The Lost Flowers of Alice Hart by Holly Ringland (English) Paperback Book

Description: The Lost Flowers of Alice Hart by Holly Ringland An enchanting and captivating novel about how our untold stories haunt us -- and the stories we tell ourselves in order to survive.After her family suffers a tragedy, nine-year-old Alice Hart is forced to leave her idyllic seaside home. She is taken in by her grandmother, June, a flower farmer who raises Alice on the language of Australian native flowers, a way to say the things that are too hard to speak.Under the watchful eye of June and the women who run the farm, Alice settles, but grows up increasingly frustrated by how little she knows of her familys story. In her early twenties, Alices life is thrown into upheaval again when she suffers devastating betrayal and loss. Desperate to outrun grief, Alice flees to the dramatically beautiful central Australian desert. In this otherworldly landscape Alice thinks she has found solace, until she meets a charismatic and ultimately dangerous man.Spanning two decades, set between sugar cane fields by the sea, a native Australian flower farm, and a celestial crater in the central desert, The Lost Flowers of Alice Hart follows Alices unforgettable journey, as she learns that the most powerful story she will ever possess is her own. FORMAT Paperback LANGUAGE English CONDITION Brand New Author Biography HOLLY RINGLAND is the author of the award-winning international bestseller The Lost Flowers of Alice Hart, adapted into a seven-part TV series on Amazon Prime, starring Sigourney Weaver. After living between Australia and the UK for ten years, Holly has been based in the Yugambeh region of southeast Queensland since 2020, where she wrote The Seven Skins of Esther Wilding in her "office," a vintage caravan named Frenchie. hollyringland.com Review A dark, floral fairytale ... There is a reason Ringlands novel, her first, and already a bestseller, has been bought by publishers around the world, and its not the native flowers ... The first half of The Lost Flowers is delicate and dark as a fairytale, with violent details that stick to you like burrs. But it is in the second half, with Alice out in the real world, where Ringland really gets into gear, and her talent is undeniable ... Ringlands storytelling is driven by an undimmed sense of wonder at the darkness and light, the damage and love in people. It makes for a determined investigation of abuse and survival accomplished with profound sensitivity.--Sydney Morning HeraldAt its heart, this book is about finding a way to care for yourself, in a world that sometimes likes to step on its flowers.--Courier-MailDomestic violence and the lies that surround it--rarely is the topic explored in such a beautifully written, hopeful, and enthralling tale.--Herald SunLush, powerful ... This is an engrossing novel imbued with passion and reverence for the Australian natural world, with a cast of characters that inspire affection in the reader even as they make mistakes. Those who couldnt put down The Natural Way of Things will find a gentler but no less compelling journey of female survival in this novel.--Books+PublishingTheres an aching heart beating through Holly Ringlands narrative that although at times seems almost broken, is stitched back together with shards of optimism that offer constant hope. These are characters we love, care about, and want to nurture ... A vivid and brave tale of love, loss, and inner power.--Australian Womens WeeklyWhat can I say about The Lost Flowers of Alice Hart that would live up to the beauty of the words in this book? ... A gorgeous book inside and out.-- "A Couple Reads" Review Quote "The Lost Flowers of Alice Hart is a book that glows -- in the fire and heart of it; in the wonder and hope of it. Holly Ringland is a gifted, natural storyteller and her novel -- about finding magic in the dark; about the power of freedom and the freedom of story -- is truly a light-giving, tender thing. A vivid, compelling, utterly moving debut." -- Brooke Davis, author of international bestseller Lost & Found, winner of 2015 ABIA Fiction Book of the Year "Not everyone who visits the central Australian desert understands the landscape of it. Holly Ringland does and shares her heart instincts in this epic telling. Each page arrives to us like the first flight of the butterfly from its cocoon. The Lost Flowers of Alice Hart is a literary gift." -- Ali Cobby Eckermann, Yankunytjatjara poet, 2017 Windham-Campbell winner. "This novel shines with courage, with heart, and with love. Infused with a tender ferocity, and the beauty and warmth of native flowers, it invokes great stories of loss, kindness and home." -- Ashley Hay, author of The Railwaymans Wife, winner of the 2013 Colin Roderick Award. "An astonishingly assured debut, The Lost Flowers of Alice Hart is a story of love, loss, betrayal, and the redemptive power of storytelling, set in the blazing heat and ancient mythic landscape of Australias Red Centre. Written with intelligence, grace, and sensitivity, Holly Ringlands novel is both heartbreaking and life-affirming, following the journey of her heroine Alice as she discovers the strength of spirit to break the patterns of violence of her past." -- Kate Forsyth, author of Bitter Greens, 2015 winner American Library Association award for Best Historical Fiction. "I loved this brave and beautiful book. Alice Hart has the strength and magic of an Australian wildflower in bloom." -- Favel Parrett, author of When the Night Comes and Past the Shallows, finalist 2012 Miles Franklin Literary Award. "A complex, literary debut that examines the dangerously fine