Word: crichton
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Dates: during 1990-1999
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This week Crichton, 51, is publishing his 24th book, Disclosure (Knopf; $24; first printing: 750,000 copies). It is about sexual harassment; a female executive virtually manhandles a subordinate. The woman, scorned, ignores the facts and charges the man with stepping over the line. He fights back. Crichton says he got the idea from a friend, presumably male, who told him about an incident in the workplace. That was the seed, and then Crichton cogitated, watered it as you would a Ficus, which seems to be his method. The result is provocative, which seems to be his pattern. To read...
...novel was written in the tidy bungalow in Santa Monica, California. Crichton uses the place as an office; his home, his wife (the fourth) and his child (the first) are a mile and a half away. In his office sits the author, a student, a thinker, possessed of restless intelligence. He is the only person this person has ever interviewed whose answer to a question was "I don't know." That's inspired...
...catch a sense of Crichton, one must summon other failed physicians who ^ turned to fiction, though failed, perhaps, is the wrong word. Conan Doyle. More recently, Walker Percy. In The Moviegoer, Percy wrote of "the search." What's the search? Well, you poke about the neighborhood and don't miss a trick. Somehow, it all has to do with novelists trained in the field of science, men like Crichton who found science too unimaginative...
...years Crichton responded by traveling like a tramp, the anthropologist in him exploring exotic cultures hard to reach. From Malaysia to Pakistan to an ascent of Kilimanjaro to a descent with South Pacific sharks, literally, he roamed. Along the way he was a spiritual pilgrim as well, exploring psychic phenomena the scientist within him assessed carefully but many times failed to discredit. He says he bent spoons, visited a past gladiatorial life in Rome, had his aura fluffed as you would a poodle. Once, he found himself in the desert conversing with a cactus, which he insulted, only to feel...
...Will you forgive me?" Crichton asked the cactus. "No answer. Hardball from the cactus...