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A Reading by John Crowley
The winner of the World Fantasy Award reads from new fiction
Monday, November 14, 2016
2:30 pm EST/GMT-5
Campus Center, Weis Cinema
 [A Reading by John Crowley] The World Fantasy Award–winning author of Little, Big and the Ægypt series reads from his fiction at 2:30 p.m. on Monday, November 14th, 2016, in Weis Cinema, Bertelsmann Campus Center. Sponsored by the Innovative Contemporary Fiction Reading Series, introduced by Bradford Morrow, and followed by a Q&A, the reading is free and open to the public; no tickets or reservations are required.

PRAISE FOR JOHN CROWLEY

"Little, Big is a book that all by itself calls for a redefinition of fantasy." —Ursula K. Le Guin

"John Crowley writes sentences of such coruscating magnificence that the rest of the English language has fallen in love with them. I once knew an adverbial clause who was so infatuated with the linguistic beauty of Little, Big that the poor creature pined away into a comma." —James Morrow

"Crowley is generous, obsessed, fascinating, gripping. Really, I think Crowley is so good that he has left everybody else in the dust." —Peter Straub

"Dæmonomania is a prophecy of America entering the authentic new age: Magical, potentially destructive, and utterly uncanny." —Harold Bloom

"John Crowley is an abundantly gifted writer, a scholar whose passion for history is matched by his ability to write a graceful sentence." —New York Times Book Review

"Ambitious, dazzling, strangely moving. Haunting. Gripping. Astonishing." —Washington Post Book World

Contact: Micaela Morrissette, [email protected], 845-758-7054

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In Print

Vol. 79
Onword
Fall 2022
Edited by Bradford Morrow

Online

November 30, 2022
Alice was actually a labeler and not a pickler. Still, she knew what Mr. H’s picklers did was nothing like her grandmother’s pickling, sweaty and stained and clouded by hot vinegar steam, shoveling already rotting vegetables into their boiling bath like some kind of unbelieving prayer. Everyone winced when eating what came out of her grandmother’s pickle jars. Mr. H’s were made of faceted clear glass, and the bobbing pickles inside were a bright, inviting candy-green. To look at one was to feel it snip crisply between your teeth, to set your mouth watering. Alice was midwife to that salivary burst. That was what she dressed up for. Today it mattered even more than usual.
November 23, 2022
I SAW ALL THE STRANGENESS IMMEDIATELY,

I saw it in this very particular slide of swell’s,
the sylphspun silk of the sylph, she sideways,
her garage is paradise in masque, her sweep
is saturn, szturn im sturm & string, install’d
in the area’s traverse. he follows that lucky
old sun, the gesture of her lining and loose
knot, and pulls herself through burns and a
dry wash and some soft lead. in discorporate
minerals, or in the sharing of the black sleek
sharing with the wild man in her soft shoes,
all over the panes of the various sworld and
out into the superhighway of bywater, hard
by marigny. to flow through one to another
indetermination, the posture of their brush
must be immaculate fray, all them, all they.
November 16, 2022
Day Book

One wants to grasp a latch.
The broken star, the cellophane.
One suffers if untethered from
the pain that brought a lock.
Across the way the husband tends his teeth.
The wife redresses, parted from her paper.
To emblemize, to separate the word
grief reaches. Grief reaches, unseduced.