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
Chris Adrian “A Better Angel” Reviews 
Reviews are out for Chris Adrian's first short story collection, "A Better Angel." The Seattle Times, a two-paragraph blurb at Esquire, a thorough review at the San Francisco Chronicle, and lastly at the LA Times. It's this last review, by Lizzie Skurnick, which troubles me. Skurnick's main complaint is that the children in "A Better […]
Read More Southern California Review Over at Emerging Writers Network, Dan Wickett gives a shout-out to the Southern California Review, including a mention of my interview with Nathan Englander: The issue has three excellent short stories from Gary Fincke, Michael Buckley and Judith Freeman, as well as a nice essay by Christopher Buckley, and a ton of great poetry, including […]
Read More Short Story Quiz For all of you out there who think you know short story collections, here's your chance to test your mettle. This twelve-question quiz covers the gamut from classics to newly released, asking questions on nationality, biography, dates, content and more. So buckle down and start answering. Powered By ProProfs – Create A Quiz or Flash […]
Read More On the Eve of the Olympics, Let’s Talk Imprisonment Well, now that the games are about to begin tomorrow, it might be an excellent time to plead for all the writers that China has imprisoned. I heard on NPR yesterday that one of the Olympic Committee members didn't award China the Games because he thought they deserved it, but because he thought the Games […]
Read More Roundup: James Wood Poets and Writers has a searchable archive of contests, including a function where you can find fee-free ones. (like Greensboro Review) Book Reviewers, not to be outdone by the hundreds of fiction contests, now have their own contest. Virginia Quarterly Review wants the best review of a book published in 2008 by writers under thirty. […]
Read More Everyone Can Do More (Much More) Wonderful discussion about the multi-faceted responsibilities of the writer/reader going on at Blake Butler’s blog, the Ploughshares blog, and Emerging Writers Network. Lots of reader commentary, so go read and add your two cents.
Read More Salman Rushdie Get Angry. Salman Rushdie Smash! Salman Rushdie is pure fodder for paparazzi: He participates in literary squabbles, fights the fatwa, engages in juvenile dick-wars about book-signing records, schmoozes around the world looking for a fifth wife, and now sues (on the basis of libel) the security guard coming out with a tell-all memoir about Rushdie’s time spent under police protection. […]
Read More A Call For A Moratorium After finishing the article by Lissa Warren in the Huffington Post, which practically recited verbatim the canard about the problems of the shrinking newspaper coverage of books and the failure of blogs to pick up the slack, I read Edward Champion’s and Michael Orthofer’s replies. Their replies, in short, demolish her argument. Demolish: a thorough, […]
Read More Barnes and Noble Video Promo Good on Barnes & Noble for inserting video into the literary realm. Literature needs more videos suited for the internet — by which I mean relatively short, with snappy edits, a Youtube video rather than a C-Span books segment (think mixing Current with CNN and you’ll get the idea). Some nice B-roll going on here, […]
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