Next, Michael Crichton.  When I was in 8th grade, I used to gobble up the latest Michael Crichton with the enthusiasm I now reserve for the latest issue of the New York Review of Science Fiction.  I still grab them when I see them at the library, as it's always amusing to see what fear of the moment's potboiler-worthy.  The bad news is that Crichton's writing style's gone downhill at the same time as his quasi-intellectual notes pack the pages. 


It's not quite as bad as State of Fear, but a hefty portion of the novel is barely fictionalized headlines interwoven with thinly developed puppets that walk through the book actualizing press fear.  And there's the usual pretentious afterword by the author warning that his novel could easily become reality if the courts and the genetics companies had their way.  The sad thing is that while I actually agree with his sentiments regarding patent law, I can't get past his shallow characters and evangelical know-it-all attitude.  There are better beach reads this summer.

Read May 2007