This spring sees the publication of a 25th anniversary edition of a book first published in 1981. Which, of course, would put the book in the public domain for 28 years, but that isn't a mistake. It's typical of the quirky charm, ethereal atmosphere and somewhat blurred reality of John Crowley's ambitious novel Little, Big, one of the most under-rated classics of recent years.
Little, Big is one of those sprawling, dream-like fantasy novels that has very British sensibilities but, paradoxically, it takes the Americans to do really well. Into this category I'd also put Mark Helprin's fantastical history of a mythical early 20th-century New York, Winter's Tale.
Like a One Hundred Years of Solitude set in New England, Little, Big spans several generations of the Drinkwater family and their relationship with the world of faerie. The concept is rescued from tweeness by author Crowley's dazzling feats of aerobatics with the English language, which at first – especially in my tightly-typeset Methuen edition – take a bit of getting used to but, ultimately, draw you in and trap you with their beauty, not unlike the fabled world of faery itself.
The esteemed literary critic Harold Bloom called Little, Big "a neglected masterpiece. The closest achievement we have to the Alice stories of Lewis Carroll", and the vast novel does have an almost soporific, Wonderland quality to it – best read on lazy days in dappled sunshine.
When I first read Little, Big, many years ago, I didn't know anything about the author and, this being the land before the internet, didn't bother to find out. Such is the timeless quality of the writing, I think I subconsciously assumed the book was the product of some other epoch, before mine, and the author was long gone to dust.
I was a little surprised, then, to realise only recently that Crowley was actually born in 1942 and not only still going strong, but blogging healthily as well. His online journal isn't, as I'd imagined, the ponderous musings of a man with one foot in the faerie lands, but an entertaining romp about getting busted for speeding in Massachusetts and linking to salon.com.
Although the recipient of a World Fantasy award for best novel, Little, Big, in its silver jubilee year (give or take), is not being trumpeted by the publishing mainstream. Instead, the marking of its anniversary falls to the tiny Incunabula press of Seattle, which is releasing several editions of the book this spring.
The company has worked closely with Crowley to come up with an ultimate edition more fitting with his original vision; the company's website says that the first publication of the book, while sumptuous, was not quite right: "Its sensibility is late Victorian, whereas Crowley's design conception for the book has always been art nouveau."
Also slightly unorthodox is the way in which the new edition of Little, Big is being produced – as a subscription-only edition, with fans putting their money up front.
Incunabala's Ron Drummond says: "This is actually a very traditional approach. In 1795, the 24-year-old Beethoven convinced hundreds of aristocratic fans of his piano playing to subscribe in advance to the publication of his official compositional debut: the Three Piano Trios, Opus 1. They bought copies up front, from which monies were then used to pay for the engraving and printing of the trios."
It would be nice if Little, Big could get a wider audience so many years down the line, and I'm sure its otherworldly feel and journey from indistinct past to potential, dystopian future would find a ready market today. But, perhaps, like the world of faerie which Crowley so expertly unveils, Little, Big is at its best when only half-glimpsed by the busy waking world.
