Stephen Owen

Stephen Owen (January 1, 1947 – May 3, 2026) was a man whose life was a testament to curiosity, kindness, and the profound beauty of bridging cultures. As a sinologist, he spent decades immersed in the poetry and philosophy of China, but to those who knew him, he was simply Steve—the uncle who could recite Li Bai at the dinner table, the friend who’d send postcards from his travels with a doodle of a pagoda on the back. His office shelves groaned under the weight of ancient texts and dog-eared paperbacks, and he’d light up explaining how a single line of verse could hold centuries of longing. Steve’s love for his family was as boundless as his intellect. He and his wife, Margaret, shared a marriage built on laughter, late-night debates over tea, and a mutual appreciation for terrible puns. Their children, Emily and David, grew up surrounded by stories—of dynasties and dragons, yes, but also of their father’s own adventures: the time he accidentally joined a tai chi class in Beijing or how he’d stubbornly learn calligraphy strokes until his fingers ached. Even his grandchildren knew “Grandpa Steve’s” voice, warm and animated, reading them *The Analects* like bedtime stories. To his students and colleagues, Steve was a mentor who saw potential where