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
On the Criticism of MFA-Inspired Writing 
At the Los Angeles Review of Books, Mark McGurl, the author of "The Program Era: Postwar Fiction and the Rise of Creative Writing," responds to critics who lament the originality of writing in the contemporary fiction: But more broadly, I think what is going on in these indictments of the mediocrity of contemporary fiction is […]
Read More Literary Card Game Notable Novelists Quiz Time: Out of these six novelists, how many can you identify? (Answers at the bottom of the post). All these images are taken from the literary card game Notable Novelists. Since I’m a board game and book aficionado, it was pleasant to combine my obsessions. The rules aren’t complex — it’s a souped up […]
Read More LA Times Festival of Books Pictures The Famous Graffiti Wall of What People are READING: Everyone was disoriented because of the location change to USC: Jonathan Lethem is absolutely brilliant. Best session of the weekend. And Carolyn Kellogg did an excellent job interviewing. After the “Future of the Book” panel, there was a madcap rush to the stage to accost and […]
Read More An Invisible Rope: Portraits of Czeslaw Milosz BookFox normally sticks to short stories and literary novels, but every once in a while I break my self-imposed limitations and dabble in other genres. Czeslaw Milosz is a poet that can make me break my own rule. An Invisible Rope: Portraits of Czeslaw Milosz is a biography consisting of remembrances from thirty-two friends, colleagues and […]
Read More Open Letter to Pushcart Nominated Folks Dear Writers who post resumes/bios with “Pushcart Nominated”: Stop. You’re embarrassing the literary community. You’re embarrassing yourself. Because let’s do the math: Duotrope has 3,500 active literary journals. Let’s assume half of those submit to the Pushcart Prize. So 1,800 journals each nominating 6 stories/poetry apiece = 10,800 nominations a year. Multiplied by the past […]
Read More The Death of Jeanne Leiby Very depressed to hear that Jeanne Leiby, editor of the Southern Review and former editor of the Florida Review, has died in a car crash. She was far too young. AP has a few more details in this stub. Remarkably, her wikipedia page has already been updated to reflect the date of her passing. She had […]
Read More MFA Alternatives Last week, Galleycat offered a list of things to do instead of getting an MFA. They were very sensible and proper and, well, dull. So I’d like to add a few of my own. You got to see the world. You have to experience what it’s like to have $1.20 in Rio after being ripped […]
Read More Los Angeles Review of Books Launches The Los Angeles Review of Books is launching today, after many backroom deals, alcoholic drinks and diatribes on the robust yet underrepresented L.A. literary scene. I’m glad to finally see the project come to fruition, because I’ve been hearing rumors for years. It’s not the full site (which you can see a mock-up if you […]
Read More Why It’s Futile to List Journals Accepting Online Submissions I’m going to retire my longstanding page that lists journals that accept online submissions (to your left). Why? It’s virtually impossible to keep up, seeing as how journals are flocking to online submissions. It would probably be easier by now to have a list of journals that don’t accept online submissions. If by this point, […]
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