Where the Wondrous Things Are

There are books that are classics. That everyone knows are classics. And sometimes you have to wonder if you read the book only because of that. Or because you have a sense of nostalgia about the book from your own childhood. Or simply because the movie is out and you remember having heard of the book and figure now is a good time to introduce your child to it.

Well, these reasons are not always bad ones for reading a book, though some books are never as good as you might remember them (I recall a few from my own childhood that would probably make me shudder now). The classic label does not automatically make a book good or likable. And often I tend toward feeling these books are "good for you" --sort of like vitamins or spinach.

But sometimes a book is just . . . magic. I don't know how else to explain it. Where the Wild Things Are by Maurice Sendak first crossed my path as a four year old attending picture book read-aloud at my local library. I remember sitting in that slightly darkened room listening to the story with fascination and curiosity--I'd never heard anything like it. I can honestly say I've still never heard anything like it. Since then, I've encountered many Sendak books and some of them have delighted me, shocked me or amused me. And some have puzzled me or just been too odd for me to like at all. But this one book, this simple picture book is a shining gem that never grows dull. No matter how many years pass, how many decades of children later, I see the same wonder in faces as I read. I find that children who won't sit still and listen to any other book, will sit with rapt interest as I read this story of Max and his journey.

I've gone over this book with my children's lit courses and read articles that comment on the controversial nature of the story and Max's behavior. You would think this book wouldn't work. Sentences run on from one page to another. The pictures start small and gradually become larger and stranger. The Wild things should be frightening to youngsters and the words are odd, the phrases strange. There is something "wild" about the book itself. And maybe that's part of the magic. The cadence of the words as they move from page to page, the exotic spice of a "wild rumpus". The world of the imagination growing to take over the entire page until there is no room for words, only the creatures themselves. And then Max slowly cycles back to where he wishes to be a boy and not a wild thing once more. I'm sure dozens of papers have been written on this book. I know this book has been challenged by teachers and parents for its themes and images. But at the end of the day, the best argument I can give you is that the children love it. They watch and they listen and they'll ask for the story again.

As a child I loved the part when the Wild Things roar their terrible roars, and gnash their terrible teeth. Since I became an adult, I have to admit that perhaps my favorite part of the story is the line: "Then from all around far away across the world he smelled good things to eat." I love to say it and hear the words spill out in sound. I can't explain the appeal entirely, only that it exists. And, like the Mona Lisa, Beethoven's Ninth Symphony, the Sistine Chapel, it is a work of art that is singular and magnificent. And wonder of wonders, it is a picture book that we can share with our sons are daughters.

Today my son continued the magic when for the first time he brought me a book and looked up at me expectantly, waiting for me to read to him. Up until now a book has been an object to chew or throw, or simply moving pages to turn as swiftly as possible. But this time, I sat with him cuddled on my lap, book in front of us. And I opened the book to begin with the familiar words I've read a hundred times. "The night Max wore his wolf suit and made mischief of one kind . . ." I will treasure these days, this book, this sharing. Today, tomorrow, and for a long time to come.

Happy Reading! ^_^ Shanshad

Where the Wild Things are