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
Eulogy for Ed 
Literary blogs come and go with some frequency and few lament their passing, but The Return of the Reluctant is one that will be missed. Edward Champion has announced he’s hanging up his spurs. Many thanks to Ed for his tireless cruising about the internet and blogosphere providing quips and tips on the eclectic drugs […]
Read More Why Experimental Fiction Will Save Fiction Only If It’s Really Experimental Ben Marcus has a new short story in Harper’s Magazine, although the web site doesn’t even have January 2008 up yet. Because of the story’s placement in Harper’s, I couldn’t help but reading it in light of the fracas between Marcus and Jonathan Franzen that appeared in the same pages. It’s funny to remember, in […]
Read More LA Writing is Dead? Over at the Guardian they have an article about the absence of LA literature. Yes, I agree that the screenwriters often overshadow the novelists (and yes, I have to justify myself at parties as well) but I have to disagree with the main point: In retrospect, the years from the late 1930s to the early […]
Read More James Wood, Writers Strike, Tournament of Books This should be nice encouragement for all those writers on strike. Condalmo reminds us that the Tournament of Books is seeking recommendations for your favorite book of 2007. James Wood is coming out with a book, "How Fiction Works" in February. (via Bookdwarf) Below is an excerpt from the Random House description, of which I […]
Read More Odd Assortment of Random Literary Links (Okay, fine, a Roundup) The Quarterly Conversation has just unveiled its Winter 2007 issue, with a Hispanic literature theme. Well worth your time. The Weekly Standard has another article detailing the resistance to Google’s digitization program for millions of books. Ten Top Manly Writers. I could add a few more modern ones to the list, but they’ve covered the […]
Read More Litblog Co-op: New Book Chosen I’m happy to report that they’ve selected a new book for the Winter 2007 Read This! title at the Litblog Co-op. I was worried a week or so ago that things had seemed slow this quarter, but it’s nice to see this new book, selected by the venerable Dan Wickett at Emerging Writers Network. And […]
Read More Best of Short Stories There are plenty of “Best Books of 2007” lists floating around out there, so I’m not going to duplicate them. Instead, I’m just going to talk about some of the best short story collections I read this year. While not all of them were published this year, most of them are pretty recent. I decided […]
Read More Chris Adrian Chris Adrian recently had a new short story in Esquire. I loved his novel "The Children’s Hospital" and this short story does not disappoint.
Read More Roundup Best Books The evolutionary beginnings of art. Or, in a world predicated upon survival of the fittest, why do we pay attention to aesthetics? NYRB reviews Katha Pollitt’s latest collection of essays, “In-Between Woman.” You’ve heard all the buzz about the Bad Sex in Fiction award, now read the shortlist. C’mon, you know you want to. And […]
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