It is often difficult to review a book that was and still is one of my favorite all-time picture books. I adore everything about Maurice Sendak's Where the Wild Things Are, from the brilliant text to the expressive accompanying illustrations. And I also with all my heart appreciate the message the author promotes here, a message of unconditional love, a message that even if one misbehaves, there will be supper waiting on the table (Max does get sent to his room, but no matter how much he has misbehaved, his mother will always love him and cherish him). Of course, that particular message is only one of many. As essential as the concept of universal love is the philosophy, is the attitude that children's emotions and tantrums are to be taken seriously and not ever simply dismissed. Max might be seen and chastised as a "wild thing" by his mother, but his emotions, his actions are described as an integral part of his being, maybe not quite appropriate, but also not completely inappropriate, rather as a living, breathing part of Max's being. And it is these emotions, these feelings that are the impetus to Max's adventures in the realm of the Wild Things. However, once Max's emotions have been allowed and have flourished to the maximum, he retreats from the realm of the Wild Things and is happy to return home to his room, his waiting supper and his mother's love.
I guess I should really mention that one of my more recent rereads of Where the Wild Things Are (in 2011 for the Picture Book Club in the Children's Literature Group) was the first time I had actually read this book in English. Prior to 2011, I had only ever read it in German translation, and I have to admit that I actually like the translated German version somewhat better than the original English. For those who know me, this is quite a contrary attitude, as I am as a rule very much in favour of original texts and keeping any translated narratives as close to the original as possible. In this particular case, I think that I appreciate the German translation more because it is the narrative that I had repeatedly read to me when I was a child, that I later read for myself (and in 2005 read to my young nieces). The German translation of Where the Wild Things Are therefore has a nostalgic hold on me that the Maurice Sendak's original text, no matter how ingenious, not matter that it is the master, the primordial, will simply never have (and for me, the ultimate version of this book will always, always be the German translation, Wo Die Wilden Kerle Wohnen.