Kids Never Get Pissed At Their Parents.

We're Supposed To Be Civilized. We're Supposed To Go To Work Every Day. We're Supposed To Be Nice To Our Friends And Send Christmas Cards To Our Parents.

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.

I Was Sickly As A Child And Gravitated To Books And Drawing. During My Early Teen Years, I Spent Hundreds Of Hours At My Window, Sketching Neighborhood Children At Play. I Sketched And Listened, And Those Notebooks Became The Fertile Field Of My Work Later On. There Is Not A Book I Have Written Or A Picture I Have Drawn That Does Not, In Some Way, Owe Them Its Existence.

It Was A Very Difficult Time. I Was Working On [umble-ardy] When My Partner And Friend Was Dying Of Cancer. We Set Up A Room In The House To Be Like A Hospital Room. Eugene Died, And Then I Had Bypass Surgery. I Was Doing The Book To Stay Sane While All This Was Going On.

My Life In Brooklyn Was In Constant Danger Because Of My Bad Health.