The territory [in Heartland] is remote, but not quite remote enough for Mr. Harris's purposes, which are not naturalistic; the jungle becomes a barely adequate backdrop for Stevenson's more exotic awareness of guilt and terror and his inexpressible spiritual aspirations….

Although it is a very short novel it seems to contain a lot of words. Mr. Harris's gifts are clear; they are perhaps too abundant. He writes with an almost uncontrollable fluency. We wait for him to draw breath, to relax, to start again. But he rushes on in bursts of nervous energy, never quite catching up with what he has to say, which is perhaps not as complicated as he fears. The magic quality of words seduces him until he is within a short step of meaninglessness. He is always struggling back to the shores of lucidity and reason. Usually he does get back, and creates something haunting—haunting perhaps because it is unfinished.