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
Dostoevsky Murals in Moscow Subway 
There’s a controversy over Dostoevsky murals in a Moscow subway, because some people think they are too depressing and could attract the suicidal. Unfortunately, I read about twenty articles and none of them actually provided the photos, which you would think would be a primary goal of journalism — actually enabling readers to make their […]
Read More Literary Journal News The July/August issue of Poets and Writers highlights Ploughshares’ recent move to online submission, but neglects to mention that they started charging $3 for this submission type. I would think that would be pertinent information, especially considering that Ploughshares waives the fee for subscribers, which is an excellent addendum that I haven’t seen in the […]
Read More David Ulin steps into Book Reviewing Role This is a shake-up — David Ulin, the books section editor at the LA Times, is shifting to a book reviewing role. (And the dark hues and shadows of the photo seem rather noirish, don't you think?) I'm glad that he'll get more chances to write, since his occasional essays are always a delight. And I'm sure […]
Read More Being Wrong in Fiction The NY Times has a double-pronged review of two books about being wrong — “Being Wrong,” by Kathryn Schulz, and “Wrong,” by David H. Freedman. Dwight Garners writes of Schulze, whom he says wrote the more interesting book: She argues in “Being Wrong” that, of all the things we’re wrong about, our ideas about error […]
Read More J.G. Ballard Archives Even though J.G. Ballard didn't really wanted his archives preserved, even to the point of lying about their existence, he didn't have the heart to destroy them himself. He could have used some advice from Kafka and Nabakov. Should have burned it all. The Independent has an article and a video. Also, I love how […]
Read More Two Quick Highlights for Summer Reads Just wanted to highlight two short story collections coming out this month and in July — if you want to check out some other good reads for the beach (but not "beach reading") look at the LA Times list and NY Times list. Memory Wall by Anthony Doerr, published by Scribner From South Africa to […]
Read More Seattle Review Overhaul The Seattle Review is overhauling their entire journal, swinging from very short stories (all stories had to be under 4,000 words), to novellas (if it’s not more than 40 pages, they don’t want to see it). They haven’t posted anything on their submissions page yet, but I’ll repost what they mailed me: “The editors of […]
Read More The New Yorker 20 Under 40 The NY Times reports that the New Yorker 20 Under 40 list has come out. Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie, 32 Chris Adrian, 39 Daniel Alarcón, 33 David Bezmozgis, 37 Sarah Shun-lien Bynum, 38 Joshua Ferris, 35 Jonathan Safran Foer, 33 Nell Freudenberger, 35 Rivka Galchen, 34 Nicole Krauss, 35 Yiyun Li, 37 Dinaw Mengestu, 31 Philipp […]
Read More The New Yorker 20 Under 40 (Exciting!) On June 7th, The New Yorker will release an issue highlighting the best American authors under 40. Yes, it’s an arbitrary cut-off date (sorry, Dave Eggers — you’re 40 + 3 months), but 20 Under 40 sounds so much better than 20 Under A-Vague-Stage-In-Middle-Age-Before-Getting-Old. It’s a marketing ploy, people, get over it. The Observer reports […]
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