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
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.” […]
Read More (Fake) Writers on Twitter I’ve been amused by the fake twitter accounts (twitterjackings) that I’ve come across recently. Of course there are famous rip-offs. No, that’s not really Steve Jobs, sorry. And Condoleezza Rice isn’t tweeting, “LOL! G.W. likes fruitcake.” But the ones I’ve been encountering have been in the literary realm. Billy Collins started following me, and offering […]
Read More John Freeman at Granta John Freeman’s been popping up with some regularity, mostly in reference to being named Granta’s new editor after Alex Clark resigned. Since the average appointment of Granta’s editors seems to be something in the range of about 2 days (okay, bit of hyperbole, there — or if you’re into tropes, actually a litote — they […]
Read More MFA Talk in The New Yorker Launches Age-Old Discussion Louis Menand’s piece in the summer fiction issue of The New Yorker, “Show or Tell,” has been stirring up the old MFA debates around the internets. Obstensibly, it’s a review of Mark McGurl’s new book, “The Program Era,” which seems to be arguing that MFA programs impacted fiction during the last fifty years (big surprise!) […]
Read More Whatever Happened to Tracy Kidder? “House” might be the most boring premise ever for a nonfiction book. It’s a story about three circles of people — the homeowners, the architect, and the builders — as a house gets built. But it’s absolutely enthralling. Between “House” and “The Soul of a New Machine,” Kidder had me hooked a good while back, […]
Read More Open Letters Monthly In June The June issue of Open Letters Monthly is out — A Fiction Issue, no less — and it’s a doozy. Not only a ton of reviews, including Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie’s The Thing Around Your Neck, reviewed by John Madera, but the genuine article of fiction itself. This issue includes six short stories/novel excerpts. Also, I […]
Read More Happy 3rd Birthday to BookFox Happy Birthday to me. Or, well, BookFox. I’ve come so far from that fateful first post about meeting Jonathan Safran Foer. It’s been three wonderful years, and I’m so glad to get through the terrible twos. Thanks to my faithful readers, and may there be much more literary fun to come.
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