Sendak's defiantly run-on sentences-one of his trademarks-lend the perfect touch of stream of consciousness to the tale, which floats between the land of dreams and a child's imagination. The wild things-with their mismatched parts and giant eyes-manage somehow to be scary-looking without ever really being scary at times they're downright hilarious. Sendak's color illustrations (perhaps his finest) are beautiful, and each turn of the page brings the discovery of a new wonder. Fortuitously, a forest grows in his room, allowing his wild rampage to continue unimpaired.
Max dons his wolf suit in pursuit of some mischief and gets sent to bed without supper. If you disagree, then it's been too long since you've attended a wild rumpus. Where the Wild Things Are is one of those truly rare books that can be enjoyed equally by a child and a grown-up.
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