I know I read Where the Wild Things Are when I was younger, but I don’t remember that it was one of my favorites. With news of Maurice Sendak’s death of complications from a stroke yesterday, I had cause to read his most famous book again. It’s the story of a boisterous boy, Max, who is sent to bed without his supper. His room becomes a forest, and a private boat comes to take Max away: “And he sailed off through night and day and in and out of weeks and almost over a year to where the wild things are.” He manages to tame the wild things but soon grows lonely and returns home “to be where someone loved him best of all.” Sendak’s cross-hatch illustrations are magical, and his language is lyrical. It was a pleasure to be immersed in his world again, a world that children and adults love. A world that his readers want to see for themselves, evidenced by a letter one 8-year-old boy wrote to the author: “Dear Mr. Sendak, How much does it cost to get to where the wild things are? If it is not expensive, my sister and I would like to spend the summer there.” Thank you, Mr. Sendak, for letting us explore those worlds with you.
Let the Wild Rumpus Start