In the midst of post-election chaos yesterday, other news seemed to be pushed to the sidelines. Including this sad piece: Michael Crichton has died.
It's always surprising when someone you don't often think about suddenly passes, and earlier memories wash over you. Michael Crichton was part of my holy triumverate of adult writers that I read as a wee second grader: The Chrichton, the King and the Jeffrey Deaver (amen).
Granted, I don't read much of King or Crichton any longer (except Cell, which I heavily recommend for anyone looking for a relatively innovative zombie story). But I still read tons of Deaver. He is the cotton candy that buffers my deep spelunking into the worlds of Rushdie, McInerney, Delillo, and Easton Ellis.
Michael, you will be missed. Thank you for your imagination. For theme parks with dinosaurs running wild and viral strains with long, fun to pronounce names.
Rest in peace.