Originally published May 12, 2012
I just learned that Maurice Sendak died this past week. He who created Where the Wild Things Are and other children’s stories was a staple at bedtime when my children were growing up.
The story of Max, who was sent to bed without supper and embarks on an amazing journey but still returns in time for a still-warm meal his mother brings to his bedroom door, abides in my memory. Even if my children have forgotten, I still have copies of this Sendak classic in both English and French on my bookcase. It doesn’t matter that the French retitled it Max and the Maxi-Monsters.
Some said Sendak’s monsters were too awful, ugly, repugnant. But I don’t know a child who didn’t love them. And what did it matter, when Max turns out to be the biggest monster of all? Wouldn’t any child like that role over imaginary demons or haughty parents?
Sendak wrote other children’s stories, but Max was his most beloved character. I choose to believe that the author was writing something autobiographical. So I salute Max and Maurice Sendak and plan to re-read Where the Wild Things Are regularly. Please join me, and we’ll revel in the wild rumpus that is the heart of the story. What better way to remember the author.
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