Product Description

The four Dollanganger children had such perfect lives -- a beautiful mother, a doting father, a lovely home. Then Daddy was killed in a car accident, and Momma could no longer support the family. So she began writing letters to her parents, her millionaire parents, whom the children had never heard of before.

Momma tells the children all about their rich grandparents, and how Chris and Cathy and the twins will live like princes and princesses in their grandparents' fancy mansion. The children are only too delighted by the prospect. But there are a few things that Momma hasn't told them.

She hasn't told them that their grandmother considers them "devil's spawn" who should never have been born. She hasn't told them that she has to hide them from their grandfather if she wants to inherit his fortune. She hasn't told them that they are to be locked away in an abandoned wing of the house with only the dark, airless attic to play in. But, Momma promises, it's only for a few days....

Then the days stretch into months, and the months into years. Desperately isolated, terrified of their grandmother, and increasingly convinced that their mother no longer cares about them, Chris and Cathy become all things to the twins and to each other. They cling to their love as their only hope, their only strength -- a love that is almost stronger than death.

Product Details

• Amazon Sales Rank: #38235 in Books
• Published on: 2005-08-02
• Original language: English
• Number of items: 1
• Binding: Paperback
• 400 pages

Features

• ISBN13: 9781416510888
• Condition: NEW
• Notes: Brand New from Publisher. No Remainder Mark.
• Click here to view our Condition Guide and Shipping Prices

Review
'Beautifully written, macabre and thoroughly nasty! it is evocative of the nasty fairy tales like Little Red Riding Hood and The Babes in the Wood, with a bit of Victorian Gothic thrown in. ! What does shine through is her ability to see the world through a child's eyes' Daily Express 'Makes horror irresistible' Glasgow Sunday Mail 'A gruesome saga! the storyline is compelling, many millions have no wish to put this down' Ms London 'There is strength in her books -- the bizarre plots matched with the pathos of the entrapped' The Times

About the Author
One of the most popular authors of all time, V.C. Andrews has been a bestselling phenomenon since the publication of her spellbinding classic Flowers in the Attic. That blockbuster novel began her renowned Dollanganger family saga, which includes Petals on the Wind, If There Be Thorns, Seeds of Yesterday, and Garden of Shadows. Since then, readers have been captivated by more than fifty novels in V.C. Andrews' bestselling series. The new Delia series begins with Delia's Crossing and will continue in Delia's Heart. V.C. Andrews' novels have sold more than one hundred million copies and have been translated into sixteen foreign languages.

Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.
Prologue

It is so appropriate to color hope yellow, like that sun we seldom saw. And as I begin to copy from the old memorandum journals that I kept for so long, a title comes as if inspired. Open the Window and Stand in the Sunshine. Yet, I hesitate to name our story that for I think of us more as flowers in the attic. Paper flowers. Born so brightly colored, and fading duller through all those long, grim, dreary, nightmarish days when we were held prisoners of hope, and kept captives by greed. But, we were never to color even one of our paper blossoms yellow.

Charles Dickens would often start his novels with the birth of the protagonist and, being a favorite author of both mine and Chris's, I would duplicate his style -- if I could. But he was a genius born to write without difficulty while I find every word I put down, I put down with tears, with bitter blood, with sour gall, well mixed and blended with shame and guilt. I thought I would never feel ashamed or guilty, that these were burdens for others to bear. Years have passed and I am older and wiser now, accepting, too. The tempest of rage that once stormed within me has simmered down so I can write, I hope, with truth and with less hatred and prejudice than would have been the case a few years ago.

So, like Charles Dickens, in this work of "fiction" I will hide myself away behind a false name, and live in fake places, and I will pray to God that those who should will hurt when they read what I have to say. Certainly God in his infinite mercy will see that some understanding publisher will put my words in a book, and help grind the knife that I hope to wield.

