A sad few months for the authors of our collective childhood

First it was Jan Berenstain back in February; now it's Maurice Sendak.

Can't say I was much for the Berenstain Bears back in the day, but I had a copy of Where the Wild Things Are, of course. This explains a good deal about me, I suppose, though I'm not sure why. 

Now reading

Deadline by Mira Grant, largely because it was practically the only 2012 Hugo best novel nominee I could find that isn't currently checked out of a (Chicago Public) library somewhat within the grasp of my greedy little fingers.