Maurice Sendak died this morning. He was 83. On one hand, I think "Well, 83 is a good run." But, seeing as how I'm apprehensive about 30 and beyond, I could see how 83 would not be enough. He had complications from a stroke, according to the New York Times.
Without reserve, I can say that Sendak's books are splendid. His illustrations are amazing, and the stories more than just fluff to keep your five year old occupied. There's a depth to them that makes some adults uncomfortable, and that kids seem to love, because for once, somebody's taking them seriously.
Maurice Sendak apparently lived alone after his partner of fifty years died, but for a German Shepherd. His most recent one that I've seen mentioned is named Herman, after Herman Melville, and I'm pretty sure most, if not all, of his German Shepherds came from the Monks of New Skete.
I do hope that wherever is is Sendak has gone, he's still able to do the things he loves, with whoever he misses that has gone before. Because that's what Heaven ought to be, right?