Chapter 1: Goodbye, Daddy

Truly, when I was very young, way back in the Fifties, I believed all of life would be like one long and perfect summer day. After all, it did start out that way. There's not much I can say about our earliest childhood except that it was very good, and for that, I should be everlastingly grateful. We weren't rich, we weren't poor. If we lacked some necessity, I couldn't name it; if we had luxuries, I couldn't name those, either, without comparing what we had to what others had, and nobody had more or less in our middle-class neighborhood. In other words, short and simple, we were just ordinary, run-of-the-mill children.

Our daddy was a P.R. man for a large computer manufacturing firm located in Gladstone, Pennsylvania: population, 12,602. He was a huge success, our father, for often his boss dined with us, and bragged about the job Daddy seemed to perform so well. "It's that all-Amarican, wholesome, devastatingly good-looking face and charming manner that does them in. Great God in heaven, Chris, what sensible person could resist a fella like you?"

Heartily, I agreed with that. Our father was perfect. He stood six feet two, weighed 180 pounds, and his hair was thick and flaxen blond, and waved just enough to be perfect; his eyes were cerulean blue and they sparkled with laughter, with his great zest for living and having fun. His nose was straight and neither too long nor too narrow, nor too thick. He played tennis and golf like a pro and swam so much he kept a suntan all through the year. He was always dashing off on airplanes to California, to Florida, to Arizona, or to Hawaii, or even abroad on business, while we were left at home in the care of our mother.

When he came through the front door late on Friday afternoons -- every Friday afternoon (he said he couldn't bear to be separated from us for longer than five days) -- even if it were raining or snowing, the sun shone when he beamed his broad, happy smile on us.

His booming greeting rang out as soon as he put down his suitcase and briefcase. "Come greet me with kisses if you love me!"

Somewhere near the front door, my brother and I would be hiding, and after he'd called out his greeting, we'd dash out from behind a chair or the sofa to crash into his wide open arms, which seized us up at once and held us close, and he warmed our lips with his kisses. Fridays -- they were the best days of all, for they brought Daddy home to us again. In his suit pockets he carried small gifts for us; in his suitcases he stored the larger ones to dole out after he greeted our mother, who would hang back and wait patiently until he had done with us.

And after we had our little gifts from his pockets, Christopher and I would back off to watch Momma drift slowly forward her lips curved in a welcoming smile that lit up our father's eyes and he'd take her in his arms and stare down into her face as if he hadn't seen her for at least a year.

On Fridays, Momma spent half the day in the beauty parlor having her hair shampooed and set and her fingernails polished, and then she'd come home to take a long bath in perfumed-oiled water. I'd perch in her dressing room, and wait to watch her emerge in a filmy negligee. She'd sit at her dressing table to meticulously apply makeup. And I, so eager to learn, drank in everything she did to turn herself from just a pretty woman into a creature so ravishingly beautiful she didn't look real. The most amazing part of this was our father thought she didn't wear makeup! He believed she was naturally a striking beauty.

Love was a word lavished about in our home. "Do you love me? -- For I most certainly love you; did you miss me? -- Are you glad I'm home? -- Did you think about me when I was gone? Every night? Did you toss and turn and wish I were beside you, holding you close? For if you didn't, Corrine, I might want to die."

Momma knew exactly how to answer questions like these -- with her eyes, with soft whispers and with kisses.

One day Christopher and I came speeding home from school with the wintery wind blowing us through the front door. "Take off your boots in the foyer," Momma called out from the living room, where I could see her sitting before the fireplace knitting a little white sweater fit for a doll to wear. I thought it was a Christmas gift for me, for one of my dolls.

"And kick off your shoes before you come in here," she added.

We shed our boots and heavy coats and hoods in the foyer, then raced in stockinged feet into the living room, with its plush white carpet. That pastel room, decorated to flatter our mother's fair beauty, was off limits for us most of the time. This was our company room, our mother's room, and never could we feel really comfortable on the apricot brocade sofa or the cut-velvet chairs. We preferred Daddy's room, with its dark paneled walls and tough plaid sofa, where we could wallow and fight and never fear we were damaging anything.

