Maurice Sendak is a genius in that he knew what his audience wanted and gave it to them.
As much as some children may quail at the thought of monsters, what little kid wouldn't want to sail away from hom and find himself king of a bevy of ferocious beasts, set to ply to his every whim and powerless to stop him from leaving when his anger was spent and his supper lay waiting.
I remember reading "Where the Wild Things Are" as a kid, and wanting to start a wild rumpus of my own. Along with Crockett Johnson's "The Purple Crayon," this was the book I most wanted to re-enact, for real, and prayed nightly that my room would transform itself into a forest with that eerie moon peering at me through the branches.
That is what vivid writing does -- it skips the brain and goes right to the soul.
I hope Mr. Sendak, wherever he is now, is on his own wild rumpus. But comforted knowing that his supper is waiting. And still hot.
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