I didn't mention the excerpt of Dave Egger's novelization of his screenplay adaptation of Maurice Sendak's Where The Wild Things Are which ran in the New Yorker last week, mostly because I barely managed to read the magazine's publicist's email "tip," never mind the piece itself.
Fortunately or, uh, not, "Max at Sea" is the subject of a fiercely awesome dialogue/IM transcript between The Awl's in-house clevergay Socrates Choire Sicha and media/lit crit/ed/dad Tom Scocca:
Choire Sicha: There is actually a significant difference between the Sendak book and this story, plotwise, also?After all their talk of Jim Carrey/Mike Myers and the cinematic desecration of Dr. Seuss, I'm getting nervous for the movie again, which is not to say it's not entertaining as hell.
Tom Scocca: Besides that the latter rambles on forever?
Choire Sicha: They do have totally different endings.
Tom Scocca: Only because Eggers runs out of room after nine pages, which has gotten him as far as Maurice Sendak got in 184 words.
Tom Scocca: Sendak: "And now," cried Max, "let the wild rumpus start."
Tom Scocca: Eggers: Blah blah blah blah the beasts gathered around blah blah blah Max understood that he was supposed to say something blah blah blah "Let the wild rumpus begin!"
Tom Scocca: I would say that the difference between that crisp "start" and Eggers' flaccid "begin" defines everything that could be said about the literary gap between the two, except I am also fixated on "understood that he was supposed to say something," which is essentially the epigram and epitaph for the literary imagination of Dave Eggers.
The Shadow Editors: Hands Off That Rumpus, Dave Eggers! [theawl.com]
Fiction | "Max at Sea" by Dave Eggers [newyorker.com]