One day in the 1970s, when I was in my early twenties, I was sitting in a friend's apartment in Montreal, in the throes of a very intense LSD trip. My friend, an education student, said, "Here, tell me what you think of this," and handed me a children's book called Where the Wild Things Are. The fact is that there may be less rewarding ways of being introduced to Maurice Sendak's masterpiece than as an adult on acid. The book was instantly entrancing on many levels. Of course, it still is.