Unlike many of the reviewers here, I was not given a free copy of The Whole Art of Detection by NetGalley or the author or anyone else in exchange for an honest review. No, I bought Lyndsay Faye’s collection of Sherlock Holmes pastiches for myself. If my honest review can prevent another poor but true Holmes fan from making the same mistake, I will consider myself repaid.
I am stunned at the number of reviewers — including a few respectable Sherlockians quoted on the dust jacket — who assert that Faye has captured Arthur Conan Doyle’s style to perfection. I defy anyone to read one of Faye’s overwritten stories, then immediately read an original Holmes story by Doyle and repeat this assertion. To read Faye and Doyle back-to-back is to reveal Faye’s imitation of Doyle as uniquely bad.
I say “uniquely”, but really that’s almost unfair. Unfortunately for Faye, she falls into the same dreary traps that have caught so many of Doyle’s would-be imitators. To begin with, she seems to think that “high Victorian style” begins and ends with polysyllabic excess. Why use a simple word when an abstruse one is available? Why be satisfied with a compact phrase when one can gleefully pile phrase on phrase in motley array? To read Faye is to be immersed in overstuffed sentences that twist and turn like the fabled back-alleys of London itself, but with much less interesting effect.
For that matter, why say something once when you can say it twice? (Examples abound: “…a young lady rushed after him in pursuit” instead of “…a young lady pursued him”.)
Faye leans heavily on modifiers instead of letting her nouns do the work, a sure sign of an unsure author. Some enterprising editor should instruct Faye, when she finishes a story, to go back and delete one-third of all the adjectives and adverbs. Then go back and delete another one-half.
Faye’s overuse of simile also grates. A well-placed simile can be invaluable (Doyle himself uses them to good effect), but Faye relies on them so often that one begins to suspect she prefers to avoid describing an actual thing by describing something else.
In short, Faye utterly fails to capture the essence of Doyle’s style: his spare, muscular prose and his unmatched ability to drive a story forward with little fuss and even less frippery.
Nowhere is this failing more evident than in the dialogue between Holmes and Watson. Faye turns these two laconic bachelors into a couple of endlessly clucking hens, constantly needling each other, scoring off each other, and generally playing slap-and-tickle. Even their unspoken dialogue is a riot of flicked eyebrows, quirked lips, and thrusting chins. The stoic Holmes and Watson of Doyle become, in Faye’s hands, a couple of annoying, incontinent ninnies.
Any suspense created within the stories themselves is beside the point, hopelessly obscured by the fog of bad style and sophomoric dialogue.
My hopes were very high for this work, especially based on the glowing reviews here (which I now suspect are not entirely “honest”). I made a sincere effort to read deeply enough into the book for an informed judgment. Sad to say, the stories did not get progressively better, as I kept telling myself they surely would. I’m forced to leave this one unfinished.
[Final note to other reviewers: a female writer of pastiche is a “pasticheuse”, not a “pasticheur”. Like it or not, French is one of those funny languages that require the proper gender.]