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
Short Story Censorship 
In a high school English class unit called Love/Gender/Family Unit, Kathleen Reilly taught short stories by David Sedaris, Laura Lippman, Stephen King and Ernest Hemingway. But not anymore. She recently resigned, after parents demanded she remove the stories from the curriculum. Parent Sue Ann Johnson was one of the more vocal objectors to the stories, […]
Read More Frank O’Connor Short Story Prize The shortlist for the Frank O’Connor International Short Story prize is out, and they did much better at creating a shortlist than last year, when the Jhumpa Lahiri coup took down the prize. An Elegy for Easterly by Petina Gappah (Zimbabwe) Singularity by Charlotte Grimshaw (New Zealand) Ripples and other Stories by Shih-Li Kow (Malaysia) […]
Read More The E-Book Revolution Approaches Brilliant and lengthy article at Fast Company on the changing landscape of books, publishers and e-books. The book industry is especially vulnerable because it is a “hits” business, with a small number of breakaway titles (Harry Potter, The Tipping Point, Twilight) subsidizing all the rest. Take away publishers’ best-sellers and you’re left with stacks of […]
Read More Review: “Fugue State” Brian Evenson The stories in “Fugue State” will haunt you. Brian Evenson has a remarkable ability to come up with creepy tales that won’t be extracted from your head. For example, take “Invisible Box.” Imagine a girl sleeping with a mime, a mime that’s still dressed up with the gloves and the face paint. During the completely […]
Read More Review of Damion Searls “What We Were Doing and Where We Were Going” In the fourth story of this collection, “A Guide to San Francisco,” the narrator says, “I have to admit I have never been as moved by the realists or the world-creating fabulists as I am by the pattern-makers.” If you agree with that aesthetic preference, you should read Damion Searls’ “What We Were Doing and […]
Read More Cao Naiqian: There’s Nothing I Can Do When I Think Of You Late At Night Before I get to a micro review of the collection itself, I have to admit that I’m impressed by Naiqian’s bio. Growing up in a rural section of China, he didn’t start writing until 37, as a result of a bet with a friend. He still has his day job as a detective (!) for […]
Read More John Freeman on Literary Journals Here’s John Freeman brilliant description of the role of literary journals: Their primary function, after all, is to undermine this economy of prestige, to promote gross miscegenation, messiness, conflict and disorder; to subvert the market; and to place writers in unexpected places, where they can create their own unlikely community of readers.
Read More Narrative Has Competition! (Hello, Electric Literature) Narrative has become the current gold standard for online literary magazines, wading in the fray and dominating the competition in a relatively short time. Well, watch out. Electric Literature just launched, and it looks like a doozy. True to the name, EL is distributing electronically, through a host of formats: e-book, Kindle, and iPhone, plus […]
Read More How Do Parks Resemble Short Stories? At the Guardian, they review the new anthology “Ox-Tales,” structured around the four elements, and “Park Stories,” a set of eight specially commissioned short stories all corresponding to a major British park. Explaining the rationale behind the parks, editor Rowan Routh said: “There’s a kinship between parks and short fiction – both are confined things.” […]
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