John Crowley writes among us

1840s Still Life With Flowers

John Crowley is one of the few people who can get me to glance over the side of the cliff and wonder if the jump really is the best part. Even if I never do take the leap, Crowley is still the most intriguing guide to have along for the careful walk along the crumbling path across the mountain’s face. My favorite book, “Little, Big” is what I imagine, poorly, to be what absinthe must be like.

And the man who wrote it has a fucking blog.

He writes. He’s alive somewhere right now. He’s peeling an orange, or standing frozen in thought in a hallway, wondering why he went upstairs or he’s just loading a dishwasher or sealing up the windows for winter. But he thinks and then types, just like the rest of us.

I believe he exists not just a few inches above the ground the rest of us are clomping on and so I am a little disappointed that he stoops to blog.

But today is his birthday and I found the blog today.

Born in Kentucky, raised on some other plane. He is my hero with big bulging brains. And whoever told me to read “Little, Big” is my second hero.

For his birthday, I took a small leap and paid $300 for an upcoming republication of “Little, Big.” It’ll be signed, with a new forward by Harold Bloom, and illustrations much more akin to Crowley’s vision and it will be limited, but it’s the same book and I love the words so much, I sort of like reliving the experience of buying the book for the first time and reading it anew.

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