Cover image for Book Club kit : The language of flowers
Title:
Book Club kit : The language of flowers
Edition:
1st ed.
Publication Information:
New York : Ballantine Books, c2011.
ISBN:
9780345525543
Physical Description:
6 bks. (322 p.) ; 25 cm. + 1 discussion guide
Language:
English
Abstract:
"The story of a woman whose gift for flowers helps her change the lives of others even as she struggles to overcome her own past"-- Provided by publisher.
Program Information:
Accelerated Reader Grades 9-12 5.8 15 Quiz 150725 English fiction.
Holds:

Available:*

Library
Material Type
Shelf Number
Copies
Item Notes
Status
Searching...
Book Club Kit BOOK CLUB 1 .CIRCNOTE. *****6 BOOKS, 1 DISCUSSION GUIDE*****
Searching...

On Order

Summary

Summary

A mesmerizing, moving, and elegantly written debut novel, The Language of Flowers beautifully weaves past and present, creating a vivid portrait of an unforgettable woman whose gift for flowers helps her change the lives of others even as she struggles to overcome her own troubled past.

The Victorian language of flowers was used to convey romantic expressions: honeysuckle for devotion, asters for patience, and red roses for love. But for Victoria Jones, it's been more useful in communicating grief, mistrust, and solitude. After a childhood spent in the foster-care system, she is unable to get close to anybody, and her only connection to the world is through flowers and their meanings.

Now eighteen and emancipated from the system, Victoria has nowhere to go and sleeps in a public park, where she plants a small garden of her own. Soon a local florist discovers her talents, and Victoria realizes she has a gift for helping others through the flowers she chooses for them. But a mysterious vendor at the flower market has her questioning what's been missing in her life, and when she's forced to confront a painful secret from her past, she must decide whether it's worth risking everything for a second chance at happiness.

Praise for The Language of Flowers

"Instantly enchanting . . . [Diffenbaugh] is the best new writer of the year." -- Elle

"I would like to hand Vanessa Diffenbaugh a bouquet of bouvardia ( enthusiasm ), gladiolus ( you pierce my heart ) and lisianthus ( appreciation ). In this original and brilliant first novel, Diffenbaugh has united her fascination with the language of flowers--a long-forgotten and mysterious way of communication--with her firsthand knowledge of the travails of the foster-care system. . . . This novel is both enchanting and cruel, full of beauty and anger. Diffenbaugh is a talented writer and a mesmerizing storyteller. She includes a flower dictionary in case we want to use the language ourselves. And there is one more sprig I should add to her bouquet: a single pink carnation ( I will never forget you )." -- Washington Post

"A fascinating debut . . . Diffenbaugh clearly knows both the human heart and her plants, and she keeps us rooting for the damaged Victoria." -- O Magazine

"Diffenbaugh effortlessly spins this enchanting tale, making even her prickly protagonist impossible not to love." -- Entertainment Weekly


Reviews 6

Publisher's Weekly Review

Diffenbaugh's affecting debut chronicles the first harrowing steps into adulthood taken by a deeply wounded soul who finds her only solace in an all-but-forgotten language. On her 18th birthday, Victoria Jones ages out of the foster care system, a random series of living arrangements around the San Francisco Bay Area the only home she's ever known. Unable to express herself with words, she relies on the Victorian language of flowers to communicate: dahlias for "dignity"; rhododendron for "beware." Released from care with almost nothing, Victoria becomes homeless, stealing food and sleeping in McKinley Square, in San Francisco, where she maintains a small garden. Her secret knowledge soon lands her a job selling flowers, where she meets Grant, a mystery man who not only speaks her language, but also holds a crucial key to her past. Though Victoria is wary of almost everyone, she opens to Grant, and he reconnects her with the only person who has ever mattered in her life. Diffenbaugh's narrator is a hardened survivor and wears her damage on her sleeve. Struggling against all and ultimately reborn, Victoria Jones is hard to love, but very easy to root for. (Sept.) (c) Copyright PWxyz, LLC. All rights reserved.


Booklist Review

*Starred Review* Abandoned as an infant, Victoria grew up as a ward of the California foster-care system and, abused and neglected, turned into an angry, uncontrollable child. Deeme. unadoptable. she gets one final chance at a home life when she is placed with Elizabeth, a single woman running her family's vineyard in the verdant hills outside San Francisco. Days before Victoria is scheduled to be officially adopted by Elizabeth, a terrible misunderstanding violently tears them apart, and she is sent back into the system. Though the emotional damage seems insurmountable, Victoria's time on the farm taught her that there were other ways of getting her message across. Finally forced to support herself, Victoria lands a job with a florist and uses her knowledge of the hidden meaning of flowers to gradually and fitfully make her way back into the world one that will include a career, motherhood, and the personal forgiveness necessary for her to love and be loved in return. Enchanting, ennobling, and powerfully engaging, Diffenbaugh's artfully accomplished debut novel lends poignant testimony to the multitude of mysteries held in the human heart.--Haggas, Caro. Copyright 2010 Booklist


School Library Journal Review

Alternate chapters weave Victoria's past as a foster child and her present as a semi-homeless 18-year-old in Diffenbaugh's moving debut. Victoria finds her first job in a florist shop, putting to use the language of flowers she first learned from her only real family, the foster mother she lost 10 years earlier. (Aug.) (c) Copyright 2011. Library Journals LLC, a wholly owned subsidiary of Media Source, Inc. No redistribution permitted.


