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
Readings and Festival 
One of my pet peeves is when I get PR emails supporting literary readings that never mention the city, because isn’t it so incredibly obvious that all literary events happen in New York City, I mean, where else could they possibly happen? They mention an address on 20th Street, and everyone who ever receives that […]
Read More Los Angeles Times Festival of Books I’m very much looking forward to the Los Angeles Times Festival of Books this weekend. There’s a list of all the attending authors, but you have to wade through a lot of children’s book authors and commercial writers (not that there’s anything wrong with them) to sift out the good stuff. Might be helpful to […]
Read More Online Short Story Award for 2008 storySouth, one of the more notable literary journals operating online, has announced the longlist of short stories up for the Million Writers Award. All stories published online in 2008 were eligible. On May 15th, the shortlist of ten stories will be announced, at which point the winner is determined by public vote. I would offer […]
Read More The Familiar Short Story Take Articles about short stories come with almost metronomic precision from the major media outlets. You can almost count on their release — every few months, a short story article will try to stir up the literary hornets nest. There was Steven King, there was Mary Gaitskill, there was Millhauser. Granted, most of these articles say […]
Read More Writing Retreat Hello BookFox Readers, I’m on a week-long writing retreat up in Northern California. In my absence, please enjoy some of the links in the sidebars.
Read More Best March Madness Books Although I’m a huge March Madness fan, I get tired of sportscasters stating the obvious and making ridiculous puns about English-major players putting “English” on the basketball. If you want more sophisticated March Madness commentary, you need to check out the following five books. Your friends might be able to rattle off the rebound stats […]
Read More Link Fest Commonweal has a podcast interview with Nigerian Jesuit Uwem Akpan, who wrote the debut story collection “Say You’re One of Them.” Speaking of audio interviews, Victoria Lautman in Chicago has stockpiled a number of interviews and is interviewing Mary Gaitskill today about her latest book. The Globe and Mail onhealthy medication no prescription highlights very […]
Read More Globalpost Globalpost tries to save journalism by a for-profit business model, in which profits come from three sources: online ads, subscriptions, and syndication. The website looks professional, although the text/images need to be integrated better (In the articles, you have to scroll quite far to get to the words). It’s a bold venture, especially in these […]
Read More Best (?) Five Lit Journals The Daily Beast has an article about the five best literary journals, but two of the journals — N+1 and The Believer — I’d describe more as book reviews. One Story deserves its place on this list, but it’s interesting that Quick canadian pharmacy onhealthy Fiction gets a nod — as the name implies, it’s […]
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