"It's freezing outside, Momma!" I said breathlessly as I fell at her feet, thrusting my legs toward the fire. "But the ride home on our bikes was just beautiful. All the trees are sparkled with diamond icicles, and crystal prisms on the shrubs. It's a fairyland out there, Momma. I wouldn't live down south where it never snows, for anything!"

Christopher did not talk about the weather and its freezing beauty. He was two years and five months my senior and he was far wiser than I; I know that now. He warmed his icy feet as I did, but he stared up at Momma's face, a worried frown drawing his dark brows together.

I glanced up at her, too, wondering what he saw that made him show such concern. She was knitting at a fast and skilled pace, glancing from time to time at instructions.

"Momma, are you feeling all right?" he asked.

"Yes, of course," she answered, giving him a soft, sweet smile.

"You look tired to me."

She laid aside the tiny sweater. "I visited my doctor today," she said, leaning forward to caress Christopher's rosy cold cheek.

"Momma!" he cried, taking alarm. "Are you sick?"

She chuckled softly, then ran her long, slim fingers through his tousled blond curls. "Christopher Dollanganger, you know better than that. I've seen you looking at me with suspicious thoughts in your head." She caught his hand, and one of mine, and placed them both on her bulging middle.

"Do you feel anything?" she asked, that secret, pleased look on her face again.

Quickly, Christopher snatched his hand away as his face turned blood-red. But I left my hand where it was, wondering, waiting.

"What do you feel, Cathy?"

Beneath my hand, under her clothes, something weird was going on. Little faint movements quivered her flesh. I lifted my head and stared up in her face, and to this day, I can still recall how lovely she looked, like a Raphael madonna.

"Momma, your lunch is moving around, or else you have gas." Laughter made her blue eyes sparkle, and she told me to guess again.

Her voice was sweet and concerned as she told us her news. "Darlings, I'm going to have a baby in early May. In fact when I visited my doctor today, he said he heard two heartbeats. So that means I am going to have twins...or, God forbid, triplets. Not even your father knows this yet, so don't tell him until I have a chance."

Stunned, I threw Christopher a look to see how he was taking this. He seemed bemused, and still embarrassed. I looked again at her lovely firelit face. Then I jumped up, and raced for my room!

I hurled myself face down on my bed, and bawled, really let go! Babies -- two or more! I was the baby! I didn't want any little whining, crying babies coming along to take my place! I sobbed and beat at the pillows, wanting to hurt something, if not someone. Then I sat up and thought about running away.

Someone rapped softly on my closed and locked door. "Cathy," said my mother, "may I come in and talk this over with you?"

"Go away!" I yelled. "I already hate your babies!"

Yes, I knew what was in store for me, the middle child, the one parents didn't care about. I'd be forgotten; there'd be no more Friday gifts. Daddy would think only of Momma, of Christopher, and those hateful babies that would displace me.

My father came to me that evening, soon after he arrived home. I'd unlocked the door, just in case he wanted to see me. I stole a peek to see his face, for I loved him very much. He looked sad, and he carried a large box wrapped in silver foil, to...

Customer Reviews

One of the best trashy novels ever written
This is not fine literature, nor will anyone ever mistake is as such. The plot is better than that of the average bodice-ripper, with some interesting twists and a hint of mystery. The characters are a little one-dimensional, but Andrews throws in just enough lust, smut and violence to keep it interesting.
If books were foods this book would be a big bag of potato chips. You really should eat better, but sometimes you just have to cut loose and indulge.

