John Crowley has died — Crooked Timber

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John Crowley has died

by Henry Farrell on August 9, 2026

According to various sources, John Crowley has died. This probably means something to many of you: Crooked Timber readers are not a random draw even on the population of highly literate people. Those of you who don’t know who John Crowley was will likely have been indirectly affected by his work. If you read at all in the space where science fiction and fantasy meet literature, you’ll almost certainly have read someone who knew his books, and very likely loved them. Susanna Clarke said in her long ago Crooked Timber seminar that she too had read Little, Big, and I think that it shows. Her most recent book, Piranesi, draws on Borges’ Library of Babel, but I suspect that it was influenced too by the memory palaces that Crowley built on foundations laid by Dame Frances Yates.Ursula Le Guin described Little, Big as “a book that all by itself calls for a redefinition of fantasy.” As James Hynes described Little, Big in the Boston Review.

it is a long, gorgeously written, picaresque family saga, in the last fifty pages of which all the major characters, with one heartbreaking exception, turn into fairies. I’ve read Little, Big four times now, and wept shamelessly each time over those last, extraordinary fifty pages, and over the years have purchased and given away fifteen copies of it (when I could find it–it is inconsistently in print). When “You’ll love this” isn’t recommendation enough, I have proceeded to claim (as I’m claiming here) that Little, Big is an Important American Novel that bears comparison to such works as One Hundred Years of Solitude and Nabokov’s Ada.

Me too, on the tears, the giveaways, and the importance. Every time I see a copy anywhere, I buy it, later to press upon some unsuspecting person who seems a likely prospect. I could keep going. Kim Stanley Robinson admires Crowley’s non-f/sf book about Roosevelt’s dream of industrial America, Four Freedoms. Francis Spufford’s Nonesuch owes nearly as much to Crowley as it does to Narnia, and at one point practically quotes the thesis of Crowley’s extraordinary long story, “Great Work of Time.”

I don’t mourn Crowley because of his influence on others, but because of how his writing shaped me. I mention his work often in my own writing, but have never talked about it in its own right. What Crowley wrote is too deeply and intimately entwined with my sense of my own self to to be able to view it from the outside.

When I think about Little, Big, I remember being twenty-one, walking up the hill from work to my family’s house in a small town in Tipperary in Ireland. I had bounced off the book the first time I read it, but for some reason felt pulled back to try again, and read and re-read it, falling in love with it as I have never fallen in love with a book before or since. Walking up the road on a temperate summer afternoon, thinking about the book and how it folded back into the world and itself, felt like a quiet explosion of joy in my chest.

When I think about Aegypt, it is a memory from a year earlier, taking a long train ride from New York to Toronto to visit friends, and rounding a bend to see what was obviously the original for Butterman’s castle. Decades later, when I read “This Is Our Town,” collected in the small Totalitopia volume, it seemed to me a version of my own childhood, transplanted to a small American town; an ordinary Catholic boyhood, whose suffusions of the supernatural painstakingly captured with the apparatus of the fantasy genre.

I got to know Crowley very slightly via email, as he wrote his final book, Flint and Mirror, which was set in Ireland before and during Hugh O’Neill’s rebellion. It was a bitter war. My and Maria’s ancestor Turloch Breasalach was a contender against Hugh for the O’Neillship. Our family tree records that out of twelve sons that Turloch Breasalach had alive at the beginning of the Elizabethan wars, only three were surviving at the end of it. Crowley wanted to use the book to talk about colonialism. The brutal war and its aftermath set some of the parameters for what Britain did later in other parts of the world. John Dee, who appeared in Flint and Mirror as well as several other Crowley novels, was not just a wizard but an imperial propagandist.

There’s a single word in Flint and Mirror that I helped shape; a tiny return for the way in which Crowley’s work shaped me. The wave that sinks a ship in the last part of the book is the third wave, because in Donegal folklore, the third wave was the fairy wave. I passed that on to Crowley from a story that my and Maria’s grandaunt Maire MacNeill translated from Irish, “The Knife Against the Wave.” Since Crowley loved fairytales as well as writing them, here is that one. I will miss his writing very much.

The Knife Against the Wave

Long ago a fine able handsome man named Séimín Rua was living at Baile Mór. He and his...