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

  • Other Fitzgerald Fiction image of tag icon

    Over at The Smart Set, Colin Fleming tells us that now that the hoopla over Benjamin Button has died down, we can start reading some good Fitzgerald short stories: But if the sentiments expressed in his letters are any indication, the Fitzgerald who worked his ass off in Hollywood, who failed over and over again, […]

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  • Flannery O’Connor Biography Reviews image of tag icon

    Overall, the reviews of the Brad Gooch biography of Flannery O’Connor have been extremely positive, even though many reviewers admit the difficulties of writing about an author who said about her own life: “there won’t be any biographies of me because, for only one reason, lives spent between the house and the chicken yard do […]

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  • Roundup Pen America Reading image of tag icon

    How “Am I hot or not?” affects “Am I publishable or not?” Also, how reviewers should not rely upon Rate My Professors for biographical information. NPR’s On The Media discusses whether Kachingle, an online service that encourages readers to donate to publications they read, can save the newspaper industry. Michiko Kakutani is not kind toward […]

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  • Bookshelf Pic of the Day image of tag icon

      I just love the look of this bookshelf. As far as foot by foot, it might not have the capacity of a horizontal bookshelf, but you have to admit that its curvaceous flanks are alluring. The “Bookworm,” as it’s called (not to be confused with Michael Silverblatt’s program!) is available for $425 at myownspace.com.

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  • Roddy Doyle’s Live Action Short Film “New Boy” image of tag icon

    In honor of the Academy Awards ceremony this weekend, which I will be watching in Santa Monica with a host of industry-type people and assiduously casting my ballot for the winners, I offer this literary focus. You’ve likely heard about the most famous short story adaption of the year, “The Curious Case of Benjamin Button.” […]

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  • Roundup Baby Got Books image of tag icon

    Baby Got Books digs into Lauren Groff’s Delicate Edible Birds. Bookdwarf reports that her bookstore has begun delivering by bicycle. Match that, Amazon! Does the recent influx of Pakistani literature indicate that it’s supplanting India as the hot geographic/ethnic trend in literature? Earthgoat interviews Paula Morris, whose recent short story collection Forbidden Cities is a […]

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  • Harper’s Jumps on the Book Industry Bandwagon image of tag icon

      I’ve been a longtime subscriber to Harper’s Magazine — it’s one of my favorite magazines, from the clever scientific hodgepodge of the last page “Findings” to the fiction to the “Readings” to the articles. But the March 2009 article, “The Last Book Party” was disappointing (Not online yet, or I’d link). It’s a piece […]

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  • What I’m Reading image of tag icon

    I’m afraid I’m on a diverse reading schedule these days. It’s never: Read One Book Then Start Another. At last count, I think I was getting through about 10 short story collections/novels. I just have one story left in both Mary Gaitskill‘s new book “Don’t Cry” and in Daniyal Mueenuddin “In Other Rooms, Other Wonders.” […]

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  • AWP Roundup image of tag icon

    The Official AWP website. Hobart is blogging the event. Best American Poetry will have updates through the end of the week. Chicago Literary Scene Examiner is hot on the literary scene. A bunch of AWP pictures of authors and miscellany on Flickr. Inside Higher Ed has a post up and more to come. Barrelhouse Magazine […]

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