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Where the Wild Things Are

A while ago, a friend recommended "Wild Things," by Sieruta et al. (Not to be confused with "Wild Things," by Bruce Handy, also great.)

In these COVID days, I have great swaths of time to make my way through Sieruta's chatty and fun history of children's lit. Sieruta picks the things you really want to hear about: censorship, LGBT issues, death in picture books, depictions of sex.

Of course there's a long section on gay contributions to children's lit, and this taught me a fair amount. For example: Not only were Lobel and Marshall on good terms, but Marshall also gave the eulogy at Lobel's funeral. Marshall alluded to the serious critical studies that would surely pop up around Lobel's work; as of now, there is only one such study.

Marshall could be just as naughty as George and Martha; once, at a dinner, he spotted his nemesis, noted she had slipped her feet out of diamond-encrusted heels, then somehow made off with one of the heels in his own messenger bag. That was James Marshall.

The book has a touching passage on James Howe, who married a woman, became widower-ed, married another woman, then finally came out of the closet. Howe's "Totally Joe," about a cheerfully gay tween protagonist, imagines the early life that Howe would have wanted for himself.

It's also diverting to consider the hysteria around "Where the Wild Things Are"; one psychologist, who hadn't read the book, worried that the depiction of an adult withholding dinner from a child could seriously scar sensitive readers. (I very much like that the mom has great anger in this book, as well as the child, and while Max is off mastering his anger in a fantastical land, Mom is wrestling with anger as well; Mom ultimately leaves dinner for her child.)

The book is just three avid readers collecting their favorite bits of gossip. When someone is writing about an object of passion, whatever the object, then you want to read along. That's what you get with "Wild Things." I'm glad I finally picked up the book.
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