Review: Their Monstrous Hearts by Yiğit Turhan

Rating: 8/10

A mysterious stranger shows up at Riccardo’s apartment with some news: his grandmother Perihan has died, and Riccardo has inherited her villa in Milan along with her famed butterfly collection.

The struggling writer is out of options. He’s hoping the change of scenery in Milan will inspire him, and maybe there will be some money to keep him afloat. But Perihan’s house isn’t as opulent as he remembers. The butterflies pinned in their glass cases seem more ominous than artful. Perihan’s group of mysterious old friends is constantly lurking. And there’s something wrong in the greenhouse.

As Riccardo explores the decrepit estate, he stumbles upon Perihan’s diary, which might hold the key to her mysterious death. Or at least give him the inspiration he needs to finish his manuscript.

But he might not survive long enough to write it.

A decadent and dazzling gothic novel with a cover just as sumptuous as its prose, Yiğit Turhan’s “Their Monstrous Hearts,” is as rich in atmosphere as it is full of allure… and butterflies. Brimming with secrecy, style and a little magic, this reads like both a love letter to the traditional gothic, yet also something completely of its own brand. It’s confident, unfolds with the elegance of a fan, and cuts as deep as the claw-tipped Schiaparelli velvet gloves it references. Thank you very kindly to Lane Heymont and The Tobias Literary Agency for sending this one to me, as well as for the complementary jumpscare. This one is already out in the world, from Mira Books.

We follow Riccardo, an author living in Paris, who following the undeniable success of a short story has found himself abandoned by the muse and suffering with a severe case of writer’s block. With that comes overdue bills and many, many messages from an increasingly exasperated agent. With stress mounting and motivation fading, the strange man enters his life at exactly the right time. He tells him that his mostly-estranged grandmother Perihan has passed away, he has a funeral to attend, and a villa in Italy with his name on it. That night he boards a train. What he discovers in Milan, a secret manuscript, a suspicious circle of friends, a bloody history, among other things, changes his life irreparably. 

There’s various negative reviews that discuss the prose of this novel, and whilst I agree it’s a talking point, there’s a few reasons why I thought it worked beautifully. We read primarily from the third person perspective of Riccardo. When he discovers the manuscript written by his grandmother, we also get Perihan’s first person recount, set against the brocade backdrop of Italian high society. Riccardo’s voice does occasionally feel a little staccato and stunted compared to the opulence of his grandmother’s narrative. His prose feels almost self-conscious, which actually (perhaps I’m simply reading into this too much) feels apt for a struggling writer. The dichotomy created between the differing perspectives is one I noticed, and more than anything else appreciated. It said a lot about the characters themselves, particularly Perihan who is as glamorous as she is mysterious. It’s also worth noting that this is Turhan’s first novel written in English. The writing is lush now, and I look forward to seeing it get dreamier still. 

Horror doesn’t always outright petrify, and “Their Monstrous Hearts,” certainly doesn’t. Turhan doesn’t so much turn to literary jumpscares (have you watched my TBRcon panel on those yet by the way?) or graphic violence, instead excelling in the slower, more seductive art of disquiet. It’s not frightening but unsettling. This is a novel that should hit all the right notes not just for lovers of the gothic, but fans of the fantastical and amateur sleuths, with its shifting perspectives, tension taut enough to pluck, and enchanting nature, all of which are delivered with a wink. Also, for anybody who has ever stared down the barrel of a blank word document. 

“Nobody ever suspects the butterfly.”

Previously, my only beef really was with moths, the dusty chaos agents they are, who throw themselves at my window when it gets dark, and worse, propel themselves right at my face when I’m scrolling post-lights-out. Now I’ll be side-eyeing butterflies too (although I suppose they’re just non-goth moths). I digress. “Their Monstrous Hearts,” reads like satin, and flows like silk until its sickening denouement. A velvet wrapped dagger of novel that is beautiful yet bloody and elegant yet eerie, if you don’t want to take my word for it, take Dua Lipa’s.