They seemed to signal that the text within would have a starry-eyed approach to books that would charm for about 15 pages and then grow trite. So the gentle watercolor painting on Dear Fahrenheit 451's cover, and its sweet subtitle - 'Love and Heartbreak in the Stacks' - initially gave me pause. I know books too well, and in too great a number, to countenance such a uniformly positive understanding of their power. If a person's attitude towards literature is all sunshine and no shade it will hold only a limited amount of appeal for me. To a certain class of book lover - one that includes the jaded courtesan of literature writing this very review - the phrase 'book lover' can inspire trepidation, particularly on a cover flap. 'What are you doing,' they will think, 'writing out my life like it's your own, Annie Spence? Who do you think you are? What makes you special?' Thankfully, Spence's voice is ultimately so warm, funny, and specific that it answers the question handily - she's special because she has a unique ability to capture the thoughts and feelings of book lovers, both professional and otherwise, on the page. It's lucky that she manages this feat, as anyone who loves books well enough to enjoy reading Spence's letters is likely to relate so closely to her thoughts that they'll struggle with that same sense of resentful ownership - particularly librarians. The truest testament to the quality of Dear Fahrenheit 451, Annie Spence's ingratiating collection of love letters and breakup notes to the books in her life, is that my enjoyment of it was, in the end, great enough to outweigh my fury that someone other than me had written it.

Dear fahrenheit 451