**Sneakily obtained on NG from the UK publisher since the US publisher doesn’t countenance requests from plebs like me. Actually, I do feel legitimately guilty for having got this, since I requested because I wanted it, not because I thought I had any right to receive. And the imposter syndrome was so severe I thought about apologetically returning it but, well, I didn’t. Anyway, ARC received when it probably shouldn’t have been. Will buy on release**
Honestly, I think this is a fucking masterpiece. There’s a rawness to it, a conviction and a fearlessness that is absolutely breath-taking. As well as a love story, it’s a story about love: love for oneself alongside love for others, and its capacity to do inestimable harm, as well as to protect, heal and liberate. The Heart Principle is devastating. And yet so filled with the promise of hope that it made me go ugly-cry in the shower.
Ahem. Anyway.
Our heroine, Anna, is a violinist who—having obtained some unexpected success—is in creative crisis. Obsessed with an idea of unobtainable perfection, she can get only get partway through a piece of music before the voices in her head, insisting she is flawed and unworthy, force her back to the beginning. In the midst of this emotional crisis, her (clearly rubbish) boyfriend abruptly decides they need a period of time to “see other people” before committing to each other, confident that she’ll patiently wait for him, while he gets to fuck around. Anna’s therapist, meanwhile, suspecting that Anna might have ASD, confronts her about her “masking” – a costly social survival strategy for people with ASD that involves mimicking neurotypical behaviours in the hope of gaining social acceptance.
In an effort to practice, err, de-masking, Anna decides to have a one-night stand. After all, a stranger’s judgement (and potential rejection) shouldn’t matter to her, right? Enter Quan, Michael’s lovely and very, very attractive cousin from The Kiss Quotient, who also needs to re-enter the dating pool, having recently physically (though not necessarily emotionally) recovered from surgery to combat testicular cancer.
As you can tell from just the summary, there’s a lot going on this book, and a lot for the heroine and the hero to overcome, including the illness and death of Anna’s father, and her relationship with her family, who have always made her feel like capitulation on every front is her only hope for acceptance from them. It is far from an easy journey—the late-middle section where Anna, in the grip of autistic burnout, is forced to care for her father who just wants to die with what is left of his dignity is profoundly harrowing—but there is at the same time something courageous and even kind of reassuring in such a frank and unflinching approach to both the reality of trauma and the possibility of rescue and self-rescue.
The Heart Principle is simply this: that it doesn’t matter how badly you fuck up, or how difficult the present feels, you always deserve to go on. To try. To hope for better. You don’t have to go back to the beginning. Or condemn yourself to nothing but blank pages. As someone who has loved and grieved, who has craved acceptance that will never come, who still struggles with art, and for that matter self-love, the book got me in some really vulnerable and personal places. I don’t have anything explicitly in common with any of the characters, but I felt understood and spoken to regardless. That’s … that’s a really special gift for a book written by a stranger to give you.
Something else that struck me as kind of remarkable was the way that the book managed to weave all its very complex themes into a coherent whole, each of the various narrative elements—love, family, desire, art, identity—serving to reflect upon the others. It’s primarily Anna’s story (although I will say Quan is a wonderful love interest and their romance develops beautifully) but I was fascinated by the way Anna’s vulnerability and Quan’s vulnerability spring from the same toxic well of social expectation. Anna has spent her whole life trying to conceal her true self. Quan no longer feels certain of his masculinity because of his surgery. Together, they’re able to let themselves believe that identity is who you are, not how the world sees you or how other people judge you. And watching them find acceptance for themselves through acceptance of each other is incredibly moving.
On a lighter note: the sexing is lovely too. Communication, consent-focused, non-heteronormative. I love heroines who are able to articulate and manifest specific desires, and heroes who are committed to supporting those desires. I feel there needs to be more of this in the genre in general: sex as something broad and individualistic, not just this one thing that starts with kissing, moves to some boob squeezing, and ends in PIV.
I also love the way that Helen Hoang tends to tease apart gendered tropes in her work. There’s a spectacular heroine grovel + very personal grand gesture in this book. Which, needless to say, I was very very here for.
If I had to complain about anything, and honestly I’m not super minded to, I could have done with the final 10% of the book rushing past a little less quickly. With Anna finally able to confront her family, prioritise herself and re-unite with Quan, there’s a lot of collapse/recovery/recover-more ground glossed over very quickly. Obviously recovery is always a slow and, frankly, dull process but I think, by that point, I was sufficiently emotionally invested in Anna herself that I wanted to spend a little longer with her, especially as she put herself back together.
