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
Gina Nahai – Caspain Rain 
V.S. Naipaul, in Among the Believers, takes a whistlestop tour through the Middle East, writing about the tension between the dynamic societies of the West, embracing new and revolutionary technology, and the static Islamic societies, holding onto tradition. That basic tension is present in Gina Nahai’s new novel, Caspain Rain, only in sociological form. The […]
Read More Man Booker Winner So as I predicted, Ian McEwan didn’t win the Man Booker; instead, they choose an author with considerably less fame: Anne Enright won for The Gathering, one of the books considered to be an outside chance. Check out the post-win BBC interview.
Read More Man Booker The Booker award is announced tomorrow, and all I can say is that it better not be On Chesil Beach. The book does not show Ian McEwan at his best, and the only thing that could catapult him into the winner’s spot is an over-reliance upon his authorial publishing record and reputation, rather than an […]
Read More Nobel Awarded to Doris Lessing Doris Lessing just won the Nobel Prize for literature. As the 11th woman to win the prize, she’s also apparently the oldest, and contrary to what people predicted – that the academy would go outside Europe this time – she’s British.
Read More National Book Award Finalists Does the prize season seem to come all at once, or is it me? Since the National Book Award finalists were just announced today, and the Nobel Prize for literature comes tomorrow, I feel swamped under prize mania. Despite that, I still am thrilled by the prospect. Sorry, can’t help myself. Nominees: Mischa Berlinski: Fieldwork […]
Read More Writers’ Pay So the LA Times has an update on how the talks are progressing for the potential screenwriter’s strike: “The union is demanding greater compensation for writers whose work is distributed through the Internet and other digital platforms. The studios want to overhaul the system to withhold residuals of any kind until after production, development, distribution […]
Read More Nobel Stats So below are some of the odds the bookies are placing on the Nobel Prize for Literature, which is awarded Thursday. For my money, I’d go for Les Murray, Margaret Atwood, or Milan Kundera. Apparently Europeans have won it the last nine of ten years, so the judges might want to go outside, and no […]
Read More Barry Building Saved So after months and months of trying to get the Barry building designated as a historical landmark so that Dutton’s Bookstore, one of the key independent bookstores of Los Angeles, doesn’t get demolished, I’m happy to report that we’ve succeeded. Last night the City Council passed the final vote. The Barry Building can’t be demolished […]
Read More Camille Paglia on Religion and the Arts Nobody incites more hatred on a university campus than Camille Paglia. Just try walking around with a copy of Sexual Persona under your arm and see how long it takes before you are confronted. She’s hated because she’s provocative and respects no sacred idol, but also because she runs counter to mainstream theories about gender […]
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