CONFESSIONS OF THE FOX: BOOK REVIEW
cw: frequent use of the word “queer” in a reclaimed context.
For the past decade or so, discussions about the representation of marginalized groups have dominated spaces of literary discourse. From Tumblr rants about problematic tropes to the #ownvoices movement to, more recently, widespread media criticisms of the nepotistic and lily-white “Big Five” publishing houses, the discourse has snowballed a very long way. As a child of the Internet, I’ve engaged in every subsequent stage of this trend; I’ve bounced from platform to platform and made all the typical blog posts and TikToks and tweets. I’ve tracked the happy increase of mainstream books by queer authors and authors of color, and I’ve enjoyed the wealth of stories that it gives us. In fact, my presence as a critic on this website – and, if I might be so bold, the existence of any website like The Q – is predicated on the rise of representational conversations. For that, I’m rightly grateful.
Over the past few years, however, the queer side of The Discourse™ has frankly left me flat. Sure, Internet spaces and the publishing industry have improved their relations with queer communities, giving us more space to create and more freedom of creation. Sure, queer characters in mainstream literature (at least, at a thousand-mile glance) have evolved away from judgy archetypes and toward more full-fleshed forms. But something is conspicuously missing from this conversation, even after years of evolution: a genuine queer ethos in literature, and how to create a queer text.
Beyond writing more openly queer characters and eradicating homophobic and transphobic tropes, how can we create stories that appeal to the gorgeous complexity and weirdness of queer experience, undefinable by definition? How can we write something truly and fully queer, beyond shallow character representations and beyond the heteronormative structures of “traditional” literature? As a variously queer English major, I recognize that I have a deeply personal — and deeply pretentious — stake in the question. But I’m endlessly refreshed by the rare books like Jordy Rosenberg’s Confessions of the Fox (2018) which tackle this question head-on, and I think they’re important for much more than my own intellectual vindication. Confessions and its peers form the next chapter of queer thought in speculative literature, and I’m thrilled at the way they could challenge society’s deeper perceptions and give a more authentic voice to queer experiences in literary discussions to come.
Confessions follows two distinct story threads, and indeed, two distinct texts: an imaginary “lost document” about the life of mythic London thief Jack Sheppard, and the notes of modern-day historian Dr. R. Voth as he unlocks the document’s many secrets. Jack battles corrupt constable Jonathan Wild with the help of his ragtag friends, most notably Bess, a tough yet empathetic sex worker from the colonized fens outside London. On the way, Jack forges an epic romance with Bess and explores his identity, both as a transmasculine person in 18th century London and as a thief who inspires the city’s downtrodden people. Meanwhile, Voth juggles unlocking the Sheppard text’s enigmas and resisting his university’s impositions, as it relentlessly attempts to monetize – and sanitize – his efforts at commentary. By the end of the novel, Jack and Bess thwart Wild’s dastardly plan to commodify the heroic criminals of London’s common people, and Voth goes on the run from his employer to spread the collectivist message of the Sheppard text.
Confessions, in my view, primarily serves to construct a philosophy on groundbreaking texts. The story, despite its dual nature, is very simple – my synopsis captures most of it – but its construction centers unhurried, thoughtful discussions on capitalism, collectivism, and liberation of sexual and gender expression. Confessions challenges literary conventions such as having a focused, linear narrative structure and drawing a clear delineation between fiction and nonfiction. The text itself attempts to evade definition, which adds a significant layer of queer messaging on top of its central representations of trans men characters.
Jack Sheppard, 1723
Voth’s studies of the Sheppard text, and the questions he inserts into its narrative, encourage readers to consider what makes any text “queer,” “radical,” or “authentic.” The authenticity and usefulness of the Sheppard text, in particular, fall under close scrutiny. Voth, motivated by personal and intellectual interest, questions who wrote the text, when, and why. His university asks similar questions, but they ask from a place of bad faith. The “truth” of the text, in their eyes, determines whether they can claim and commodify the subversive history within.
The text features notable racial diversity and queerness, and it takes anti-capitalist and sex-positive stances that were rare during the 18th century, so it sparks hot analytical debate between Voth and the university. This dynamic has an ironic and metatextual element, because readers know that the “Sheppard text” is a fictional part of the novel they’re reading. From the start, Rosenberg challenges readers to question what’s more important in a text – factual or ideological accuracy – and why Confessions, or any book, actually matters. Confessions takes a self-aware and playfully antagonistic stance toward readers without directly addressing them. I find this technique both effective and fascinating.
The book also tackles the subjectivity of history and historiography. It debates how and where it’s appropriate to project LGBTQ+ identities onto historical figures. Rosenberg explores the tension between the modes of queerness inherent to all human history and the modern delineations and terms we use, navigating the difficulty of expressing historical queerness in words. Where Voth’s university asks for hard definitions and exploitative details, the Sheppard text – and Voth’s comments – bridle against definability. Rosenberg argues against treating trans people as medical, scientific objects, keeping details about his trans characters’ bodies vague while exploring their emotional realities in depth. I don’t want to spoil whether the Sheppard text is “real” or not, but Rosenberg’s ultimate answer sparks new considerations and conveys the collectivist, layered nature of human history-telling.
The characters within Confessions are not particularly complex, but the main players are plucky and entertaining enough to carry the story. The worldbuilding is sparse but well incorporated, and the climax of the Sheppard text presents some exciting tension and action. The book effectively blends light humor with deeper ruminations. Rosenberg’s philosophical ideas and themes usually take top billing, but they rarely weigh the book down.
There are other aspects of Confessions I could discuss. These include its anti-capitalist messaging (interesting in its consistency across the historical roots of capitalism and the modern form) and sex-positive aspects (be warned, or encouraged: the book does not shy away from erotic elements). However, the structurally queer parts of Confessions feel by far the most notable to me. The book leans heavily into non-definability and encourages readers to examine their literary expectations. It centers heroic trans characters, and it examines how expressions of transness hinge on personal and sociopolitical context. Most of all, it emphasizes love and emotion over “facts” and “logic.” It radically posits that our world is subjective, but our relationships – with ourselves and other people – are all too real.
I’d recommend this book to anyone interested in queer texts, historiography, or the Jack Sheppard mythos. It’s great if you’re patient with early confusion and willing to go for a ride. Confessions is fairly short, readable, and funny, but I wouldn’t call it a quick or light read. However, it touched me deeply, and I’m fascinated to see how books with similar ideologies will evolve in the future.