Welcome, folks, to Oculus Reviews.
Why, oh why do I keep catching the crap of the crop when it comes to 70's Gothic novels?! I've gotta stop picking up little-known stuff with pretty covers and good taglines, because it turns out that a lot of obscure books are obscure for a reason. I mean, as far as bad books go, the one I'm discussing today wasn't nearly as yeet-your-brain irritating as Nella Waits, but it also didn't have much else going for it, other than some absolutely hilaribad prose every now and then. And that isn't nearly enough to carry a book... even a 192-page one.
Let's dive in, shall we?
In The Terrified Heart, a 1973 novel by Alicia Grace (actually the pseudonym of one Irving Greenfield, as you will soon be painfully aware), Danielle Marsh is a 24 year-old university professor of ancient Greek with a PhD and two years of teaching experience, and okay, I need to call a time-out because what. Either she skipped a grade, or the author skipped a number on the keyboard when he wrote this - and trust me, you're only getting a taste of the level of magnificent realism and thorough editing this book stands at (other gems include Danielle hoping for a "ddcent" relationship, and one character having a master's "certicate" in... sailing, sure). Anyway, she one day respons to a newspaper ad with a job offer by one Keith Wyler, a wealthy, brilliant translator haunted by the murder of his wife that he was accused of. He wants Danielle to work as his assistant at translating an ancient manucript; the catch? She has to go with him to his family mansion, posing as his wife, because insert incredibly flimsy bullshit excuse about family traditions and marriage that even a baby squirrel would see through, but which fools Danielle instantly. The real reason he wants her is to lure out the murderer of his dead wife by turning up with a new one, which is supposed to... Hell if I know. What a chessmaster.
So off the zeroes go to Eleusis, the Wyler estate... after several days spent with very essential things like clothes shopping, and awkwardly wrestling with the author insisting they're madly in lust with each other, despite having less spark than a firefighter convention. And they reach the mansion after page... 118. Out of 192. God give me patience.
To tell you folks what happens at Eleusis would be a spoiler (not that anyone would mind, I think, since about two people and a shoelace must be planning to read this), but this book is, holy moly macaroni, where do I even begin. It's not terrible, mind you - but it's so achingly mediocre that spending even the five or so hours reading it are five hours from my life I will never get back. The plot is basically nonexistent until past the middle of the book, after which point plot revelations randomly happen or are just plain told to the characters, to wrap things up in time for a slapped-together finale that made me facepalm. The characters - the ingenue heroine, Diet Mr. Rochester, his evil, unfaithful murdered wife, crazy aunt, hateful disabled brother and sweet old family friend/surrogate father figure - are papier-mache, the descriptions are dry, dull and full of telling, not showing. (And like I said, I was painfully aware that this book was written by a man at each of the gazillion descriptions of the heroine's naked or near-naked body, and especially at the scene where she's taking a bath and takes the time to describe the way her breasts float in the water. Ladies, if your boobs do that, please see a doctor. Or an exorcist.) Also, every now and then the author commits acts of violence against the English language for no reason, like Danielle "obediently" shaking her head to accept a job offer, or Aunt Elizabeth having a "corking-like voice", whatever the hell that means - does she sound like a champagne bottle being popped? But my absolute favorites have to be Danielle comparing unrequited love to a seed planted in shallow soil four pages in (ease up, Emily Brontë, you're in 1973, not 1873), or her landlady expressing her disapproval of Keith's job offer thusly:
"Young people today are not only willing to play in the frying pan, but they must also jump into the fire."
What has that poor idiom ever done to you?!
Despite the... everything, I can't say I wasn't the least bit entertained while reading this book. There's a certain dollar-store trashy charm to how ineptly written it is, and since it was so short, it didn't torture me with said ineptitude until I lost my patience, like the other Gothic novel I slam-dunked into the metaphorical trash... I mean, reviewed on this blog. But this is faint praise indeed. I can't in good faith recommend it because there are both much, much better and much more entertainingly bad books for y'all to pass the time with, but... but... at least the cover is pretty?
Yeah, I've got nothin'. Don't read this book.
Writing: Corking-like voice. I rest my case. 1/5
Availability: I have found precisely one copy of it for sale on my usual book sites, although it only goes for a few dollars, plus shipping - make of that what you will. You might luck into another copy in a used bookstore like I did, but don't hold your breath. 2/5
Entertainment value: I'll admit that the hilaribad writing got the occasional chuckle out of me, and I did have a good time riffing the hell out of the plot with my writer friends, but without them it would have been a deadly dull experience. 2/5
Do I recommend it?: Do I look like I recommend it? 1/5
(I know, I know, don't explain the joke, but I've gotta - Horace Walpole was an architect and the author of The Castle of Otranto, usually considered the first work of Gothic fiction in the English literary canon. Thanks a lot for Nella Waits and The Terrified Heart, Horace.)
