On my shelf since: A dear friend, who I have since lost touch with, but not because of this, once gifted me a subscription to McSweeney’s. I got this book, another of Eggers’ first editions, and other incredible publications that all piled up and collected dust for years.
My copy’s origin story:
(First Furry Edition, 2009) What a marketing marvel!
Why not until now: I stopped reading Dave Eggers halfway through Staggering Genius and never looked back (until I read Monk of Mokha but we don’t need to talk about that here too).
Review:
And now for the Title Fight: My absolute favorite kids’ book of all time, ever — enough superlatives? — Where the Wild Things Are by Maurice Sendak (obviously) versus one of my least favorite (shallow, immature, obvious), but somehow beloved and prolific authors, Dave Eggers. Slam dunk for me, you’d think, right? Let’s get into it…
And so I first read Eggers’ A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius back in the day (for a former, now-defunct, book group) but didn’t finish (my old bookmark tells me I got to page 175) because I found it all of the things I put in parentheses above. I could see what he was trying to do, but it just screamed 24-year-old Guy! to me and I wasn’t having it. I was maybe 35 at the time and already too world-weary for all that goofy, self-important angst. Thus set in stone both my opinion of Dave Eggers and of memoirs in general (meh, but also wait until you have more distance, people, please — I’m looking at you, Educated!).
And add to that my history with WTWTA: a book I have read and enjoyed my entire life. The first book I could and can recite entirely from memory. A book whose every moment and image is inextricably intertwined with my childhood dreams and inner monologues. The book I trot out and inflict on any small child who will sit still long enough.
And so The Wild Things is a novelization of the beloved children’s story. Eggers wrote an average of 7.8 pages for every page that Sendak wrote. This is roughly 75,000 words to 338 (222:1). (Of those 338 words, 35 are “and,” which begins 40% of the sentences and keeps things clipping along.) The question remains, were all those extra words and pages worth the paper? Honestly, I’m not sure. Now, I have my own childhood dreams and inner monologues (desire for freedom, fantasy, and unconditional love) all mixed up with Dave Eggers’ childhood dreams and inner monologues (exploration of trauma, abandonment, and fear of failure) and it’s making me feel all mixy-uppy. He may have a rich, deep, and imaginative take on the wild things’ interpersonal struggles, but why, with my highly subjective and possibly outdated opinions of him, would I want Dave Eggers’ CD&IM all mixed up with mine?
And to be begrudgingly fair, it’s a well-done book. Well-crafted, quickly paced, mostly not annoying, brave. Not sure how I would have felt if it wasn’t written by Eggers and/or not about WTWTA, but pretty sure I wouldn’t have picked it up in the first place. I’ll need to come back to this after another few years of reading/reciting WTWTA and see how much of Eggers’ version has stuck in my craw. (Finished reading the book April 24, 2026)
Adaptations nobody needs:
- Madeline by Chuck Palahniuk
- Bread and Jam for Francis by Wally Lamb
Payoff (pages I read per stars I gave):
TWT: 288/3 = 96
For reference: WTWTA (37/5 = 7.4) is my all-time high; compared to 530/2 = 265 (all-time low) for HWofSG
(check out my latest update to the graphic organizer page that tries to put this into context)
Misc Ratings (Out of 5):
- Good names for and drama amongst the Wild Things: 4
- Pain it caused me to say anything nice about Eggers, a probably perfectly reasonable human: 5
Bechdel Test: Pretty much Fail
P.S. My most precious copy (of the 4 or so I own) of Where the Wild Things Are is a 25th Anniversary Hardback Edition (1989) inscribed:
“Christmas 1990 For Keiko — Because finally she’s grown-up enough…. All my Love Dad”
Lovely, nostalgic, and wry (I was 21 at the time!), it’s one of the only things I have in my dad’s handwriting that he wrote just for me.
Also well-loved is my copy of a book called Elephant by Byron Barton (First Edition Hardback, 1971). It’s a petite, 29-page — adorably defaced by me — pictures-only story of a girl who loves elephants and, like Max, has a fantasy adventure in the night but is home in time for a show of love and understanding from her parents. This was inscribed:
“To Keiko ~ June 1972 so you can read to yourself. Love from Mommy”
Lovely, maternal, and wry (I was 3 but already reading!), this also is one of the very few things I have from my mom in her handwriting.
It’s a good thing I understand my parents’ sense of humor — it’s also mine, and regularly inflicted on my own children — or I might be a little put out about the views they had of me.
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