He got up and sat on the edge of the bedstead with his back to the window. “It’s better not to sleep at all,” he decided. There was a cold damp draught from the window, however; without getting up he drew the blanket over him and wrapped himself in it. He was not thinking of anything and did not want to think. But one image rose after another, incoherent scraps of thought without beginning or end passed through his mind. He sank into drowsiness. Perhaps the cold, or the dampness, or the dark, or the wind that howled under the window and tossed the trees roused a sort of persistent craving for the fantastic. He kept dwelling on images of flowers, he fancied a charming flower garden, a bright, warm, almost hot day, a holiday—Trinity day. A fine, sumptuous country cottage in the English taste overgrown with fragrant flowers, with flower beds going round the house; the porch, wreathed in climbers, was surrounded with beds of roses. A light, cool staircase, carpeted with rich rugs, was decorated with rare plants in china pots. He noticed particularly in the windows nosegays of tender, white, heavily fragrant narcissus bending over their bright, green, thick long stalks. He was reluctant to move away from them, but he went up the stairs and came into a large, high drawing-room and again everywhere—at the windows, the doors on to the balcony, and on the balcony itself—were flowers. The floors were strewn with freshly-cut fragrant hay, the windows were open, a fresh, cool, light air came into the room. The birds were chirruping under the window, and in the middle of the room, on a table covered with a white satin shroud, stood a coffin. The coffin was covered with white silk and edged with a thick white frill; wreaths of flowers surrounded it on all sides. Among the flowers lay a girl in a white muslin dress, with her arms crossed and pressed on her bosom, as though carved out of marble. But her loose fair hair was wet; there was a wreath of roses on her head. The stern and already rigid profile of her face looked as though chiselled of marble too, and the smile on her pale lips was full of an immense unchildish misery and sorrowful appeal. Svidrigaïlov knew that girl; there was no holy image, no burning candle beside the coffin; no sound of prayers: the girl had drowned herself. She was only fourteen, but her heart was broken. And she had destroyed herself, crushed by an insult that had appalled and amazed that childish soul, had smirched that angel purity with unmerited disgrace and torn from her a last scream of despair, unheeded and brutally disregarded, on a dark night in the cold and wet while the wind howled
The Blog
37 Writing Prompt Pictures of Emojis 
I hope these 37 creative writing prompt pictures of emojis either make you laugh or write. Preferably both. They’re meant to be suggestive, not to sketch out the entire story. Some of them just have a premise, while others suggest a possible ending. Feel free to change whatever you need to in your story to make […]
Read More Story Idea Generator Most story idea generators are awful. They offer these mash-ups of random details that don’t make any sense, and require the writer to sift out the irrelevant details and find the connections. Or worse yet, they make you fill out some kind of form to get a nonsensical outline. This story generator works differently. Each prompt […]
Read More 10 Easy Steps to Writing a Terrible Book Review 1. Flaunt Your Genius Do you know obscure 18th century French authors? Why of course you do, and now is the time to namedrop them. Do you know critical theory? Why of course you do, and everyone will be impressed if you use a poststructural framework to analyze the book. Nobody thinks writing a book […]
Read More Ranking of Michel Houellebecq Books, from Worst to Best 8. Whatever Easily the most forgettable of Michel Houellebecq books. Remember Houellebecq was a philosopher and a poet before he became a novelist, and this early novel was a stepping stone into his new choice of profession. It has some of the seeds of later Houellebecq — loneliness, sexual frustration, philosophical asides — but lacks the […]
Read More Anonymous Confessions of Writers [text-slider] Read a confession, write a confession. Some people have called this “Post Secret for Writers.” Like what you see? Sign up for a monthly dose of literary challenges, author interviews and video advice from Bookfox. Email Address First Name Last Name View previous campaigns.
Read More 100 of the Most Beautiful Sentences I’ve added a new page in Bookfox, one that I hope will give you a great deal of pleasure: The Most Beautiful Sentences in Literature Currently I have 100 authors on the list, but I might get sick of a few of them and boot them off in favor of new talent. I made this list […]
Read More 30 Children’s Book Publishers Eager for Your Book The 30 children’s book publishers below all have one important thing in common: they are accepting submissions directly from authors. Since many children’s publishers only accept from agents, this list should save you hundreds of hours combing through the submission guidelines of every children’s publisher on earth. And here’s a bonus! You won’t even have to […]
Read More The History of Punctuation Signs (Infographic) What is the history of punctuation signs? Would you believe me if I told you that there was a time with advanced language but without punctuation? And that the history of punctuation signs involved a lot of fighting, backstabbing, and theft? And that the way we punctuate now, with rules that we consider as irreproachable […]
Read More Know Your Fiction Lengths There is no good reason why a graphic like this should cause controversy, but I know it will: people will complain that a novelette is the same thing as a novella, or that micro fiction is the same thing as flash fiction, or that I made up the category for Russian Novel (okay, that last one […]
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