Michael Crichton
Jurassic Park

On a Pacific island, just a few kilometers from the beaches of Costa Rica, a billionaire has conceived, developed, and brought to life a theme park entirely dedicated to dinosaurs - but the shocking particularity is that the dinosaurs are alive. This is the scenario that unfolds after a few chapters in perhaps the most famous novel by Michael Crichton, "Jurassic Park." This past November 4th, Crichton passed away in his Los Angeles home, struck down by cancer of which few, aside from his family, were aware. He was sixty-six years old and had just over a year ago released "Next," a book entirely devoted to new ethical questions related to gene manipulation.

Science, the challenges of researchers, and the connections of new discoveries with our most steadfast ethical and moral principles have always been the favored subjects of this writer who, through four decades, has enchanted, educated, and shaped the minds of millions of readers (150, to be precise). I am among them. My partnership with this author began when I was twelve; I can safely say that I wouldn't be who I am today if it weren't for Michael Crichton. Quantifying all that this author has given me would be difficult; it is also a private affair that I am not called upon to do on a review site. What I can do to honor his memory is to recommend to everyone, all those who call themselves readers, all those who may not consider themselves thinkers but are interested in knowing the world, its dynamics, the paths that mankind might take in the future, thanks perhaps to science, to read Crichton's texts. Not because they are vibrant coming-of-age novels, not because they are books filled with existential reflections (although perhaps "Travels," the autobiography dated 1987, can be considered a book of experiences and reflections), but because they are works that depict what the world is today, in its deepest drifts, in its complex dynamics, in the pressing and subtle influence of technology, to say it with Heidegger - I believe he would have appreciated it.

I was talking about "Jurassic Park." Superficial critics who may have only seen Spielberg's movie (beautiful, of course, but the book is another thing entirely) probably coexist with the idea that the novel behind it is a tasty adventure book, but nothing more. They will say: "Behind the ingenious invention of dinosaur cloning methodologies there isn't much more." Nothing could be more wrong. This novel outlines the trajectories of modern science, anticipating the striking contemporary cases of ethical issues connected with cloning, control over life, and the power that technology gives to man, an unregulated power born for purely economic purposes that stratifies in society with no one attempting to oppose it, or to give rise to the most careful and thorough, documented reflection possible. Crichton expands his masterful adrenaline scenarios and his ever-strong and engaging images with monologues (usually embodied in the character of mathematician Ian Malcolm) which represent the conceptual core of the novel, its true raison d'être. Thus, mathematics, philosophy, biology, and history intertwine in a reflection that takes its cue from the disaster that unfolds in the park - we all know: the dinosaurs escape their cages, it is discovered that they can reproduce even though they were all born of the same sex, and in a short time human control is supplanted by the wild and unbridled force of nature - to question the position of man in the world, the biological destiny of life, and the deep dynamics that characterize reality (such as the long and interesting reflection on Chaos Theory).

The raptor attacks, the tyrannosaurus bursting in, are merely the adrenaline-fueled and impactful frame that contains within it a deeper and more rooted image, the confrontation with nature, with the risks we ourselves are architects of, with our fears and our most latent tensions. Those familiar with Crichton's poetics will find these themes in other novels, such as "Sphere," "The Great Train Robbery," "Congo," "The Terminal Man," "Prey," or in the concluding sequel of the dinosaur cycle, "The Lost World," a novel perhaps even more crafted than the previous one and unfortunately ruined by the cinematic transposition that, as always, highlighted the simple spectacular aspect while neglecting all the theoretical effort which is what the media and public opinion have least captured from this writer, who has always been more or less classified as a minor author capable only of churning out successful best-sellers lacking substance. Nothing could be more wrong.

Crichton has always been strong-willed, he has always accepted challenges, and he knew how to put himself to the test until the end. Just a few years ago, when the press across the ocean accused him of being a reigning player, he published perhaps his most discussed novel ever, "State of Fear," a thriller where he attacked the environmentalist lobby, advocating for the need for a new paradigm through which to look at nature and climate changes, not tainted by hearsay prejudices and partisan alarmism. Even in that book, today, Crichton remains an author with a dual face. An author who strikes at the muscles, but who makes you think, who makes you jump out of your chair with continuous twists, but who also knows how to enchant and educate you by showing you realities that belong to you, that belong to our world, and which will concern it more and more, but that very few other authors today are capable of painting with as much clarity, with as much intensity, with as much awareness.

I know I haven't completely fulfilled my duties as a reviewer, but besides, my real intent was to pay homage to a writer and dare I say to a man who was a life mentor for me. I know I do not deserve everyone's understanding; I just hope that, out of respect for the author, you do not come forth with out-of-place comments. Ultimately, the ultimate goal of discussions about works of art, books, records, films, and any other type of expression of the dynamics of reality is to let the object itself be remembered over the decades, that its intrinsic value is not lost, that it remains in the hearts of those who have loved that work, a sense of emotion shared with someone.

In memory of Michael Crichton (1942 - 2008). Thank you.