Guardian Review

Victoria Jones is a failed adoptee; since babyhood she has been placed in a series of foster homes, but has always been returned to the care of her social worker. Now, aged 18, she is free from the system, released into the early November fog of a San Francisco morning. Victoria cares little for anyone or anything, apart from the study of flowers, with the symbolic nature of which she has complete affinity, even a gift. From sleeping rough in a park to working for a taciturn florist and building a tentative relationship with a young man from her past, Victoria's backstory is starkly revealed, along with the terrible facts behind the loss of her last foster parent, Elizabeth. The generic cover design is badly misleading, as Diffenbaugh is an engaging writer, sensitively using the double-edged definitions of flower names to amplify her theme. - Catherine Taylor Victoria Jones is a failed adoptee; since babyhood she has been placed in a series of foster homes, but has always been returned to the care of her social worker. Now, aged 18, she is free from the system, released into the early November fog of a San Francisco morning. - Catherine Taylor.


Kirkus Review

Cleverly combining tender and tough, Diffenbaugh's highly anticipated debut creates a place in the world for a social misfit with floral insight.After more than 32 homes, 18-year-old Victoria Jones, abandoned as a baby, has given up on the idea of love or family. Scarred, suspicious and defiant, she has nothing: no friends, no money, just an attitude, an instinct for flowers and an education in their meaning from Elizabeth, the one kind foster parent who persevered with her. Now graduating out of state care, Victoria must make her own way and starts out by sleeping rough in a local San Francisco park. But a florist gives her casual work and then, at a flower market, she meets Grant, Elizabeth's nephew, another awkward soul who speaks the language of flowers. Diffenbaugh narrates Victoria and Grant's present-day involvement, over which the cloud of the past hangs heavy, in parallel with the history of Elizabeth's foster care, which we know ended badly. After a strong, self-destructive start, Victoria's long road to redemption takes some dips including an unconvincing, drawn-out subplot involving Elizabeth's sister, arson and postnatal depression. While true to the logic of its perverse psychology, the story can be exasperating before finally swerving toward the light.An unusual, overextended romance, fairy tale in parts but with a sprinkling of grit.]] Copyright Kirkus Reviews, used with permission.


Library Journal Review

An expert in the 19th-century language of flowers, Victoria is also a deeply troubled young woman who has just been emancipated from the foster care system. This first novel explores Victoria's struggle to make her way in the world and the mysteries of loving and of being loved. VERDICT While at times heartbreaking, the tone is ultimately hopeful, and readers will never look at a flower bouquet in the same way again. (LJ 6/1/11) © Copyright 2016. Library Journals LLC, a wholly owned subsidiary of Media Source, Inc. No redistribution permitted.


