there’s a lovely and moving profile of the divine mr. sendak in today’s times.
he doesn’t think he’s a great artist. he says the honors and accolades he’s received “never penetrated,” and were “like rubber bullets.” and crazily, he’s still looking to make his mark:
“Still, he has the feeling that ‘I will do something yet that is purely for me but will create for someone in the future that passion that Blake and Keats did in me.'”
somehow that’s all really sad to me. like, dude, you created wild things! and max! and the night kitchen! and rosie! and, and, and…. but really, without applying new age cornballness to a rich, complex, beautiful man, i just would feel better about the world if maurice sendak loved himself more.
