No doubt it was a thought inspired more by the fact that I am rapidly reaching the end of the final volume of A Dance to the Music of Time than anything else, but I was recently in a small independent bookstore, the sort of place that has enough ambition to stock serious titles but must make its way by prominently featuring the current bestsellers. On a rack near the front of the store multiple copies of Allan Greenspan's recent apologia pro sua vita were displayed, row after row showing his face peering out, asking, one last time, for one's confidence. I've always wondered who buys these kinds of books. That they provide grist for the book pages' mills is clear enough, with reviews in every newspaper, literary supplement, and political magazine offering opportunities to discuss a given figure's political or economic legacy as a way of advancing larger arguments. But who actually pays money for the books themselves? As I wondered, I couldn't help but think of piles of remaindered books bearing the face of "the maestro" getting packed up, remaindered and sent away, just like old Louis.