Source of book: NetGalley (thank you)
Relevant disclaimers: We are Twitter moots and occasionally have bants. This author was invited by one of my editors to blurb one of my own books in the past.
Please note: This review may not be reproduced or quoted, in whole or in part, without explicit consent from the author.
And remember: I am not here to judge your drag, I mean your book. Books are art and art is subjective. These are just my personal thoughts. They are not meant to be taken as broader commentary on the general quality of the work. Believe me, I have not enjoyed many an excellent book, and my individual lack of enjoyment has not made any of those books less excellent or (more relevantly) less successful.
Further disclaimer: Readers, please stop accusing me of trying to take down “my competition” because I wrote a review you didn’t like. This is complete nonsense. Firstly, writing isn’t a competitive sport. Secondly, I only publish reviews of books in the subgenre where I’m best known (queer romcom) if they’re glowing. And finally: taking time out of my life to read an entire book, then write a detailed review about it that some people on GR will look at would be a profoundly inefficient and ineffective way to damage the careers of other authors. If you can’t credit me with simply being a person who loves books and likes talking about them, at least credit me with enough common sense to be a better villain.
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I liked this tremendously. I sometimes think the Holmesian riff market is oversaturated (and I say that at someone who once wrote a Holmes riff and would write more Homles riffs like a shot given half a chance) but then I read a good one and I remember, no, I just fucking love this stuff. Because there’s so much you can do with the dynamics, the setting, the particular type of detective story that the original Homles typified, especially when you leave all the Victorian nonsense behind.
In this case, we’ve left it so far behind we’re on Jupiter.
The basic premise of The Mimicking of Known Successes is that our greed and selfishness have wrecked the earth—so far so plausible—and that what remains of humanity as a species is eking out a more careful existence on the gas giant, with people essentially living upon platforms attached to a planet-spanning rail system. When a man disappears from a remote railcar system, we have our mystery, and the story begins.
Our Holmes and Watson analogues are both women and former lovers: the former, an independent-minded investigator called Mossa, the latter, Pleiti, academic, who is working on a project to reconstruct Earth’s lost ecosystem. It’s a restrained take on both characters, with Mossa retaining some of Holmes’ methodology and emotional distance, and even a bit of his arrogance, but she’s infinitely less obnoxious. Pleiti, similarly, is neither as obsequious nor as horndoggy as the original Watson, but she is loyal and resourceful in the way that Watson is loyal and resourceful. And I’m aware this is probably coming across as unnecessarily spiteful about the original Holmes and Watson But they’re straight white Victorian men, written by a straight white Victorian man. That’s like ground zero for awfulness. Not that I’m trying to cancel a dead Victorian, or anything: I’m not disputing the value of Conan Doyle’s work, but it’s work that is (inevitably) a product of its day. And the advantage of reworking these stories with modern values is that they can be a product of … well … our day.
Anyway, I really loved this take on Holmes and Watson. Like Holmes, Mossa is brilliant, but frustratingly oblique, often declining to explain her thought processes until already proven, which evokes the atmosphere of one of those Holmes stories where Holmes is constantly out and about and will—at some point—deign to explain himself to Watson, probably over breakfast. But, unlike Holmes, Mossa is not an abstract figure of patriarchal genius: she is very much a whole person and, if you’re willing to pay attention, a person with strong and specific feelings. There’s an extent to which I think Mossa can be read as non-neurotypical but it is never the focus of the text, nor something that is posited as a romantic or personal obstacle for her. Pleiti and Mossa’s re-kindling of their relationship has nothing to do overcoming or addressing Mossa’s non-neurotypical ways: it is simply about both of them learning how to better recognise each other’s needs and expressions of care.
This isn’t the sort of detective story you can play along with at home, but Conon Doyle isn’t Agatha Christie. There is, however, an element of puzzle solving offered to the reader in terms of Mossa and Pleiti’s relationship. In typical Watson fashion, Pleiti can be quite a coy narrator and, because Mossa and Pleiti already know each other, there is a lot that goes unspoken between them. This doesn’t mean it’s not romantic, though. In fact, I found it deeply romantic, precisely because of its quietness, the way it belongs to Mossa and Pleiti in ways the reader (as an external observer) can only partially access.
Also, I’ve just realised I’ve spent most of my review of a detective story talking about the people. The mystery is … interesting and has some excitingly outlandish twists to it (there’s a bit where Mossa and Pleiti are attacked by a caracal). By the end, the stakes are pretty damn high, but I do wish I’d understood fully what they were before, and who was involved, before we reached the point of villain monologues and fisticuffs. I don’t want to spoil anything but the role of Pleiti’s department becomes quite significant: there’s hints throughout of intra-academic conflict (but does any academic institution not have intra-academic conflict?) as well as potential conflict between those who, y’know, work for the institution and believe in its cultural value and those who would maybe like to do something more directly useful for a broader range of people with the platform-space that has been given over to the ecology project. But I think, given the nuances of the setting, I would have liked just a little more cultural context and maybe to have spent more time with the villain before I learned he was the villain? Of course, some of this is simply detective story personal preference: in most of the Holmes stories, the villain is whoever has size eleven feet and smokes a particular brand of tobacco. And the mystery—for all I would have like a bit more emotional connection to its various participants—is well constructed and well paced.
The setting, though, I found it super fascinating. It’s evoked with depth, detail and genuine thoughtfulness—quite an achievement given the fact The Mimicking of Known Successes novella. It’s kind of weird that “everyone is stuck on a hostile gas giant with no life of its own” could come across as … cosy? But somehow, between the trains rattling about, Pleiti’s scholars rooms, the links to academia, and the foggy 19th century London vibes of a planet where you literally can’t breathe, it does. Of course, the fact we have left Earth a fucked up ruin behind us does cast a gentle melancholia over the text. The trauma of this is occasionally referenced—its impact undeniable—but, mostly, people are just getting on with their lives as best they can. There’s something especially bittersweet about this, I think, especially in the wake of a global pandemic. But there’s still a sense of hope here; an implication that change is always possible should we simply care enough.