Remembering Maurice Sendak

"Where the Wild Things Are" author leaves an enduring cultural legacy.

 

The eminent children’s author Maurice Sendak – who died today at 83 - created one of the most beautiful articulations of the fantastical isolation of childhood in recent memory. Published in 1963, Where the Wild Things Are won the Caldecott Medal as the "most distinguished picture book" a year later, and in 1970 Sendak became the first American to win the prestigious Hans Christian Andersen Award for excellence in children’s book illustration.  He’s been called the “Picasso of children’s literature”, an author who defined “a generation” of American children’s experience of literature, as playwright and long-time friend Tony Kushner once put it.

To hunt for Sendak’s legacy is to follow a trail of cultural relics across the decades. There are cheery tributes, lavished praise, Sendak’s own dry, worldly wisdom, lost anecdotes and miles of fan art. Take for instance Terrible Yellow Eyes, a project that ran from 2009 to 2010 and compiled a varied catalogue of Sendak-inspired artwork from over a hundred contributors. There’s the dozens of stories that sit contently in the archives of fanfiction.net, and the graffiti artists who’ve taken their spin on Max’s adventures public. Two years ago, Spike Jonze directed an ambitious screen adaptation of Where the Wild Things Are, and it wasn’t the first. Film versions of the fable have been around since the seventies, as has an opera and a piano concerto.

Sendak’s particular quality was his wry sense of humour and refusal to shy away from intelligent, mature prose in a pedantic genre saturated with morality tales. An author who happened to write books for children he was not, but rather a staunch defender of the honest imperfections of childhood: the darkness, the confusion, the need for escapism. “You cannot write for children. They're much too complicated,” he once asserted.  “You can only write books that are of interest to them. ” Sendak prided himself most on winning over those he wrote for, as evidenced in this endearing anecdote:

“Once a little boy sent me a charming card with a little drawing on it. I loved it. I answer all my children’s letters — sometimes very hastily — but this one I lingered over. I sent him a card and I drew a picture of a Wild Thing on it. I wrote, “Dear Jim: I loved your card.” Then I got a letter back from his mother and she said, “Jim loved your card so much he ate it.” That to me was one of the highest compliments I’ve ever received. He didn’t care that it was an original Maurice Sendak drawing or anything. He saw it, he loved it, he ate it.” (from lost.net

Maurice Sendak with his book 'Where the Wild Things Are' at the International Youth Library in Munich, 9th June 1971. (Photo: Getty Images)

Charlotte Simmonds is a writer and blogger living in London. She was formerly an editorial assistant at the New Statesman. You can follow her on Twitter @thesmallgalleon.

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How Dame Vera Lynn was told to “posh her accent up”

Radio 2’s 100th-birthday tribute reveals how Lynn was forced to change her voice.

“I remember seeing her near an elephant, and this elephant rolled over a bit and she had to get out of the way . . .” Vic Knibb, the vice-chairman of the veterans’ group the Burma Star Association, was one of the thousands of British soldiers serving in the Far East during the Second World War who came across Vera Lynn in the jungle, singing from the back of a Jeep, accompanied by an out-of-tune piano.

Speaking in Radio 2’s celebration of the singer’s 100th birthday, Vera Lynn: the Sweetheart of the United Kingdom (Sunday 19 March, 8pm), Knibb and others recalled what it meant to them that Lynn travelled so far to perform for the so-called Forgotten Army in Burma. Unlike other entertainers, who stayed in Europe or visited only military hospitals in the UK, she deliberately went where few others did – where she felt she was needed by “the boys”.

The programme, which featured a rare interview with Lynn herself, was dominated by clips of her recordings from the Thirties and Forties. We heard frequent extracts from “The White Cliffs of Dover”, “We’ll Meet Again” and “A Nightingale Sang in Berkeley Square”. The contrast between these two voices, separated by more than six decades, was the most arresting thing this otherwise pedestrian documentary had to offer. The now gravelly-voiced centenarian sang, in her youth, with a smooth, effortless-sounding tone and crystal-clear diction. But how did the cockney daughter of a plumber from East Ham end up singing with received pronunciation?

The answer, as ever in Britain, is class. Lynn had no formal musical training, and as she had been performing in working men’s clubs from the age of seven, she was considered closer to a musical-hall crooner than a “proper” singer. But with her small vocal range and flawless self-taught technique, she chose her own songs to suit her voice. The BBC, for which she made her hugely popular radio show Sincerely Yours, requested that she take elocution lessons to “posh her accent up” and even at one point took her show off air for 18 months. “Every­body’s Sweetheart” wasn’t immune from snobbishness, it seems. 

Caroline Crampton is assistant editor of the New Statesman. She writes a weekly podcast column.

This article first appeared in the 23 March 2017 issue of the New Statesman, Trump's permanent revolution