Yesterday, I bought a bright, shiny, shrinkwrapped copy of The Wild Things, Dave Eggers’s novelization of Where The Wild Things Are, the book and the movie. I’ve only read the first four chapters, but they are so incredibly good.
At 4:30 he was back in the cool comfort of his fort, peering through the peephole, watching for any movement at his house. No, he wasn’t cold. One might think that a boy who was out in the snow for so long would get cold, but Max was not. He was warm, partly because he had on many layers, and partly because boys who are part wolf and part wind do not get cold.
Big brother Erich, who was in town for the weekend, asked me to read it and give him some feedback about it because he thinks it might be a good book to teach his students, once he has a coveted teaching position. I think it will work, not just because so far it’s just a really incredible book but also because, at one point in time, Erich was this kid: