I have fallen victim to a bait-and-switch scheme, one that I think is familiar to many academics. When first contemplating a life of the mind, I was essentially in search of an industry to fund my eclectic reading habits. The Academy welcomed me with the confident smile of a Ricky Roma. I was particularly enticed by the opportunity to talk (at length) about the books I had found while wandering in subbasements and forgotten annexes of research libraries, perusing used bookstores, or perhaps stopping at kiosks along the Seine during my lengthy summer vacations. That's not quite how it turned out. Instead, the only time I read a new book that isn't about talking steam engines or delinquent bunnies (and even then I often fall asleep before the final page) is because I have assigned it in a course. This is not what I expected, but it is satisfying nonetheless. Last fall I finished a number of good books just before teaching my classes.