When I decide to write one of these posts, I try to imagine books which are beloved beyond dispute. Above reproach. And is there a book as beloved as Where the Wild Things Are? I couldn't even fabricate an argument against in my mind. But some people can. It turns out that the negative reviews for Where the Wild Things Are are a study in humorlessness. These people must have take the world completely at face value, incapable of nuance or empathy or recalling their own childhoods. The ironic thing is, Max would probably understand them better than the rest of us do, since they are such monsters.
I'm having cutting-and-pasting problems with my computer, so I encourage you to click the link and not enjoy them for yourself.
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