it instilled in us an admiration without terror; instead of sentencing us to the abjection of fans, it accorded us the dignity of fellow laborers. If you followed Johnson's work closely, you did so not because your attention brought you closer to being her (depressive variant: closer to never being her) but because it brought you closer to knowing who, in criticism, you were, or might be. As the avatar of the highest and most highly conscious state of our art, she had no progeny -that too was the beauty of her achievement -yet she was midwife to a multitude.Seven or eight years ago, though, there came a moment when my motto for Johnson ceased to please me -when, like the witches' prophesies in Macbeth, the words "a critic's critic" were turned to an unforeseen and distressing new sense. That was when she wrote an essay entitled "Bringing Out D. A. Miller," in which her object was my own critical performance in Bringing Out Roland Barthes. 1 For a long time, I avoided reading this essay, even to the point, when asked about it, of feigning I had and of offering some equivocal response that might do equally GLQ 17:2-3