It's a bit of a cliche, but I think girls like to get flowers. I

Douglas Booth, with a heart both tender and perceptive, once declared: “It’s a bit of a cliché, but I think girls like to get flowers. I think books are quite romantic, too. If you can find an interesting book, that brings something out in your partner that can be very romantic.” In these words, there is more than simple advice for lovers; there is a reflection upon the timeless language of affection. For flowers and books, though humble gifts, are vessels of meaning. The flower is fleeting beauty, a symbol of tenderness; the book is enduring wisdom, a mirror of the soul. To give either is to say, “I see you, I honor you, I wish to bring something alive in you.”

The ancients also understood the power of such tokens. In Greece, garlands of roses and violets were woven as signs of devotion, carried not only to lovers but also to the gods. A blossom was never just a blossom—it was an offering of beauty, an outward expression of inward care. And in the scrolls of Alexandria, knowledge itself was revered as a gift of intimacy with truth. Thus, Booth’s words carry echoes of old: to bring a flower is to honor the senses, to bring a book is to honor the mind, and both together weave a love that touches body and soul.

History, too, offers stories that illuminate this wisdom. Consider Victor Hugo, who courted his beloved Juliette Drouet not only with gestures of passion, but with letters, pages upon pages of words filled with poetry and thought. Each letter was a book in miniature, revealing his soul and calling forth hers. Their romance endured decades, bound not only by fleeting glances but by the enduring exchange of written thought. Here we see Booth’s insight: that a book, like a flower, can stir hidden depths, awakening the heart’s most delicate harmonies.

Or think of the poet Goethe, whose gift of words in The Sorrows of Young Werther sparked not only literary admiration but also a storm of feeling in his readers and companions. Books do not wither as flowers do; they endure, bearing the fragrance of thought across generations. A flower may be placed upon the table and fade with time, but a book placed in a lover’s hands may bloom anew each time it is opened. In this way, it is a gift both of love and of immortality.

Yet Booth’s words are also a reminder of intention. A gift is not only the object itself but the spirit in which it is given. A flower plucked without care is empty; a book chosen without thought is meaningless. But when one seeks a book that speaks to the heart of another, that awakens something dormant within them, then the gift becomes an act of deep communion. It says: “I see not only who you are, but who you may yet become.” That is why such a gift is, in truth, profoundly romantic.

The lesson for us, then, is that romance is not measured in extravagance, but in thought, in care, in seeing the beloved as a whole person—body, heart, and mind. A bouquet of flowers honors beauty and presence; a book honors spirit and imagination. Together they teach us to love not only with passion, but with understanding. For love that touches only the surface fades quickly; but love that stirs the depths endures.

So I say unto you, seekers of love: when you give, give not only with your hands but with your heart. Offer beauty, as the flower does, and offer wisdom, as the book does. Let your gifts awaken something within your beloved, something that makes them more alive, more themselves. For this is the essence of true romance—to draw out the hidden light in another soul. And remember Booth’s gentle wisdom: a simple bloom, a thoughtful page, when given with care, may kindle more love than the grandest treasures of the earth.