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

  • Tournament of Books a Nail-Biter image of tag icon

    I love that the Tournament of Books ended in a similar manner to March Madness: just as the underdog Butler put up a valiant fight against top-seeded Duke, Duke edged past by a single point. And in the Tournament of Books, we had the juggernaut “Wolf Hall” against the formidable “The Lacuna,” and the judges […]

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  • Handmade Books and Journals image of tag icon

    I went to the Hibbleton Art Gallery in Fullerton recently, and found they’re showcasing handmade books and journals. I love finding hand-stitched literature like this. It’s the underground movement of books, where a ‘small release’ means 30 copies, not a thousand copies. It’s probably organic AND local. Especially loved the palm-sized books, since the paper was […]

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  • The Influential Books Game image of tag icon

    Usually I avoid memes like the plague, but I got sucked into this one. This notion of listing the books that have affected you the most has been making the rounds, and I'm going to play along. Hope some of these surprise you. Also, once you've read mine, go check out the NY Times, Marginal […]

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  • 2010 AWP in Denver image of tag icon

    I’m excited to go to AWP in Denver, Colorado this year and provide some on-the-ground BookFox coverage. If you’re going and want to meet up, email me before or during. Otherwise, looking forward to seeing you there. Also, my housing plans fell through. Anybody need a roommate?

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  • LA Times Festival of Books 2010 image of tag icon

    An impressive line-up for the 2010 Los Angeles Times Festival of Books. Other than the usual suspects of local Southern California authors, we have some heavyweights: Andre Aciman Mark Danielewski Dave Eggers Bret Easton Ellis Yann Martel Maile Meloy Colson Whitehead Elizabeth Crane Congrats to the organizers for putting together such a great lineup. Also, […]

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  • Ingo Schulze: One More Story image of tag icon

    Ingo Schulze’s short story collection “One More Story” was preceded by “33 Moments of Happiness,” a collection about St. Petersberg, and the novel “New Lives.” Critics consider Schulze the voice of post-unification Germany, a rather ironic mantle since Schulze slept through the fall of the Berlin Wall in 1989. His latest collection, “One More Story,” […]

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  • The Atlantic Renews Commitment to Short Stories image of tag icon

    The Atlantic is going to start publishing fiction again. So no more of those newstand-only summer fiction issues (which were good, though, especially the 2008 one that highlighted emerging authors). Instead, a supplement will accompany the May issue that will include half a dozen short stories and — obligatory for all American magazines, for every […]

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  • Granta: Work image of tag icon

    I’ve been loving the latest issue of Granta. If you want a sneak peak, read Daniel Alarcon’s “Life Among the Pirates,” which offers a Peruvian view on book piracy. Apparently, pirates earn more money than the publishers do, and sometimes have spies in foreign publishing houses that steal translations. Plus, the police can’t mop it […]

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  • Online Fiction image of tag icon

    A torrent of new online fiction came out this week. Kyle Minor has the short story "The Truth and All Its Ugly" out on Harper Collins Fifty-Two stories. You all know I have a man-crush on Minor since reading his sizzling debut collection, "In the Devil's Territory," so hoof it on over there. Five Chapters […]

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