Though the moment may lack the inherent gravitas of Harriet Beecher Stowe’s encounter with Abraham Lincoln, or even Elvis Presley’s private audience with Richard Nixon, surely history should reserve a special place for the day in 2005 when Michael Crichton was invited to the White House to meet with George W. Bush. Imagine: the modern era’s leading purveyor of alarmist fiction, seated side by side with Michael Crichton.
Monday, January 08, 2007
I've always thought Michael Crichton was an exceptionally poor writer, slamming out one high-concept book after another. His recent turn towards politicized claptrap has made me like him even less. (It's one thing to imagine dinosaurs reborn; it's another to spin off fantasies to argue against global warming or stem cell research.) Crichton's new book is a genetics-gone-awry nightmare. You can read the first chapter here. But Dave Itzkoff reviews it for the NYTimes and gets off this zinger in the first paragraph: