![]() ![]() It’s true that website traffic is one important measure of a literary magazine, but it’s certainly not the only one.ġ. Literary Magazines with more website traffic are more important. What does website traffic mean? You could interpret these numbers in a variety of ways.ġ. Still, these are useful ballpark figures. In my experience, and comparing these numbers to Bookfox stats, SimilarWeb estimates a little high. In other words, the literary magazines below likely fall in this order of website traffic, even if the numbers of each website are slightly off. While the numbers aren’t precisely accurate (SimilarWeb estimates traffic, rather than giving precise numbers), the numbers are useful for comparison purposes. Whether you are a fiction fanatic or a pure poet, there is a literary magazine out there for you! Below are the top 50 literary magazines that are ready to showcase your story.īased on the search tool SimilarWeb, I averaged out the traffic visits of each website from the last three months and ranked them according to the number of monthly visitors each literary journal receives. 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 Top 50 Literary Magazines Ranked by Website Traffic ‹ Back to blog She was only fourteen, but her heart was broken. ![]() Svidrigaïlov knew that girl there was no holy image, no burning candle beside the coffin no sound of prayers: the girl had drowned herself. 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. But her loose fair hair was wet there was a wreath of roses on her head. 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. The coffin was covered with white silk and edged with a thick white frill wreaths of flowers surrounded it on all sides. 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 floors were strewn with freshly-cut fragrant hay, the windows were open, a fresh, cool, light air came into the room. 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. He noticed particularly in the windows nosegays of tender, white, heavily fragrant narcissus bending over their bright, green, thick long stalks. A light, cool staircase, carpeted with rich rugs, was decorated with rare plants in china pots. 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. He kept dwelling on images of flowers, he fancied a charming flower garden, a bright, warm, almost hot day, a holiday-Trinity day. 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. But one image rose after another, incoherent scraps of thought without beginning or end passed through his mind. He was not thinking of anything and did not want to think. There was a cold damp draught from the window, however without getting up he drew the blanket over him and wrapped himself in it. “It’s better not to sleep at all,” he decided. He got up and sat on the edge of the bedstead with his back to the window.
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