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  • I don't know if Maurice was being morose, or hopelessly, ontologically, gay, or what exactly drove him to confide in me, when he said, " I don't know why g-d would present me with such a gift with children, and then take away any chance of having my own."

    He was obviously alluding to his own homosexuality, but at a time when that was not the wisest confession to make to a young and ambitious television executive. It wasn't the Mad Men era, but not too far off either. The revelation might have ruined him just as certainly as it would Paul Reubens in the not-too-distant-future.

    John Williams had come and gone. The Wild Things premiere was complete and sublime. We all left St. Paul/Minneapolis and the Wild Things Opera, thoroughly infatuated with the Ordway Theater, the Walker Museum, Oliver Knussen, Maurice Sendak, and most specifically, Max herself: King of the Wild Rumpus, and one of the most exquisite examples of essential muliebrity I would ever know in my entire life. I arrived there with the hopes of delivering Sendak to CBS, and left wildly, passionately, and forever in the thrall of one of his most intoxicating creations: Not Max, per se, not even Maurice, but she who would portray his enfant terrible to voluptuary perfection.
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