100 books like Orwell's Roses

This is a very slim volume by the Czech novelist, playwright, and essayist who gave us the word “robot” in a play in 1921. In this book, Capek takes readers through a year, month by month, in his backyard garden in Prague. The writing is full of humor, the tone conversational, with observations that resonate with all gardeners–from the fickleness of the weather to the pleasures of reading plant catalogues in the winter. But the true subject of Capek’s musing is the complexity of human nature. For the writer, the garden is a metaphor for what makes us human. It is ultimately a very hopeful book, and Capek ends it with these words: “The right, the best is in front of us. Each successive year will add growth and beauty. Thank God that again we shall be one year farther on!”  

“The face that launched a thousand ships,” as Homer would say. Pollan’s witty and well-written treatment of how plants think and act to modulate their environments inspired 21st-century “critical plant studies” in the Anglophone world, including mine.

The book starts you thinking about the thousands of ways plants elbow into your world and how much they matter to your existence on earth, in economic but also spiritual senses. You end up agape in wonder.

I am always grateful when a book introduces me to a place completely unknown to me. Janisse Ray’s gorgeous memoir does exactly that: southern Georgia's disappearing longleaf pine forests. Her introduction to this landscape is a gift to readers, who will yearn, as she does, for its regeneration after a century of exploitation.

Raised in a junkyard along a busy highway, this writer learned the land’s history through the stories of her parents and others; she learned the intricate ecology of the pines and their companion flora and fauna, almost lost to industry and greed. Lyrical and beautifully written, Ray’s evocations of complex plant communities linger in the mind long after you’ve finished the book.

I could almost immediately smell the gorgeous scent of citrus wafting from the pages of this beautiful book through the magic of Helena Atlee’s precisely detailed writing.

Who would have thought that the story of Italy’s varied and numerous citrus plantations would take me on a journey all across the country, from Sicily’s west coast to the fragrant lemon gardens of Lake Garda, and in time from when the Arabs introduced bitter oranges up to the workings of the citrus industry today.

I love this book because it simply tells the fragrant story of how fruit, in various manifestations, has come to be cultivated all around the country and to represent something of the soul and the spirit of the Italian people.

This is a book that I have read and reread several times. The author is not a garden writer but a professor of Italian literature at Stanford University, and Gardens is a unique work in garden literature. Harrison’s essay – erudite, thoughtful, and fascinating – examines the urge to garden throughout history. The book takes you on a journey to all gardens – real and imagined – from the Garden of Eden to the Garden School of Epicurus and the homeless gardens in New York City, to Versailles and the Paradise gardens of Islam. With its wide-ranging topics and cultural references, the book invites repeated readings, especially when I want to think more deeply about what gardening reveals about our human condition.

Nancy Turner is a renowned ethnobotanist whose work I have followed with excitement and pleasure my entire adult life. I am fascinated by her gathering, through good relations with the Haida people, a huge compendium of detailed information on the medicinal, technical, artistic and spiritual resources of people who’ve lived on a group of islands off B.C.’s northern coast since time immemorial.

It’s hard to imagine a better guide to a place than a book like this, which takes us deeply into a culture and its plants. Hats woven of spruce root, halibut hooks carved of yew, feast dishes filled with wild rhubarb and potatoes: I am dazzled by this book.

As someone who has traveled widely in Mediterranean countries, I love Patience Gray’s infectious enthusiasm for the extraordinary wild bounty of the region’s fields, forests, and shorelines. Moving from one small home to another with her sculptor husband across borders, she learns the landscapes and how to forage for the next meal.

She offers identification tips and ways to adapt traditional cooking methods to more contemporary contexts, and she immerses us in the rich history plants carry in their names, common and specific. She noted their use as medicinals and purposes for dyes and fiber. I was enchanted by the drawings, the folklore (Carrara saying: Who wants to eat a good supper should eat a weed of every kind), and the window she opens wide to a beautiful green world.

I learned about botanical nomenclature as a 19-year-old, and it opened a world to me, a place where plants told me something about their origins and their function. This book gives me the background to the long history of naming.

Those who gathered plants, who learned their uses and needed to be accurate, also required a system that would allow them to write about their knowledge in a way that allowed others to use it and share it. From Aristotle’s pupil Theophrastus in 4th century BE Athens to Islamic scholars to the 18th-century medical professor Carl Linnaeus, Anna Pavord immerses us in the search for meaning and sense in the world of plants.

It isn’t, not at all. It’s history at its best, populated by apothecaries, artists, botanists and scholars. And the illustrations are sublime.

Memoirs can be delightful, too, although they also have a bad rap for being depressing! This is one of my favorite Earth-based recent nonfiction reads. It focuses on the joys of gardening—even in a small suburban plot—and focuses on being a black gardener in a predominately white town.

The plants she grows are used as a metaphor to discuss cultural diversity, particularly in how we must cultivate diverse and intersectional language to protect our planet. Dungy is also the editor of an anthology entitled Black Nature, which covers decades of poetry by Black writers. 

Many garden books are structured in a classic four-seasons pattern, but this one goes beyond, by delineating the gardening year as steps in the essence of all living beings—from conception in January, adulthood in July and August, to death in December. This clever and thoughtful approach celebrates the fact that we are all woven into the fabric of the natural world. Add to that the author’s lifetime of good gardening experience and advice, and this book shows readers in intimate detail how to work with nature, not against her.