Where the Wild Things Are
Like a gremlin crouched in the back of a dim cave, Where the Wild Things Are lay on my cousin's bedroom floor. My cousin was in kindergarden and I was being babysat by my aunt, busy in the kitchen downstairs - might as well have been miles away. The bedroom shades were drawn, the house quiet, the room empty. That book with its-its things in it called to me. I'd never seen anything like it. My books had colorful, happy animals that didn't make me feel this way....what was this feeling? Was this what was known as fear? And what were those things? Were they, maybe, those things called monsters? I'd not fully experienced fear before, perhaps because I'd not put a face on it. I crept closer. Those faces looked mean, ferocious. I stopped in the middle of the room, neither advancing towards the book, nor fleeing. I was terrified...and I loved it! Appendixed!: It's Maurice Sendak's birthday today. (Thanks Google!) If he hadn't died last year, he would be 85 now....85 crusty old years. Right around the time he died NPR was playing archival interviews of him. It was the first time I'd heard him speak. I could've done without the experience. I have nothing against his voice, rather the things that come out of his mouth. The man was curmudgeonly to the core it seems. I can be a bit of a pill myself sometimes, so I should cut him some slack, but I was surprised by his grouchiness. I suppose I always assume children's authors are bright, cheerful sorts. Heck, they write happy little stories about colorful, good-hearted characters that usually come out on top. How could such stuff come from a sourpuss? Well, Sendak was proof that it can. Hm. That's funny. I'm 40 and I'm still learning things from children's lit.