Jurassic Park by Michael Crichton

Aside from pop-up books and Dr. Seuss, Michael Crichton's Jurassic Park is one of the first books I remember reading. Though I've since replaced it on my shelf, somewhere at home I still have the yellowed, wonderful-smelling dog-earred copy that my grandfather gave me to read. I can't begin to speculate how much I actually understood of the novel as a seven or eight year-old, but I'm proud of my younger self for having powered through it. There was something about this novel that drew me to it when I was younger. I mean, I was naturally one of those nerdy kids who is obsessed with dinosaurs. I can't remember if that was in direct response to the film adaptation by Steven Spielberg or whether it was simply amplified by it. Either way, this book will always have a special place in my heart simply because it jump-started my life-long obsession with fiction. I used to do my own illustrated adaptations of the film (or novel - let's face it - I was seven and even I probably didn't know which one was which). I even used to run around on recess pretending to be a dinosaur.

So it's natural that I was a bit nervous reading this book again after so many years. My tastes have changed and I've gotten about a decade-plus of reading and education in between now and then, so I was wondering how it would hold up. After all, Crichton's work isn't exactly Pulitzer Prize-winning, but it certainly isn't what I like to call "grocery store magazine aisle" material. Not surprisingly, I still enjoyed the book thoroughly. Partly because reading about dinosaurs is still sadly appealing to the large part of me that hasn't grown up, but also because Crichton's writing style contains much to be admired even as an adult educated in film and literature.

As I discussed in my review of the Stand, it bothers me when science fiction/fantasy makes absolutely no effort to explain itself. Crichton goes to great lengths to make sure that the fantastical elements in his novels, while not technically or scientifically feasible, are at least plausible within the confines of both the story and the mind of a reader not educated in complex scientific theory. He's also a fan of the "false document" literary technique, so there are lots of fabricated but still interesting scientific theories going on in the story, though this particular technique gets used much more in Eaters of the Dead, a novel by Crichton that I read earlier this year (and will review later).

I have few negative criticisms of the book. There are times when it gets a little preachy, particularly when Ian Malcolm (try not to picture Jeff Goldblum while you're reading) serves as the moral mouthpiece of the author, going on page-long rants about the dangers of unchecked science. While that is an admirable and understandable viewpoint to have, it just comes off as a little ham-fisted when coming from the mouth of character who is in a state of delirium. The "unchecked science" theme really gets pounded in hard and could have been a bit more subtle. The novel, at 399 pages, reads rather quickly - though as a person with a stack of books to read, this is actually a plus.

I'll be reviewing some of his novels later, but this one is still one of my favorites. I plan to have my children read it someday in the hopes that they'll be as inspired as I was to delve into reading.