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
After a Brief Lull, the Festivities Resume 
The Tournament of Books is in full swing, including hilarious judges commentary. The fifth annual Millions Writers Award is taking submissions for the best online short story published. Jonathan Safran Foer speaks and people consider him arrogant . . . surprise, surprise, surprise. That’s how I wanted to find him, when I saw him at […]
Read More Short Story Reviews, Marketing and Tethered Ferocity Maud Newton has a review of Cate Kennedy’s Dark Roots (which I listed in my short story roundup at the beginning of the year) in NYTBR. There’s also a review of Dangerous Laughter by Steven Millhauser, a book which I enjoyed immensely and wrote a review that should come out in the next issue of […]
Read More Jim Shepard Wins Short Story Prize Jim Shepard won the Short Story Prize last night for his collection “Like You’d Understand, Anyway.” First prize was $20,000, and both runners-up took home $5,000. I just finished the book and understand (Yes, I do understand, really) why it won. It has a zest for exploration and a penchant for far-flung corners of the […]
Read More Jacket Copy and Bookshelves Carolyn Kellogg has joined the team of Jacket Copy, the LA Times book blog, where she adds to the insight of David L. Ulin and others. Check out her post comparing One Story to Ninth Letter, both great (and relatively new) journals. The LA Times also has a photo gallery of various books and bookshelves […]
Read More Literary Rejection Sorry for not posting on Sunday night/Monday morning, as is my custom. I was busied by academic and other forces beyond imagining. Or rather, few enjoy imagining them, so I won’t bore you with details. Anyhow, a few bits on rejection. I can’t help but like Literary Rejections on Display. I mean, it’s like the […]
Read More Back on the Short Story Train The only time I’ll probably link to Entertainment Weekly — but this article on McSweeneyism is great for exposing the jealousy and idiocy of McSweeney bashers. Over at The Millions, it’s short story week, and so far they have one post on Deborah Eisenberg — as regular readers know, one of my favorite short story […]
Read More RIP Alain Robbe-Grillet So Alain Robbe-Grillet, the king of the French new novel, died on Monday at the age of 85. I find it just a little funny that back in October I wrote a piece linked to by The Guardian about Robbe-Grillet’s new novel, “Un Roman Sentimental.” The title: “And I Thought He Was Dead.” So now […]
Read More Writing advice from 1908, Writing Slowly, and Terrible Query Letters Writing advice given in 1908 to short story writers. And good points made about how they were getting 3 to 5 cents a word back in the day when 3 to 5 cents could buy, say, about 100 times more than it could today. Advice on Short Story Publishers: But I wasn’t ready to give […]
Read More For Valentine’s Day: Love Never Dies In honor of Valentine’s Day, I’ll mention The Christian Science Monitor has a review of a love anthology edited by Jeffrey Eugenides, the proceeds of which help out the Chicago 826 writing center of Dave Eggers. The title? My Mistress’s Sparrow Is Dead. No comment on that. As a huge fan of Jose Saramago, the […]
Read More
