Where the Wild Things Areby Maurice Sendak

The night Max wore his wolf suit and made mischief of one kind

and another

his mother called him "WILD THING!"

and Max said "I'LL EAT YOU UP!"

so he was sent to bed without eating anything.

That very night in Max's room a forest grew

and grew...

and grew until his ceiling hung with vines

and the walls became the world all around

and an ocean tumbled by with a private float for Max

and he sailed off through night and day

and in and out of weeks

and almost over a year

to where the wild things are.

And when he came to the place where the wild things are

they roared their terrible roars and gnashed their therrible teeth

and rolled their terrible eyes and showed their terrible claws

till Max said "BE STILL!"

and tamed them with the magic trick

of staring into all their yellow eyes without blinking once

and they were frightened and called him the most wild thing of all

and made him king of all wild things.

"And now," cried Max, "let the wild rumpus start!"

"Now stop!" Max said and sent the wild whings off to bed

without their supper. And Max the king of all wild things was lonely

and wanted to be where someone loved him best of all.

Then all around from far away across the world

he smelled good things to eat

so he gave up being king of where the wild things are.

But the wild things cried, "Oh please don't go-

we'll eat you up-we love you so!"

And Max said, "No!"

The wild things roared their terrible roars and gnashed their terrible teeth

and rolled their terrible eyes and showed their terrible claws

but Max stepped into his private boat and waved good-bye

and sailed back over a year

and in and out of weeks

and through a day

and into the night of his very own room

where he found his supper waiting for him

and it was still hot.

¿Es normal sentirse triste en una tarde tan oscura? El sol apenas se fue y ninguna estrella se asoma todavía cuando ya han pasado de ida y vuelta varias veces todos aquellos eventos que recuerdo como errores, como decisiones equivocadas que hubiera sido mejor no tomar, como meteduras de pata que, aparte de joder el pedacito de vida propio de su dominio, terminaron también metiéndose hasta mucho tiempo después, hasta ahora que otra vez aparecen repentinamente en forma de cascada. No hay tiempo de respirar entre uno y otro, los recuerdos llegan sin parar. Y de la misma manera que yo aquí, tirado en la cama sin esperanza ni consuelo, debo de parecer absurdo a los ojos de cualquier tercero, a mí mismo me parece idiota la manera en cómo comenzó todo esto.

Pero así sucede con las grandes, medianas y pequeñas cosas, y hasta con las insignificantes. Trascendentes o inútiles, generalmente todas tienen el mismo comienzo incierto que podría rastrearse hasta una contingencia cotidiana que, por cotidiana, casi siempre pasa inadvertida, disfrazada como hábito o rutina, y que a veces da la impresión de que sólo yo percibo. Como fuera, todo esto comenzó de una manera idiota y el punto es que se ha convertido en desastre. No sé cómo, no sé por qué, y mucho menos entiendo qué sería bueno hacer. Me siento perdido, como un cavernícola desorientado esforzándose en vano por comprender algo del mundo que le rodea y en el que ha gastado la totalidad de su vida, sin conseguir resultados.