line between care and control, sanctuary and prison. Hollys writing is rich, vibrant and alive with the messy, sometimes violent song of human connection. She is a writer to watch out for." -- Jenn Ashworth, author of Fell, winner of The Society of Authors 2010 Betty Trask Award. "The best fairy tales traverse the darkest corners of the human heart, and this beautiful novel is no exception. Truth and illusion, devastation and triumph, The Lost Flowers of Alice Hart will spit you out whole." -- Myfanwy Jones, author of Leap, finalist for the 2016 Miles Franklin Literary Award. Promotional "Headline" REVIEW COPIES: Publishers Weekly Booklist Kirkus Reviews Feature AN INTERNATIONAL PUBLISHING EVENT: The novel has been sold to than fourteen countries: Harper Collins 4th Estate ANZ, PanMacmillan Mantle, UK House of Anansi Press, Canada Random House Limes Verlag, Germany Luitingh Sijthoff, Holland Garzanti, Italy Ediciones Salamandra, Spain & Latin America Edi New Feature AN INTERNATIONAL PUBLISHING EVENT: The novel has been sold to than fourteen countries: Harper Collins 4th EstateANZ, PanMacmillan Mantle, UK House of Anansi Press, Canada Random House Limes Verlag, Germany Luitingh Sijthoff, Holland Garzanti, Italy Ediciones Salamandra, Spain & Latin America Edi Excerpt from Book Flannel flower Meaning: What is lost is found Actinotus helianthi New South Wales The stem, branches and leaves of the plant are a pale grey in colour, covered in downy hair, and flannel-like in texture. Pretty, daisy-shaped flowers bloom in spring, though flowering may be profuse after bushfires. * The first story Alice ever learned began on the edge of darkness, where her newborn screams restarted her mothers heart. The night she was born, a subtropical storm had blown in from the east and caused king tides to flood the river banks, cutting off the lane between the Harts property and town. Stranded in the laneway with her water broken and a band of fire seemingly cutting her in half, Agnes Hart pushed life and a daughter out of her body on the back seat of her husbands truck. Clem Hart, consumed by panic as the storm boomed over the cane fields, was at first too frantic swaddling his newborn to notice his wifes pallor. When he saw her face turn white as sand, her lips the shade of a pipi shell, Clem fell upon her in a frenzy, forgetting their baby. He shook Agnes, to no avail. It wasnt until her daughter screamed that Agnes was jolted to consciousness. On either side of the laneway, rain-soaked bushes burst into a flurry of white flowers. Alices first breaths were filled with lightning and the scent of storm lilies in bloom. You were the true love I needed to wake me from a curse, Bun, her mother would say to finish the story. Youre my fairytale. When Alice was two years old, Agnes introduced her to books; as she read, she pointed to each word on the page. Down at the beach, she repeated: one cuttlefish, two feathers, three pieces of driftwood, four shells, and five shards of sea glass. Around their house, Agness hand-lettered signs: BOOK. CHAIR. WINDOW. DOOR. TABLE. CUP. BATH. BED. By the time Alice started homeschooling when she was five, she was reading by herself. Though her love of books was swift and absolute, Alice always loved her mothers storytelling more. When they were alone, Agnes spun stories around the two of them. But never in earshot of Alices father. Their ritual was to walk to the sea and lay on the sand staring up at the sky. With her mothers gentle voice telling the way, they took winter train trips across Europe, through landscapes with mountains so tall you couldnt see their tops, and ridges so smothered in snow you couldnt see the line separating the white sky from white earth. They wore velvet coats in the cobblestoned city of a tattooed king, where the harbour buildings were as colourful as a box of paints, and a mermaid sat, cast in bronze, forever awaiting love. Alice often closed her eyes, imagining that every thread in her mothers stories might spin them into the centre of a chrysalis, from which they could emerge and fly away. When Alice was six years old, her mother tucked her into her bed one evening, leant forward and whispered in her ear. Its time, Bun. She sat back smiling as she pulled up the covers. Youre old enough now to help me in my garden. Alice squirmed with excitement; her mother usually left her with a book while she gardened alone. Well start tomorrow, Agnes said before she turned out the light. Repeatedly through the night, Alice woke to peer through the dark windows. At last she saw the first thread of light in the sky and threw her sheets back. Alices mother was in the kitchen making Vegemite and cottage cheese on toast and a pot of honeyed tea, which she carried on a tray outside to her garden alongside the house. The air was cool, the early sun was warm. Her mother rested the tray on a mossy tree stump and poured sweet tea into two teacups. They sat chewing and drinking in silence. Alices pulse beat loudly in her temples. After Agnes ate the last of her toast and finished her tea, she crouched between her ferns and flowers, murmuring as if she was rousing sleeping children. Alice wasnt sure what to do. Was this gardening? She mimicked her mother and sat with the plants, watching. Slowly, the lines of worry in her mothers face vanished. Her furrowed brow relaxed. She didnt wring her hands, or fidget. Her eyes were full and clear. She became someone Alice didnt recognise. Her mother was peaceful. She was calm. The sight filled Alice with the kind of green hope she found at the bottom of rock pools at low tide but never managed to cup in her hands. The more