Incredible Debut; One of a Kind
Flowers in the Attic is about four children (Chris, Cathy, Cory, Carrie) who are locked away in their grandparent's northern room and attic to secure their mother's (Corrine) chance at inheriting her dying father's fortune. You see, her father's will states Corrine must not have had any children from her first marriage (which recently ended when Corrine's husband died in a car accident, leaving them penniless and heartbroken), or she would be disinherited. The reason for the grandfather's disdain of Corrine's marriage: Corrine had eloped with her half-uncle (who is actually not her half-uncle; read Garden of Shadows and you'll find out who he really is). Now, the grandparents are highly religious people and they believe any children that would result from that marriage would surely be deformed and evil. Therefore, Corrine creates a plan to hide her children "safely" away in her parent's enormous mansion (Foxworth Hall)--with the help of the grandmother--and sets out to win back her father's love and acceptance and, in short, his money.

The book is told from the point of view of Cathy Dollanganger, who is probably one of my favorite heroines in all of V. C. Andrews' books. She is a strong, smart 12-year-old whose main focus is to become a world-famous ballerina. Her older brother Chris is more intellectual and eventually wants to become a doctor. They are tolerant, at first, of being kept in a room with no sun or friends, but the days soon begin to drag on and still no word of their grandfather's death. Yet they hold on for their mother and try to rationalize their sacrifice of freedom for those millions of dollars.

Before long, the abuse starts: the grandmother's cruel punishments begin with whippings and escalates to starvation. The children have nobody to turn to since they've been alienated from the world and even their mother has grown more absent from their lives, too busy traveling all over Europe and flirting with a man who will eventually become her second husband. So, they turn to each other instead for solace, which soon becomes complicated when Chris and Cathy hit puberty and start experiencing unsettling yearnings for each other. This attraction is obvious to the grandmother and gives her more reason to punish the grandchildren she believes are the spawn of Satan.

By the end of the book, one of the Dollanganger children dies from food poisoning and the remaining three promise to somehow escape Foxworth Hall. Also, the mystery of who poisoned the children's food is discovered--and it's not who you would immediately assume.

Flowers in the Attic is V. C. Andrews' first and most popular book. It's also the first in the Dollanganger series; Petals on the Wind, If There Be Thorns, Seeds of Yesterday, and Garden of Shadows follow.

The book was later made into a movie in 1987 and starred Kristy Swanson, Louise Fletcher, Victoria Tennant, and Jeb Stuart Adams. V. C. Andrews even had a small cameo as the window washer/maid. The movie isn't exactly like the book (which is true for most movie adaptations), but it's still one of my favorite movies. I strongly recommend anyone who read the book to see the movie, if not to at least say you have seen and read both. If you saw the movie without reading Flowers in the Attic, you'll probably like the book much better. There are more things that are revealed in the book that were excluded from the movie, like several intimate moments between Cathy and Chris, which weren't included for obvious reasons. Plus, the ending of the movie is very different from the book. It would have been nice if it had ended appropriately so a possible sequel could have been made.

In short, I loved Flowers in the Attic and I would recommend it to anyone who can read. There are certain topics, such as incest and child abuse, which might be offensive to more sensitive readers, but for those that it doesn't offend: definitely find a copy of this book and read it.

Mesmerizing, Frightening, a story I still think about
I read this novel several years ago-when I was about 15 or 16-for the first time. It has remained my favorite since then. I have often thought that this story, more than any other, exemplified the dark shadows in the human heart. The story speaks volumes-if the reader can put aside their own paranoia about incest and abuse and the other things that go on in society that most people want to sweep under the rug and pretend it doesn't exist. The story speaks to the vulnerability of children, how every child is really at the mercy of their parents. What happens in childhood reverberates throughout one's life. I thought Cathy was the most painfully real heroine-all of her emotions poured out on the pages-enough to fill your eyes with tears for all she could have been and what, you knewm she would become. She is full of justifiable hate, yet racked by guilt, desperate for love, consumed with desire, but at heart a good person. The incest was disturbing, but written so well, that even the most cold-hearted reader couldn't help but pity Chris and Cathy. Circumstances forced them to make choices that they might otherwise not have made. The story is haunting, the kind of thing that keeps you thinking long after the book is finished. Wondering if the children's horror were yours, how would you have turned out?