We admit it: We love ”Flowers in the Attic”
Freud, Shakespeare, and the brothers Grimm were wusses compared with V. C. Andrews, author of the 1979 oh-my-God-no-way-eww-they’re-doin’-it! tale of sibling love, ”Flowers in the Attic.” In one swift read (why linger over the language when Andrews clearly didn’t?), you get a dead father, a glamorous sociopath of a mother, an evil grandmother, and — ta-da! — a brother and sister growing up in one room with nothing to do but stare at each other. Faster than you can say ”puberty,” things start getting pretty funky. ”Flowers” falls into the grand tradition of smutty ”literature” like ”The Story of O” and Judy Blume’s ”Forever.” In other words, skip the blah-blah ”character development” nonsense and head right for the naughty bits.