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
Jeff Parker Interview 
Jeff Parker is zany and zippy — at least as represented in his fiction, and his lively answers below encourage the reputation. BookFox caught up with him over email to interrogate him about his latest book, The Taste of Penny, which could best be described as a wild thirteen-story ride through the linguistically innovative world […]
Read More Excerpt of Tinkers by Paul Harding Last month Paul Harding was awarded the Pulitzer Prize in fiction for “Tinkers,” the first time in decades that a small press snagged the prize. I got to see Harding at the LA Festival of Books, and was impressed by his wit and gravity. So I bought his book and enjoyed it immensely. It’s the […]
Read More If I Loved You, I Would Tell You This by Robin Black Robin Black’s collection, “If I Loved You, I Would Tell You This,” was published last month by Random House. Ever since I read this collection, the word ricocheting around my brain is “solid.” These stories are solid and steady, in the best sense of an authorial surefootedness. There is precise and simple language. These are […]
Read More Literary Journal Business Models It might seem strange to go from a post warning of economic language to one examining economic models for literary journals, but I’m not anti-finance — I just don’t want it to dominate all my creative work. Here’s the situation: Literary journals seem to be moving away from institutionalized support. (See New England Review, TriQuarterly). […]
Read More Happy Birthday to BookFox BookFox turns 4 years old this week. That’s ancient in blog years, but it’s not off to the nursing home yet. Still got some spunk left. Many thanks to all the readers, commenters and contributors for a fun four years. May the next year be even better.
Read More Publication “Credits” I have a problem with talking about your publication records using the term "credits." I see it fairly frequently in literary journals bios: "Her publication credits include Granta and Paris Review." The term "credit" is an financial one. Credits are given and received in an "economy" — by which I mean any system of exchange […]
Read More New Platforms for Literary Journals Twitter, Facebook, Youtube, and smart phones are not merely new avenues of disseminating fiction. They create new parameters and challenges for fiction to utilize. The medium matters — there is no such thing as a "neutral" medium. The main mistake readers make is believing that the content is transferable between mediums — that a story […]
Read More Short Story Month May has official been designated Short Story Month. Not only has Dan Wickett of Emerging Writer’s Network been blitzing out interviews and critiques and articles every May to celebrate the month, but this year even Poets & Writers formally recognized the efforts. Over at EWN, there’s a number of us contributing to a discussion of […]
Read More “Uneven” Short Story Collections One of the most common critiques I hear for short story collections is that they’re “uneven.” I don’t hear it very often for novels, and only occasionally as a critique of an author’s oeuvre. A few brief samples: Publisher’s Weekly called David Foster Wallace’s “Brief Interviews with Hideous Men” uneven. Seattle Times called Evan S. […]
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