Velociraptor With A Quill Pen

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Sendak, who died this week, did not make books for children. He just made books. His linework was elegant, sometimes even cute, but always honest. He was wise, and he never patronised any readers, adult or child. I devoured interviews with Sendak: he was a grumpy, Jewish, brilliant, wise contrarian and he didn’t mellow as he aged. But then, he had never created mellow books. His coming out in 2008, age 80, was a final act of honesty.

Something Sendak once said is the epigraph of my next book. “I remember my own childhood vividly.” he explained. “I knew terrible things. But I knew I mustn’t let adults know I knew. It would scare them.”

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You cannot write for children. They’re much too complicated. You can only write books that are of interest to them.

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My cousin Helen, who is in her 90s now, was in the Warsaw ghetto during World War II. She and a bunch of the girls in the ghetto had to do sewing each day. And if you were found with a book, it was an automatic death penalty. She had gotten hold of a copy of ‘Gone With the Wind’, and she would take three or four hours out of her sleeping time each night to read. And then, during the hour or so when they were sewing the next day, she would tell them all the story. These girls were risking certain death for a story. And when she told me that story herself, it actually made what I do feel more important. Because giving people stories is not a luxury. It’s actually one of the things that you live and die for.