MY PURPLE SCENTED NOVEL

Parker Sparrow and Jocelyn Tarbet have been friends since university. Both ambitious, both aspiring novelists, they begin more or less on the same footing. Fast-forward to middle-age, and Parker's relative obscurity has as its flip Jocelyn's place in the hearts and minds of the British public. Presented with an opportunity to redress the balance, Parker, unflinchingly, takes it.

Written to accompany 'L'image Volée,' (or 'The Stolen Image') at Fondazione Prada in 2016, an exhibition which sought to question “the boundaries between originality, conceptual inventiveness and the culture of the copy, [focusing] on theft, authorship, annexation and the creative potential of such pursuits”, Ian McEwan's My Purple Scented Novel takes the form of a confession – notably not an admission of guilt – about one such instance of authorial appropriation.

Short, sharp and wryly observed, find it online at The New Yorker. Alternatively, let McEwan himself read it to you here.

THE SCENT OF GREEN PAPAYA

It's 1951 in Saigon, Vietnam, and ten year old Mui arrives in the city to commence work as the servant to a wealthy family. A story in two halves, the first concerns itself with Mui's initiation into her role within the household. The second, ten years later, with the unfolding of romantic love.

Quiet, soothing, utterly beautiful to watch, The Scent of Green Papaya deals not at all with the wider politcal landscape taking place within the dates that it is set. Instead it focuses on the daily, the domestic. There are no huge themes. No surprises. It touches on grief, on tenderness, on grace. It whispers of the subjugation of women. Its characters are almost cartoonishly fairytale-esque. It is a gentle breeze, stirring not much, but refreshing in all the ways it should.