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The Language of Flowers: A Novel Paperback – April 3, 2012

by Vanessa Diffenbaugh (Author)

4.4 17,252 ratings

Goodreads Choice Award nominee

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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 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 with nowhere to go, Victoria realizes she has a gift for helping others through the flowers she chooses for them. But an unexpected encounter with a mysterious stranger 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.

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Print length

334 pages
Language

English
Publisher

Ballantine Books
Publication date

April 3, 2012
Dimensions

5.22 x 0.77 x 8.01 inches
ISBN-10

0345525558
ISBN-13

978-0345525550
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Editorial Reviews

Review

“Instantly entrancing.”—Elle

“[An] original and brilliant first novel . . . a mesmerizing storyteller . . . I would like to hand Vanessa Diffenbaugh a bouquet of bouvardia (enthusiasm), gladiolus (you pierce my heart) and lisianthus (appreciation). . . . And there is one more sprig I should add to her bouquet: a single pink carnation (I will never forget you).”—Brigitte Weeks, The Washington Post

“A captivating novel in which a single sprig of rosemary speaks louder than words . . . The Language of Flowers deftly weaves the sweetness of newfound love with the heartache of past mistakes. . . . [It] will certainly change how you choose your next bouquet.”—Minneapolis Star Tribune

“Fascinating . . . Diffenbaugh clearly knows both the human heart and her plants, and she keeps us rooting for the damaged Victoria.”—O: The Oprah Magazine (book of the week)

“Diffenbaugh effortlessly spins this enchanting tale, making even her prickly protagonist impossible not to love.”—Entertainment Weekly

“Compelling . . . immensely engaging . . . unabashedly romantic . . . an emotional arc of almost unbearable poignance.”—The Boston Globe

About the Author

Vanessa Diffenbaugh was born in San Francisco and raised in Chico, California. After studying art education at Stanford University, she went on to teach at-risk youth in East Palo Alto and Sacramento. She and her husband, PK, have four children: Donovan, 24, Tre'von, 22, Chela, 7, and Miles, 6. Inspired by her own experience as a foster parent, her first novel, The Language of Flowers, has been translated into more than 40 languages. Following the success of her novel, Diffenbaugh co-founded Camellia Network, whose mission is to create a national network that connects every youth aging out of foster care to the critical resources, opportunities, and the support they need to thrive in adulthood.

Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.

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.

Product details

Publisher ‏ : ‎ Ballantine Books; Reprint edition (April 3, 2012)
Language ‏ : ‎ English
Paperback ‏ : ‎ 334 pages
ISBN-10 ‏ : ‎ 0345525558
ISBN-13 ‏ : ‎ 978-0345525550
Item Weight ‏ : ‎ 2.31 pounds
Dimensions ‏ : ‎ 5.22 x 0.77 x 8.01 inches

Best Sellers Rank: #15,916 in Books (See Top 100 in Books)
- #383 in Psychological Fiction (Books)
- #425 in Family Saga Fiction
- #1,548 in Literary Fiction (Books)

Customer Reviews:
4.4 17,252 ratings

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Vanessa Diffenbaugh

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Vanessa Diffenbaugh was born and raised in northern California. After studying creative writing, she went on to teach art and technology to youth in low-income communities. She and her husband PK have four children: Donovan, Tre'von, Graciela and Miles. Vanessa is also the co-founder of Camellia Network, whose mission is to create a nationwide movement to support youth transitioning from foster care. She and and her family live in Monterey, California.

We Never Asked for Wings is her second novel. Her first, The Language of Flowers, was published in over forty countries, and was a Sunday Times Top Ten bestseller in the UK.

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S. Warfield

A life is found in the meaning of flowers

Reviewed in the United States on April 12, 2013

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"The Language of Flowers" by Vanessa Diffenbaugh sat on my shelf for several months before I picked it up to read it. That was a mistake. The story of Victoria Jones is an unforgettable one, and her love for flowers and their Victorian-era meanings not only saves her hardened heart, but fascinated and tugged on my own heartstrings. It is a wonderful story of love, redemption, forgiveness, and life in the foster-care system and most of all, the kindness of strangers' hearts.

Victoria was abandoned at birth and spent most of the first eighteen years of her life in foster care and group homes. She was angry, defiant, mouthy, had no plans or direction to her life when she reached her eighteenth birthday and had to leave the system. Victoria had never experieced being loved by a mother or father in her formative years, so she had no idea how it felt to be cherished and no clue how to love anyone else. She only loved flowers and the meanings assigned to them long ago.

