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
Reflections on a Year of Blogging 
BookFox has nearly reached the ripe old age of One year, and, as I look back on my year of blogging, I find it interesting how this form of writing has affected my other writing. In addition to blogging, I am a short story writer. When it’s all added up, I have written fewer fiction […]
Read More Roundup First Novels David Quammen has the uncommon knack of turning arcane biological knowledge into intriguing narratives. But, alas, his newest book (The Long Follow: J. Michael Fay’s Epic Trek across the Last Great Forests of Central Africa) is AWOL. Chapters Indigo doesn’t list a publication date, and Booktopia lists it as March 2007. Unfortunately, the prognosis is […]
Read More My Diverse Week in Books Last week I wasn’t very busy posting, but I was busy reading. I read three books – the first a collection of short stories by Alice Munro called Runaway. It’s easy to see why she receives such acclaim as a writer – it’s because she pens such classic stories, ones that transcend her Canadian place […]
Read More The Newest Murakami Just received the review copy of Haruki Murakami’s new novel After Dark, coming out May 8th. It’s a slim 191 pages, a middle length between his novellas (Hear the Wind Sing and Pinball 1973) and the heftier works (Wind Up Bird Chronicle and Dance, Dance, Dance). Can’t wait to give it a read.
Read More John Banville with Tara Ison Even though the library spokesperson twice referred to him as “John Banfield”, Mr. Banville, aka Benjamin Black, delivered a wryly funny and occasionally self-deprecating performance last night at the Los Angeles Public Library. After beginning the night with a self-comparison to Krusty the Clown, he managed to insert his name so many times into the […]
Read More Rallying the Supporters of Independent Bookstores The Elegant Variation has new information on the efforts going on to save Dutton’s Bookstore in LA (I wrote about it back in January). To sign the petition, click here for the PDF, or email Diane.caughey@gmail.com with your Name, Address, Phone, Email, and what (if any) way you can help.
Read More Interview with Tara Ison I recently interviewed author Tara Ison, who just published her second novel, The List. We talked about the experience of writing The List in comparison to A Child Out of Alcatraz (her first novel), her relationship to Los Angeles, and partying on the roof of the Holiday Inn. BookFox: The two main characters in “The […]
Read More Update on Festival of Books The full list of authors slated for the Festival of Books is up on the LA Times website now. In addition to the authors I mentioned in the previous post (scroll down), here are some additional highlights: Chris Abani Gary Shteyngart Deborah Eisenberg Steve Erickson Aimee Bender Percival Everett Tara Ison Judith Freeman Janet Fitch […]
Read More Tournament of Books So I’ve been following the Tournament of Books with glee, and I just had to link to the judge’s essay on Richard Ford’s Lay of the Land VS Upamanyu Chatterjee’s English, August. It’s hilarious. And I’m loving the comments from the peanut gallery at the bottom, although I still wanted Absurdistan to win over Half […]
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