When I graduated from college in 1991, Naomi Wolf was a feminist icon, and the only person of or close to my generation who merited the designation. The weighty feminist classics that had shaken the world from the midcentury through the 1970s—Simone de Beauvoir’s The Second Sex, Betty Friedan’s The Feminine Mystique, Germaine Greer’s The Female Eunuch, Susan Brownmiller’s Against Our Will—had been read by millions. But the eighties were a more pessimistic, less ambitious time. Under Ronald Reagan, George Bush, and Phyllis Schlafly, feminism was in retreat. The women’s movement was still intellectually fruitful—scholars and activists debated sexuality, class, and race in anthologies published
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