time she spent with her mother in the garden, the more deeply Alice understood -- from the tilt of Agness wrist when she inspected a new bud, to the light that reached her eyes when she lifted her chin, and the thin rings of dirt that encircled her fingers as she coaxed new fern fronds from the soil -- the truest parts of her mother bloomed among her plants. Especially when she talked to the flowers. Her eyes glazed over and she mumbled in a secret language, a word here, a phrase there as she snapped flowers off their stems and tucked them into her pockets. Sorrowful remembrance, shed say as she plucked a bindweed flower from its vine. Love, returned. The citrusy scent of lemon myrtle would fill the air as she tore it from a branch. Pleasures of memory. Her mother pocketed a scarlet palm of kangaroo paw. Questions scratched at the back of Alices throat. Why did her mothers words only flow when she was telling stories about other places and other worlds? What about their world, right in front of them? Where did she go when her eyes were far away? Why couldnt Alice go with her? By her seventh birthday, Alices body was heavy from the burden of unanswered questions. They filled her chest. Why did her mother talk to the native flowers in such cryptic ways? How could her father be two different people? What curse did Alices first tears save her mother from? Although they weighed on her mind, Alices questions remained stuck, lodged in her windpipe as painfully as if shed swallowed a seedpod. Moments of opportunity came on good days in the garden, when the light fell just so, yet Alice said nothing. In silence, she followed her mother as her pockets filled with flowers. If Agnes ever noticed Alices silence, she never said anything to break it. It was understood time spent in the garden was quiet time. Like a library, her mother once mused as she glided through her maidenhair ferns. Though Alice hadnt ever been to a library -- to see more books in one place than she could imagine, or hear the whispers of collective pages turning -- she felt she almost had, through her mothers stories. From Agness description, Alice imagined a library must be a quiet garden of books, where stories grew like flowers. Alice hadnt been anywhere else beyond their property either. Her life was confined to its boundaries: from her mothers garden to the where the cane fields started, to the bay where the sea curled close by. She was forbidden to venture further than those lines, and especially the one that separated their driveway from the lane that led into town. Its no place for a girl, her father would say, slamming his fist on the dinner table, making the plates and cutlery jump, whenever Alices mother suggested sending her to school. Shes safer here, hed growl, putting an end to the conversation. Thats what her father was most able to do, put an end to everything. Whether they spent their day in the garden or at the sea, the point always came when a storm bird would call, or a cloud would cross the sun, and Alices mother would shake herself awake, as if shed been sleepwalking through a dream. She became animated, turning on her heel to sprint towards the house, calling over her shoulder at Alice, first one to the kitchen gets fresh cream on her scones. Afternoon tea was a bittersweet time; her father would be home soon. Ten minutes before he was due, her mother would position herself by the front door, her face pulled too tight in a smile, her voice pitched too high, her fingers in knots. Some days Alices mother disappeared from her body altogether. There were no stories or walks to the sea. There was no talking with flowers. Her mother would stay in bed with the curtains drawn against the blanching light, vanished, as if her soul had gone somewhere else entirely. When that happened, Alice tried to distract herself from the way the air in the house pressed on her body; the awful silence as if no one were home; the sight of her mother crumpled in bed. Those were things that made it difficult to breathe. Alice picked up books shed read a dozen times already and revisited school worksheets shed already completed. She fled to the sea to caw with the gulls and chase waves along shore. She ran alongside the walls of sugar cane, throwing her hair back and swaying like the green stalks in the hot wind. But no matter how she tried, nothing felt good. Alice wished on feathers and dandelions to be a bird and fly far away into the golden seam of the horizon, where the sea was sewn to the sky. Day after shadowy day passed without her mother. Alice paced the edges of her world. It was only a matter of time before she learned she could disappear too. Description for Sales People AN INTERNATIONAL PUBLISHING EVENT: The novel has been sold to than fourteen countries: Harper Collins 4th Estate ANZ, PanMacmillan Mantle, UK House of Anansi Press, Canada Random House Limes Verlag, Germany Luitingh Sijthoff, Holland Garzanti, Italy Ediciones Salamandra, Spain & Latin America Edi Details ISBN1487005229 Author Holly Ringland Short Title LOST FLOWERS OF ALICE HART Pages 400 Language English ISBN-10 1487005229 ISBN-13 9781487005221 Format Paperback DEWEY FIC Place of Publication Concord Country of Publication Canada Publisher House of Anansi Press Ltd ,Canada Year 2019 Publication Date 2019-03-21 Imprint House of Anansi Press Ltd ,Canada Audience General We've got this At The Nile, if you're looking for it, we've got it. With fast shipping, low prices, friendly service and well over a million items - you're bound to find what you want, at a price you'll love! TheNile_Item_ID:158622283;

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