offers the sort of effusive praise that many authors would envy: 'Professor Conradi's book is by far the best introduction to Iris Murdoch's work that has yet appeared, and as a critical study it will never be superseded.' 1 On the face of it, an author could hardly wish for a more positive commendation from a more reputable source. Bayley was not only Murdoch's spouse, but an esteemed literary critic in his own right. In a single sentence, he consigned all previous studies of Murdoch (or at least of her fiction) to inferior status, while foreclosing, almost by fiat, the possibility of a better one ever emerging. Although I grant the singular merits of Conradi's book as well as Bayley's unimpeachable credentials, I remember thinking that Bayley's comment would be a bizarre kind of praise for any author to hope for, let alone receive. What would it mean to allow oneself to believe that one's own work 'will never be superseded'?Anyone who works on Murdoch would be foolish to harbor such a pretension, least of all myself. When