When I was nineteen, I bought a paperback copy of John Crowley’s Little, Big in an English bookstore. I had been reading a lot of the Victorian fantasist George MacDonald, and was searching for copies of his fairy tales in the science fiction and fantasy aisle. Though I’d read science fiction and fantasy steadily through childhood, at nineteen I believed (wrongly) that I’d outgrown it. I suffered from the English major’s sense that such...
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