It is through her gift of love for flowers that she creates beautiful and wondrous things for people according to the meanings of the flowers that match peoples' wishes, feelings, and desires that Victoria starts to link the meanings of flowers to her own feelings and her heart. She discovers that she is exceptionally good at listening to what others tell her about their lives and matching up flowers that have positive meanings for their bouquets, wedding flowers and arrangements in a floral shop where the owner has allowed her to work for a few hours a week. When she meets a stranger in the flower market, they begin to exchange flowers instead of notes to express their feelings, but she isn't used to doing feelings. Victoria has a terrible secret in her past that she will one day have to reveal, and she will need strength and forgiveness to tell it and little does she know to whom it is linked.

The story goes back and forth from a ten-year-old Victoria to the present day, but it does not confuse. Instead, it helps the reader to understand why the adult Victoria behaves the way she does. This character is fascinating, heartbreaking and one that begs cheering on as the book moves through its story of this girl's life.

The topic of forgiveness looms large in "The Language of Flowers" and there is much for the reader to learn from this lovely book, and also a lot to learn about the meaning of flowers. I enjoyed its steady movement and its well-written and obviously highly researched information about flowers. A book to savor and a character not to forget.

Highly recommended with the warning that you'll want to either visit the florist or start planting flowers as soon as you finish the book.

8 people found this helpful

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Molly

Good read

Reviewed in the United States on January 24, 2024

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I am not much of a reader but decided to give this book a try after seeing that it was on a book club list. It kepy my interest the entire time. I read it pretty quickly too. It also made me more interested in flower language, I pay more attention to what I buy to put in my house and garden.

Reviewed in the United States on April 25, 2024

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I really enjoyed this book. It's a gripping story, with interesting characters, and is well written.

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Hmm? That's Interesting

Read Again. Quickly --- Don't Wait

Reviewed in the United States on April 24, 2020

Verified Purchase

Only a day or two passed before I read “The Language of Flowers” a second time.

Thank goodness.

My memory, created during the first reading, holds story-holes. I created ugly potholes by not knowing which detail to understand, now or appreciate later --- during the first reading. And, holes need filling.

Every detail, each symbol, each sub-theme, page by page means more to me now, almost as if I were beginning to learn a new language. The second reading shows and validates details and sub-themes missed the first time. “It feels as if I’m reading a different book,” I say to myself. And I anticipate each additional reading will thicken understanding of what the story shares.

I love this story, as painful as it is at times..

During the first reading, I keep reading one more page, then one more chapter. Then I read another page, another chapter, on and on. To stop and wet my dry mouth and throat seems a time-waster. Each chapter introduces a surprise. Each chapter's last sentence keeps me anticipating the unexpected that Diffenbaugh will share next. While most of Victoria’s jaw-droppers displease me or make me feel uncomfortable, they keep fascinating and riveting my focus, as I read and turn page ... after page ... after page--- not able to stop.

Two questions birth themselves and stay with me, as I move through this tale:

• How real is this story? It feels like a dream, a bad one --- no, perhaps a nightmare, for all characters.
• Why is the book called “The Language of Flowers?” The title feels light-hearted, maybe literary, even botanical --- almost, even artificial. Yet, I know it’s not.

The second reading, I keep working to flesh-out a comfortable answer to the story’s purpose. Vanessa presents Victoria's story as a real-world experience --- yet it doesn’t feel believably so. Wounds and damages just don’t heal as quickly as the story's words and rhythms suggest, in real-life.

I ask: Might this story’s content be identified as a blend or a collage of an adult contemporary fairy tale, a fantasy, a story of secular-mysticism, a fictional memoir, a surrealistic metaphor, an unfinished psychological case-study draft?

Is it?

I wonder.

Perchance it’s imaginary.

I keep searching the story’s content. “Is it phantasmagoria-like?" I ask myself. "Does the text hide a less obvious more meaningful or realistic solution?"

Hmm?

Coincidently, I watched Offenbach’s fabulous opera “Les Contes de’ Hoffmann,” between my first and second readings. With tears in my eyes, I recognize that in the epilogue, sung by the muse (Kate Lindsey) and The Metropolitan Opera Chorus*, I hear Offenbach’s music, and the English subtitles answer the two questions which developed during my first read.

