Michael Crichton, RIP

Not a good couple of months for mystery/thriller writers (or their fans), I've got to say. First James Crumley, then Tony Hillerman, and now Michael Crichton. Oddly enough, my first Crichton wasn't one of his thrillers, but his non-fiction collection, Travels, which I read just after my senior year of high school. It absolutely fascinated me, and almost made me wish I was pursuing a life of medicine (despite the fact that the sight of blood makes me dizzy) and/or traveling the world instead of wasting my time pursuing an English degree. I was a fan of Jurassic Park before the movies, and have my review from the La Salle Collegian to prove it. I also remember being embarrased when the father of a friend of mine pointed out that the author's last name was pronounced "cry-ton," not "crick-tin."

Last night I picked up Zero Cool, a Hard Case reprint of a early Crichton novel (published under the name John Lange) and was again knocked out by how good Crichton was so early in his career. I'm pretty sure he wrote these early thrillers while in medical school. (Which is depressing to a guy who has nothing but a bunch of partial manuscripts to show for his undergrad years.)

I'm sad that we're not going to be seeing any new Crichton books, but grateful for the ones we have. I wonder how Travels holds up, nearly 20 years later...