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
Joseph O’Neill on Flannery O’Connor 
Joseph O’Neill (Netherland) ostensibly reviews Brad Gooch’s biography about Flannery O’Connor in the June issue of Atlantic Monthly, but really gives us an thoughtful essay about O’Connor and O’Neill’s responses to her work. His main thrust is that O’Connor received fame early — she never eked out an existence as a struggling writer — yet […]
Read More Mix Tape of All-Time Best Short Stories (With Secret Theme!) Over at Emerging Writers Network, Dan’s been hyping up Short Story Month, and a lot of others are getting in on the action. Marcel Jolley mentioned mix tapes over there. So I submitted a mix tape for Dan, themed along Fantastic Fiction. Love the concept of mix tapes. Did a bunch on this blog way […]
Read More JRR Tolkien Rides Again Over at the Times Literary Supplement, there’s a detailed article about the Norse mythology that gave rise to Tolkien’s latest (last?) book published by his son Christopher Tolkien. “The Legend of Sigurd and Gudrun” is all poetry — don’t miss that crucial detail. And it fills in a mysterious gap in the Nibelung legend. Here’s […]
Read More Twitterification I have gone to the dark side. I am now twittering. And sending tweets. And feeling twitterific. And any other coinage/catachresis you’d like to apply. Look for me under bookfox. Now that I’m done with my cross-platform promotion, time for some serious analyzing of this new medium. My biggest problem with text-messaging and twittering is […]
Read More Posts in Short Story Month Usually I’m against the coronation of certain days or months as special celebrations of whatever, because by now, I’m sure every day of the year has some kind of movement associated with it. May 5th: Salamander Day. June: Bowler Hat Month. (okay, so I made those ones up) But when it comes to short stories, […]
Read More Esquire Fiction Contest Esquire is giving the short story a little nudge. Or, given the bar-brawl story they just published, more like a shove. They are starting to publish stories again, albeit only online, and are also sponsoring a contest for short stories under 4000 words with one of these three titles: Twenty-Ten An Insurrection Never, Ever Bring […]
Read More Festival of Books: Exiles and Outsiders Donna Rifkind did an excellent job introducing the books of each writer in one quick introductory swoop, so the panel could discuss their ostensible topic: Exiles and Outsiders. I’m sure it was just a coincidence that this panel had four female writers. Gioconda Belli was literally exiled from her native Nicaragua because of an unfriendly […]
Read More Festival of Books Highlights First of all, go visit Jacket Copy, if you haven’t already. Carolyn Kellogg presided over a host of helpful bloggers (including me!) that captured the spirit of the event. Highlights: The Granta soiree at Equator books — I’d actually never been there before, but it’s a beautiful bookstore, with exquisite collector’s books. Drinks with LA […]
Read More Festival of Books Panel: Intimate Strangers Moderator: Veronique de Turenne Gina Nahai Jean Hanff Korelitz Andrew Sean Greer Janet Fitch It’s par for the course to mock the panel title. This happens annually. The moderator Veronique de Turenne commented on the vague title, comparing it to the names of floats in the Rose Parade. Andrew Sean Greer likened it to Prom […]
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