But. Eh. That is a nit on a nit of a nitpick. I loved this book. Deeply and sincerely, and with genuine gratitude for its existence.
If you do pick it up: trigger warnings for … oh dear me. Familial emotional abuse, gaslighting, death of a parent, non-consensual medical care given to a patient, detailed medical treatment, neuronormativity, creative and autistic burnout, non-physical self-harm. As ever, take care of yourself first.
Before I wrap this review, I guess I also want to take a moment to check out the elephant in this room we’re all in. And, listen, it’s not my place to make pronouncements about what the romance genre is or should be. As long as I’ve been writing I’ve been told, explicitly and implicitly, romance is for straight white cis middle class American women and anyone else is here on sufferance. And that’s … that’s what it is. So I’m not positioning myself as any kind of authority or making claims that it isn't my place to make.
But, like, the elephant? There’s an elephant over there. The elephant being, is this book a genre romance.
And the thing is, the question of what a genre romance is has been growing increasingly complicated with the rise of … well—this is another elephant, by the way—marginalised voices.
Do not, however, mistake me here: I would NEVER IN A MILLION YEARS argue against the central tenet of romance being the HEA/HFN. That is, and should be, indisputable. I just think what HEA/HFN looks like becomes, uh, complicated when you assume it’s this one thing that’s the same for everyone. Much like genre depictions of sex, now I come to think about it.
The slightly broader definition of romance is: central love story, optimistic ending. And, obviously, those are subjective criteria. If you hate the hero, and think he’s a dick, it doesn’t matter if the protagonist gets their HEA with him: that’s not going to read as an optimistic ending to you, it’s going to read as someone making a terrible mistake. Similarly, ‘central’ is always going to be open to debate: basically there are and have always been dual protagonist romances (where each character gets a similar amount of POV and their own arc) and sole protagonist romances where the love interest may or may get their own arc, or POV sections, but exists more to support the arc of the protagonist. In both cases, the love story is still ‘central’ – it’s just presented differently.
As far as I’m concerned, The Heart Principle is a romance because it ends on an HEA/HFN, the love story is central (the narrative could not exist without it, and even when Quan isn’t on page, his presence is felt) and the heroine ends the book in a better place than she started it. Thus the ending is hopeful and optimistic.
Where it becomes difficult, I think, is that the ending of The Heart Principle, like the narrative itself is complicated. It is not perfect. Anna is still estranged from her sister. She is tentatively putting her career back together in ways that feel healthy and meaningful, but she’s not a smash hit. Quan is still a survivor of testicular cancer and will not be able to have biological children. Anna’s father is still, y’know, dead. And her relationship with her family may always be strained – because that is, honestly, a reality for many marginalised people existing in the world as it currently is. She's always going to be someone with ASD and that's going to impact her life in various ways, as are the years she spent trying to re-create herself in the image her family demanded.
But, to me, that doesn't mean it's not a HEA/HFN. Trauma and damage--the compromises of reality--do not and should not negate happiness. The HEA of a character with ASD and an extremely negative relationship with her family shouldn't be deemed less H or less EA than the HEA of a character without ASD whose family are super lovely.
To be honest, it troubles me that we are so eager to declare the HEA/HFN’s of marginalised characters (and those presented by marginalised writers) invalid or inadequate simply because they do not reinforce the expected paradigms of non-marginalised people. Do we deserve less happiness, less joy, because we had to struggle more? Because our lives are less perfect? And may not look like yours?
And, yes, we can shrug and shunt such romances into the “women’s fiction” category, claiming that they aren’t a “proper” HEA/HFN on the basis that social compromise, for all that it’s a reality for most marginalised people, means the ending isn’t “happy enough” by non-marginalised standards. Except doesn’t that just continue to send the message that a genre romance is not, in fact, any book with a central love story and an optimistic ending, but rather a book that reflects that most normative ideals of what happiness and love look like. Instead of embracing diverse writers and diverse stories. And books like The Heart Principle which, from my undeniably subjective perspective, only enrich the genre.
Addendum: I should also clarify that I'm not taking issue with anyone for whom this book did not work, who did not find the relationship between Anna and Quan sufficiently central to the story for their personal preferences for a genre romance. That's totally cool. We all get to think whatever we like about books on an individual basis. I think it's the broader discourse around what genre romance should look like that continues to trouble me, not least because questions regarding whether a book is a romance or not, or whether the HEA/HFN meets implied criteria not covered by the broad definition of romance (central love story, optimistic ending) tends to focus almost exclusively on the work of marginalised authors. That, to me, is worth interrogating.