My Purple Scented Novel follows the perfect crime of literary betrayal, scrupulously wrought yet unscrupulously executed.
‘You will have heard of my friend the once celebrated novelist Jocelyn Tarbet, but I suspect his memory is beginning to fade…You’d never heard of me, the once obscure novelist Parker Sparrow, until my name was publicly connected with his. To a knowing few, our names remain rigidly attached, like the two ends of a seesaw. His rise coincided with, though did not cause, my decline… I don’t deny there was wrongdoing. I stole a life, and I don’t intend to give it back. You may treat these few pages as a confession.’
The writing is beautifully clear
My Purple Scented Novel…is deliciously cynical in its refusal of moral implication. There is a lightness of touch and enlivening impishness at play
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