Cory Doctorow delivers a rare literary critique that transcends standard book reviews, framing Jo Walton's new novel not merely as fiction but as a radical reorientation of reality itself. The piece argues that the book's true power lies in its ability to make the reader question the solidity of their own existence, suggesting that our mundane lives may have been the dream all along.
A Dialogue Across Worlds
Doctorow immediately establishes Walton's unique standing in contemporary literature, noting that her work defies easy categorization. "It is beautiful; It is profound; It is unlike every other novel, including every other Jo Walton novel," Doctorow writes, capturing the elusive quality of her craft. This assessment is not hyperbole but an observation of a writer who consistently reinvents the genre while maintaining a distinct voice. The commentary highlights how Walton's recent work has been shaped by a deep artistic partnership with historian and novelist Ada Palmer, creating a lineage that blends rigorous historical speculation with high fantasy.
The review draws a compelling parallel between Walton's new book and her earlier works to illustrate this evolution. Doctorow recalls the "Small Change" trilogy, set in an alternate Britain that capitulated to Nazi Germany, noting it is "even more prescient today than it felt 20 years ago." This historical anchor provides necessary context for readers unfamiliar with Walton's bibliography, showing how her speculative fiction has long served as a mirror for contemporary political anxieties. Similarly, the mention of My Real Children, a novel about forked timelines that left Doctorow "cried my way through all the kleenex," underscores the emotional depth she brings to complex metaphysical concepts.
It won't make you feel like you've fallen into a dream — it will make you feel like everything you've lived up until now was the dream, and you have finally awoken.
The core of Doctorow's analysis focuses on how Everybody's Perfect engages in a "dialog" with Ada Palmer's non-fiction work, Inventing the Renaissance. He describes the new novel as structurally mirroring Palmer's recursive retelling of history, where events are viewed through fifteen different perspectives. Walton transposes this historical methodology into a fantasy setting: the Serenissima, a phantom Venice shrouded in mist where reality is contingent on collective belief.
Doctorow explains that in this city, "If enough of its denizens believe that something is true, it becomes true," while anything ignored risks evaporating. This mechanism serves as a powerful metaphor for social construction and the fragility of truth in an era of information overload. The stakes are literalized: characters must hire urchins to watch their gondolas not just against theft, but "to keep them from evaporating altogether." This vivid detail transforms an abstract philosophical concept into tangible narrative tension.
Critics might argue that a plot driven entirely by the fluidity of belief risks becoming too solipsistic or detached from material reality. However, Doctorow suggests Walton grounds this magic in the emotional needs and prejudices of her diverse cast—eight different versions of humanity coexisting in one place. The inclusion of races with animal heads or domino masks serves not just as world-building flair but as a test of how belief systems exclude or include the "other."
The Architecture of Belief
The commentary further dissects the novel's prophecy-driven plot, where a blind, paralyzed pauper is destined to become the Doge and unite warring factions. Doctorow notes that this narrative device allows Walton to explore themes of leadership and sacrifice without resorting to traditional heroism. "She invokes the tender love, sacrifice, and bitter heartbreak of My Real Children," he observes, connecting the new book's emotional core to her previous masterpieces.
The review emphasizes that the novel is a "gift" precisely because it refuses to offer easy answers. It is "so complicated and yet so captivating, so wise and yet so simple." Doctorow posits that this complexity arises from the way the book treats history not as a fixed record but as a living, breathing entity constantly being rewritten by those who tell it. This aligns with Palmer's influence, where the Renaissance itself is shown to be a story told differently by Michelangelo than by Lucretia Borgia.
When two people meet in the Serenissima, they greet each other by reciting, "I see you." If you aren't seen, you might just disappear.
This line serves as the thematic anchor of Doctorow's critique. It reframes the act of witnessing as an existential necessity. In a world where visibility determines existence, the political implications are stark: to ignore someone is to erase them. While the setting is fantastical, the mechanism reflects real-world dynamics of marginalization and the power of narrative control.
Bottom Line
Doctorow's most compelling insight is that Walton has created a text that functions as an antidote to cynicism, proving that belief can be a constructive force rather than just a delusion. The argument's greatest strength lies in its ability to connect high-concept speculative fiction to the urgent human need for recognition and connection. However, the review leaves unexplored whether such a world-building premise could sustain a longer narrative without losing its philosophical edge. For readers seeking a story that challenges their perception of reality while honoring the depth of historical inquiry, this analysis confirms Everybody's Perfect is essential reading.