I have an odd confession to make, even odder in that I’m making it on the day of Maurice Sendak’s death. I didn’t like Where the Wild Things Are as a child. I didn’t want anything to do with Max, and the story was somehow…unsavory. I read it, but it never took a place in my heart the way so many books have over my life.
From where I stand now, not liking Max is perfectly understandable. He is everything that is least likable about small children: egotistical, demanding, pointlessly cruel. There isn’t much to like.
Still, that isn’t why the book left me cold. No, that happened because it just flat-out confused me. [Read more…]