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My Son, King of All Wild Things

At least once a day, my 16-year-old son, Danny, comes to me with an open copy of Maurice Sendak’s Where the Wild Things Are and says, “Mom, can you read it?”

It is always opened to a single page, the one where Max sails home. It is night, and Max’s eyes are closed as he travels back to the place “where someone loved him best of all.” The text on the page Danny chooses reads, “and sailed back over a year and in and out of weeks and through a day”. He would be happy to have me read it to him in a sing-song voice a hundred times in a row, but he usually settles for five or six.


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