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

  • Cave Fiction image of tag icon

    So I just took a trip into the Rey San Marcos cave here in Guatemala. We only went 200 meters in, but apparently a French spelunking team traveled 60 miles through it and never found the end. While ducking around stalactites, I couldn’t help but start thinking of stories about caves, and then start compiling […]

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  • Many Thanks image of tag icon

    Many thanks to Rachel Resnick for her brilliant guest blogger stint here at BookFox. Very profilic on the interviews, for which we’re grateful. A few more one-off guest posts will be offered at the beginning of this upcoming week, after which I will be slinging myself back from Guatemala to the States and resume full […]

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  • The call of the short story: a conversational duet with Lisa Teasley and Tod Goldberg image of tag icon

    Lights up for the Love Junkie’s final guest blog at BookFox. What better way to bow out than by choreographing an improvisational duet with two Cali short story masters? Lisa Teasley’s stunning debut book GLOW IN THE DARK won the 2002 Gold Pen Award for Best Short Story Collection. She also won the 2002 Pacificus […]

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  • Literary L.A. and a chat with writer, blogger and former student Scott Doyle image of tag icon

    For anyone out there who still thinks L.A. isn’t literary, here are a few recent random encounters. At a groovy Fourth of July party in Nichols Canyon, I struck up a conversation with a man who turned out to’ve spent eight years in San Quentin. Now he’s a screenwriter. Name of John Carlen. “You know […]

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  • A conversation with author Seth Greenland about his new critically acclaimed novel, SHINING CITY image of tag icon

    Once again, I shuck my Rachel Resnick identity and morph into BookFox. As promised, I finagled an e-mail exchange with super-talented Seth Greenland. I met Seth the first time at a Los Angeles Times Book Festival panel about the Hollywood novel I moderated in 2005. When I read THE BONES to prepare for the panel, […]

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  • Book Party Round-up and Time Management Tips for Writers image of tag icon

    Back to getting foxy with books. I’m digging this guest blogging business! So I’ve had the pleasure of attending a couple of swanky book parties the previous two evenings. Last night was one for Seth Greenland, whose new critically acclaimed and hysterically funny book SHINING CITY launches today. Seth will be our BookFox guest for […]

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  • Mini-interview with author Samantha Dunn about her short story anthology, WOMEN ON THE EDGE image of tag icon

    John Fox, a most excellent writer I have had the pleasure of teaching over at USC, has kindly invited me to guest blog. Thanks, John! Kudos to him for launching a blog that focuses on the short story form. I have been teaching writing since 1995, and I have always believed that mastering this short […]

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  • Jhumpa Lahiri takes Frank OConnor International Short Story Award image of tag icon

    Jhumpa Lahiri took the Frank OConnor International Short Story Award outright, bypassing a shortlist. The longlisted authors surely must feel some disappointment that not even a shortlist was announced, because shortlisting can help boost the profile of a short story writer and increase sales. Apparently the judges were so certain they did not want to […]

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  • Anything Special About Short Stories? image of tag icon

    Since this is a short story blog, I thought I’d write a bit about literary theories of the short story. I should confess that I am not the BookFox, and probably not even worthy of the title BookWeasel. Right there I was going for an animal slightly less smart (and slightly more smarmy) than a […]

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