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
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 […]
Read More Beowulf So earlier tonight I found myself reading poetry to Mrs. BookFox, only it wasn’t exactly love poetry: Unhallowed wight, grim and greedy, he grasped betimes, wrathful, reckless, from resting-places, thirty of the thanes, and thence he rushed fain of his fell spoil, faring homeward, laden with slaughter, his lair to seek. Then at the dawning, […]
Read More What is BookFox? BookFox is a Los Angeles based literary blog started in May of 2006 by John Matthew Fox. Coverage focuses mainly on new literary titles, such as novels, with a particular focus on short story collections. BookFox does not cover poetry, YA novels, commercial fiction, and rarely covers non-fiction. Small press publications are welcome. BookFox has […]
Read More Thanksgiving Roundup How poets have been affected by the Hollywood strike. From the frontline of the publishing houses: a reader’s report. The first of the season’s “Best of” lists. Except this one is only design – the best cover art of the year. There’s a whole list here, of which I love the red paper clip and […]
Read More New Essay Collection by Umberto Eco I’ve always been a fan of Umberto Eco, and not only of his fiction (of which my favorite is The Name of the Rose). Eco’s essays, thoughts on popular culture as filtered through his semiotic lens, are always good for re-conceptualizing the way we view everyday items. For instance, I’ve used his essay “Lumbar Thought,” […]
Read More The Bookaholics’ Guide to Book Blogs So I just received my copy of the Bookaholics’ Guide to Book Blogs, and naturally looked for myself. There I was – BookFox, in the index – except with the wrong http address. It’s www.thejohnfox.com, not www.bookfox.com. Thanks for fact checking that one. But I shouldn’t worry about it, I told myself, I mean people […]
Read More
