Where the Wild Things Are

in Maurice Sendak's head or on my finger-tips, it seems we often don't value our strengths or acknowledge our successes.

To read that Mr. Sendak, the remarkable man of children's literature doubts himself almost gives me courage--but that almost gets caught in my throat.

It is also difficult to image that the author is 80 years old, and that I won't be at this birthday party at the 92nd Street Y (NYC).

His books, like Allen's movies, were tiny mirrors into my own childhood, writings and visual images that both awakened memories long lost but reborn with their charm, wit and humour.

I grew up you see, like so many others, in Brooklyn, where trees grew, and Really Rosie could dance in an open cellar door to the delight of her friends. I grew up in a Brooklyn that sheltered Coney Island, the Ferris Wheel, the Cyclone and the imagination.

The sand under our feet on Beach 2, Nathan's hotdogs, good neighbourhood schools, bicycles, and huge sour pickles even in the morning, were the making of many of my dreams, and some of my reality.

Thank you Maurice Sendak and happy belated birthday.