The news of John Crowley‘s death today sent me back to a memorable encounter more than four decades ago. I first discovered Crowley’s work in the 1970s, when he began publishing fantasy and science fiction unlike anything else on the shelves. In rapid succession, I devoured The Deep, Beasts, and Engine Summer, finding each one more astonishing than the last. Crowley combined the lyricism of literary fiction with the sense of wonder that lies at the heart of fantasy. By the time Little, Big appeared in 1981, I was already an ardent admirer.
That same year, I attended my first World Fantasy Convention in Berkeley, California. As has long been the custom at WFC, publishers donated books to a room where attendees could help themselves to copies of recent fantasy novels. Wandering between the tables, I picked up a copy of Little, Big, Crowley’s sprawling and enchanting fantasy novel, which had been published earlier that year.
I had recently finished the novel and fallen completely under its spell. Little, Big was unlike anything I had read before: deliciously imaginative, filled with unforgettable characters, and centered on a mystical house so vividly realized that I wanted to move in and never leave. Standing there with a writer friend, I began enthusiastically praising the novel. I am not usually given to gushing about novels, but in this case I couldn’t help myself. I went on and on about how wonderful it was.
After a few moments, I became aware that the dark-bearded fellow standing across the table was grinning from ear to ear. Only then did it dawn on me who he was. It was John Crowley himself, quietly listening as a stranger lavished praise on his work. He seemed delighted, and I was instantly embarrassed and amused in equal measure.
Looking back, it remains my favorite memory of him: not a formal interview or convention panel, but a brief moment of pure happiness shared between a writer and an unexpectedly enthusiastic reader. In later years, I occasionally saw John Crowley’s posts on Facebook, which made him seem much the same as I remembered him at that convention: thoughtful, dryly funny, and deeply engaged with books and storytelling. Little, Big remains one of the landmarks of modern fantasy, and John Crowley will be deeply missed.
(As I was writing this, I pulled my old paperback copy of Little, Big from the shelf. Tipped into the front is a note reading: “With regards of the publisher and the 7th World Fantasy Convention, October 30-November 1, 1981, Berkeley, California. 13 of 100 copies so offered.” It appears I still own the very convention copy that sparked this memory.)