The opera’s ending words cause me to feel that Diffenbaugh’s muse might well have been like the one portrayed by Offenbach --- if not the same.

I share some words from Hoffman's opera for your consideration:

"Let the ashes of your heart rekindle your genius.
“Smile upon your sorrows with serenity.
“Your muse will comfort you.
“Your suffering will be blessed.
“One grows through love...and grows more through tears.
“Let the ashes of your heart...rekindle your genius.
“Smile upon your sorrows with serenity.
“Your muse will comfort you.
“Your suffering will be blessed.
“Love lends man greatness.
“Tears make him greater still. "

“The Language of Flowers” is about much, much more than simply Victoria's (Diffenbaugh's) flowers' symbolic and mystical meanings. May you grow from the pain and suffering you are likely to feel, about Victoria and memories of your life-experiences, while you read this remarkable book. What will your favored flowers communicate to you? What will you be trying to communicate with the someone to whom you send your selected flowers?

Victoria, Grant, and Elizabeth, and maybe you and me, grow and develop as we learn from life-experiences. And that we live individually and personally.

Let your muse speak insights to you.

As my reading-muse whispers insights from Diffenbaugh’s text, “The Language of Flowers” becomes increasingly valuable to me.

Some reviewers give 5-stars when a book introduces them to something that feels as if it's giving them an insight that may change their life. "The Language of Flowers" might be one that carries life-modifying and enriching insights. Insights revealed while reading a book that is shared surreptitiously, simultaneously, with another work that peels similar scales from our eyes, unexpectedly --- even when 180-years separate one text and the other. As they did in this review's example.

I gave the author’s book 4-stars when I finished the first read. After the second, I changed to 5-stars. Is there a rating higher than 5-stars, for me to use after I reread this wonderfully and beautifully written tale a third, fourth, and fifth time?

Yes, there is --- even though there is no place to validate higher rankings with a checkmark.

Instead, we may need to find a reading-muse to whisper Diffenbaugh’s secrets to us. And then be content with what we hear.

*(December 19, 2009 performance)

34 people found this helpful

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Betty M.

Hermoso libro

Reviewed in Mexico on August 23, 2023

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Hace mucho que lo quería. La espera valió la pena, es un libro muy lindo. Si te gustan las flores lo amarás

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Alex Zarycka

A touching book

Reviewed in Canada on June 13, 2023

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This novel taught me the importance of love, of other's feelings, and that everyone is imperfect. Everyone fails at times. No one is alone in that. But there is always hope to try again. This book touched me so much. I love some of the bonds in this book between Victoria and other characters. This is a book I will remember.

One person found this helpful

Richa

My fav book/ must read

Reviewed in India on August 13, 2019

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I don't re-read a book usually but this year I thought to read at least one and I'm glad I did it. This book fills me with joy despite not being a happening book but how it shows the vulnerable side of human makes me fall in love with it. If I'll be honest I want to start listening to the audibook again. I guess now I know why people re-read a book.

The book revolves around Victoria who is an orphan and spend most of her life with foster families and child care homes. Once she met Elizabeth, who is the closest she can get as her mother but some unfortunate turn of events draws them apart. And Victoria isn't someone who abides by the rules or will listen to you, she will do everything on her own terms and won't trouble you for anything, but she has her own set of fears and apprehensions. It is a twisted tale of what is lost but not forgotten. It talks a great deal about human relationships. Sometimes all you have to do is forgive the person and forgive yourself for the deeds you have done to make space for the old and new.

It is my all time favourite book and just after finishing it I felt I want to start it again. I don't know how it is going to resonate with you but it will strike a chord somewhere.

2 people found this helpful

Chiara Cadei

Un libro assolutamente meraviglioso

Reviewed in Italy on January 30, 2017

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Il libro è stupendo, rifinito in tutte le sue parti, dalla rilegatura alle illustrazioni. Lo stato dell'oggetto in questione è ottimo. Lo consiglio assolutamente.

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Leanne Mantle

A thoroughly enjoyable read

Reviewed in Australia on March 21, 2019

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I really enjoyed this book. It made me laugh and cry, smile and frown. It made me think how lucky I am to have had such a loving family. My heart broke for Victoria on many occasions. Other moments made me so proud of her. As she overcame her, often self made obstacles.
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