Excerpts

Excerpts

1. For eight years I dreamed of fire. Trees ignited as I passed them; oceans burned. The sugary smoke settled in my hair as I slept, the scent like a cloud left on my pillow as I rose. Even so, the moment my mattress started to burn, I bolted awake. The sharp, chemical smell was nothing like the hazy syrup of my dreams; the two were as different as Indian and Carolina jasmine, separation and attachment. They could not be confused. Standing in the middle of the room, I located the source of the fire. A neat row of wooden matches lined the foot of the bed. They ignited, one after the next, a glowing picket fence across the piped edging. Watching them light, I felt a terror unequal to the size of the flickering flames, and for a paralyzing moment I was ten years old again, desperate and hopeful in a way I had never been before and would never be again. But the bare synthetic mattress did not ignite like the thistle had in late October. It smoldered, and then the fire went out. It was my eighteenth birthday. In the living room, a row of fidgeting girls sat on the sagging couch. Their eyes scanned my body and settled on my bare, unburned feet. One girl looked relieved; another disappointed. If I'd been staying another week, I would have remembered each expression. I would have retaliated with rusty nails in the soles of shoes or small pebbles in bowls of chili. Once, I'd held the end of a glowing metal clothes hanger to a sleeping roommate's shoulder, for an offense less severe than arson. But in an hour, I'd be gone. The girls knew this, every one. From the center of the couch, a girl stood up. She looked young--?fifteen, sixteen at most--and was pretty in a way I didn't see much of: good posture, clear skin, new clothes. I didn't immediately recognize her, but when she crossed the room there was something familiar about the way she walked, arms bent and aggressive. Though she'd just moved in, she was not a stranger; it struck me that I'd lived with her before, in the years after Elizabeth, when I was at my most angry and violent. Inches from my body, she stopped, her chin jutting into the space between us. "The fire," she said evenly, "was from all of us. Happy birthday." Behind her, the row of girls on the couch squirmed. A hood was pulled up, a blanket wrapped tighter. Morning light flickered across a line of lowered eyes, and the girls looked suddenly young, trapped. The only ways out of a group home like this one were to run away, age out, or be institutionalized. Level 14 kids weren't adopted; they rarely, if ever, went home. These girls knew their prospects. In their eyes was nothing but fear: of me, of their housemates, of the life they had earned or been given. I felt an unexpected rush of pity. I was leaving; they had no choice but to stay. I tried to push my way toward the door, but the girl stepped to the side, blocking my path. "Move," I said. A young woman working the night shift poked her head out of the kitchen. She was probably not yet twenty, and more terrified of me than any of the girls in the room. "Please," she said, her voice begging. "This is her last morning. Just let her go." I waited, ready, as the girl before me pulled her stomach in, fists clenched tight. But after a moment, she shook her head and turned away. I walked around her. I had an hour before Meredith would come for me. Opening the front door, I stepped outside. It was a foggy San Francisco morning, the concrete porch cool on my bare feet. I paused, thinking. I'd planned to gather a response for the girls, something biting and hateful, but I felt strangely forgiving. Maybe it was because I was eighteen, because, all at once, it was over for me, that I was able to feel tenderness toward their crime. Before I left, I wanted to say something to combat the fear in their eyes. Walking down Fell, I turned onto Market. My steps slowed as I reached a busy intersection, unsure of where to go. Any other day I would have plucked annuals from Duboce Park, scoured the overgrown lot at Page and Buchanan, or stolen herbs from the neighborhood market. For most of a decade I'd spent every spare moment memorizing the meanings and scientific descriptions of individual flowers, but the knowledge went mostly unutilized. I used the same flowers again and again: a bouquet of marigold, grief; a bucket of thistle, misanthropy; a pinch of dried basil, hate. Only occasionally did my communication vary: a pocketful of red carnations for the judge when I realized I would never go back to the vineyard, and peony for Meredith, as often as I could find it. Now, searching Market Street for a florist, I scoured my mental dictionary. After three blocks I came to a liquor store, where paper-wrapped bouquets wilted in buckets under the barred windows. I paused in front of the store. They were mostly mixed arrangements, their messages conflicting. The selection of solid bouquets was small: standard roses in red and pink, a wilting bunch of striped carnations, and, bursting from its paper cone, a cluster of purple dahlias. Dignity. Immediately, I knew it was the message I wanted to give. Turning my back to the angled mirror above the door, I tucked the flowers inside my coat and ran. I was out of breath by the time I returned to the house. The living room was empty, and I stepped inside to unwrap the dahlias. The flowers were perfect starbursts, layers of white-tipped purple petals unfurling from tight buds of a center. Biting off an elastic band, I detangled the stems. The girls would never understand the meaning of the dahlias (the meaning itself an ambiguous statement of encouragement); even so, I felt an unfamiliar lightness as I paced the long hall, slipping a stem under each closed bedroom door. The remaining flowers I gave to the young woman who'd worked the night shift. She was standing by the kitchen window, waiting for her replacement. "Thank you," she said when I handed her the bouquet, confusion in her voice. She twirled the stiff stems between her palms. Meredith arrived at ten o'clock, as she'd told me she would. I waited on the front porch, a cardboard box balanced on my thighs. In eighteen years I'd collected mostly books: the Dictionary of Flowers and Peterson Field Guide to Pacific States Wildflowers, both sent to me by Elizabeth a month after I left her home; botany textbooks from libraries all over the East Bay; thin paperback volumes of Victorian poetry stolen from quiet bookstores. Stacks of folded clothes covered the books, a collection of found and stolen items, some that fit, many that did not. Meredith was taking me to The Gathering House, a transitional home in the Outer Sunset. I'd been on the waiting list since I was ten. "Happy birthday," Meredith said as I put my box on the backseat of her county car. I didn't say anything. We both knew that it might or might not have been my birthday. My first court report listed my age as approximately three weeks; my birth date and location were unknown, as were my biological parents. August 1 had been chosen for purposes of emancipation, not celebration. I slunk into the front seat next to Meredith and closed the door, waiting for her to pull away from the curb. Her acrylic fingernails tapped against the steering wheel. I buckled my seat belt. Still, the car did not move. I turned to face Meredith. I had not changed out of my pajamas, and I pulled my flannel-covered knees up to my chest and wrapped my jacket around my legs. My eyes scanned the roof of Meredith's car as I waited for her to speak. "Well, are you ready?" she asked. I shrugged. "This is it, you know," she said. "Your life starts here. No one to blame but yourself from here on out." Meredith Combs, the social worker responsible for selecting the stream of adoptive families that gave me back, wanted to talk to me about blame. Excerpted from The Language of Flowers by Vanessa Diffenbaugh All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.