Today’s exercise might be a little tricky because Crichton is one of those authors whose style is harder to pin down. His themes and plot devices are what he’s known for more than his prose, making this a bit of a conundrum for me. He’s not quite as spartan as Hemingway, nor is he as flowing and descriptive as Morrison or Shelley. He likes to include some humor (who doesn’t?) but almost never in the same way as Twain. Twain made his social commentary through the humor of his stories, while Crichton does very much the opposite, presenting his not-so-secret opinions in a self-serious way. His stories are an example of the more modern take on narrative, wherein flowery prose and distinctive stylistic choices are considered more distracting than descriptive.

So how do you capture a style of prose that seems purposefully designed to blend with the background? Crichton had a lot to say with his stories, so it would make sense to choose a style that will never distract from the moral of the story. I noticed a similar style while reading Jodi Picoult’s ‘Small Great Things,’ and I suspect she chose that approach for the same reason. What both of these authors have in common is that they choose a firmly rooted perspective to present the narrative. The differences in these often conflicting perspectives is what drives the reader’s interest. Picoult achieved this by using a first person narrative, but Crichton has to use a different approach. He writes in the third person, meaning that he has to adjust the narrator to deliver the story in new ways. He has to keep each character’s point of view in mind if he wants to have a strong sense of perspective. The advantage of using limited third person is that in scenes with multiple characters he can shift to a more ‘floaty’ undefined perspective, but today I want to focus on the moments he takes a more grounded approach. Take these excerpts from ‘Jurassic Park’ for example:

Hammond left, stepping out into the daylight, wondering why he had bothered to justify himself to Harding. After all, the man was his employee. Hammond had no need to explain himself.

…

And if there had been problems here, [in Jurassic park] then the next time they would solve those problems. That was how progress occurred. By solving problems. As he thought about it, he concluded that Wu had not really been the man for the job. Wu had obviously been sloppy, too casual with his great undertaking. And Wu had been too preoccupied with the idea of making improvements. Instead of making dinosaurs, he had wanted to improve on them. Hammond suspected darkly that was the reason for the downfall of the park. Wu was the reason. Also, he had to admit that John Arnold was ill suited for the job of chief engineer. Arnold had impressive credentials, but at this point in his career he was tired, and he was a fretful worrier. He hadn’t been organized, and he had missed things. Important things. In truth, neither Wu nor Arnold had had the most important characteristic, Hammond decided. The characteristic of vision. That great sweeping act of imagination which evoked a marvelous park, where children pressed against the fences, wondering at the extraordinary creatures, come alive from their storybooks. Real vision. The ability to see the future. The ability to marshal resources to make that future vision a reality. No, neither Wu nor Arnold was suited to that task. And, for that matter, Ed Regis had been a poor choice, too. Harding was at best an indifferent choice. Muldoon was a drunk.… Hammond shook his head. He would do better next time.

It’s obvious that Hammond has no capacity whatsoever to blame himself for the disaster that he caused. He truly believes that the park he masterminded, underfunded, understaffed, and generally led to ruin with every action, actually only failed because his employees were not up to the task. Compare this perspective to the opinions that Ian Malcolm voices just a chapter before …

They moved Malcolm to another room in the lodge, to a clean bed. Hammond seemed to revive, and began bustling around, straightening up.

“Well,” he said, “at least disaster is averted.”

“What disaster is that?” Malcolm said, sighing.

“Well,” Hammond said, “they didn’t get free and overrun the world.”

Malcolm sat up on one elbow. “You were worried about that?”

“Surely that’s what was at stake,” Hammond said. “These animals, lacking predators, might get out and destroy the planet.”

“You egomaniacal idiot,” Malcolm said, in fury. “Do you have any idea what you are talking about? You think you can destroy the planet? My, what intoxicating power you must have.” Malcolm sank back on the bed. “You can’t destroy this planet. You can’t even come close.”

…

Malcolm coughed, and stared into the distance. “Let’s be clear. The planet is not in jeopardy. We are in jeopardy. We haven’t got the power to destroy the planet—or to save it. But we might have the power to save ourselves.”

Malcolm holds an opposing philosophy to Hammond’s. While Hammond views ‘humanity’ and the ‘the world’ as interchangeable, Malcolm tries to convince him (unsuccessfully) that humanity is nothing compared to the Earth in its totality. This same egotism that Hammond holds so dear is what leads him to believe everyone is at fault for the park disaster but himself.

Crichton is a master of manipulating perspective to make a fine point. While his prose is best described, I think, as run of the mill, the firmly grounded perspectives he presents are what add the most to his style. I’m going to do my best to capture this in only 500 words. I’ll write multiple paragraphs, each from a different perspective about the same events. The goal will be to present the perspectives while maintaining a consistent prose. Wish me luck!

Warren had been jumping through hoops for hours, struggling through the mountain of red tape stood between him and the simplest of administrative changes. All he wanted was for his sixth period class changed to a first period. Was that really so much to ask? Teaching in the morning was easier for him. It was when he felt most alert, and he was certain the students could tell he’d run out of energy by the time sixth period came around. He probably looked like a drugged cow up there, scribbling mistakes on the board and sheepishly correcting them. If he had a morning class that would never happen. Plus he’d have more time in the afternoons to spend on his paper, the one that administration had rejected three times already. They probably kept him on the sixth period schedule just to make sure he couldn’t get published, come to think of it. They hated how his thesis made them look bad for requiring students to work so hard outside of the classroom, even though all the evidence showed it was bad for learning outcomes.

He slipped the final form into the dean’s office mailbox, knowing it probably wouldn’t go through again. He’d been thorough this time though, so least they couldn’t use the procedural excuses again. They’d have to admit they had it out for him. Damn these people, he thought darkly on the way out.

Now I’ll try the opposing perspective.

Jane sighed at the stack of mail her assistant had left on her desk. Right on top was yet another request from that Professor Warren for a complete rescheduling of one of the only two classes he taught. Really, couldn’t he just get over it? The rest of the staff were teaching multiple periods, including both morning and night classes, but his sixth period class was apparently not good enough for him. And this time he’d gone through all the right channels, accurately for once. There was no way she could put it off any longer. She’d have to rework half the classes in the spring just to accommodate his request, and then probably field another five or six from other professors after the changes went through and their classes got moved around. What a mess.

He probably just wants more time to work on that paper, she thought. As if he didn’t have enough already. She’d read the early draft he sent in for review and if it wasn’t just the most moronic thing. Of course students performed worse the longer they had to spend outside of class. If you were already struggling you had to spend more time studying, but if you were already struggling, it was still more likely that you’d have a bad grade. He just couldn’t see how he’d misinterpreted his own data, but he never gave up pursuing the same thing. Damn that stubborn man.

Thank you for reading,

Benjamin Hawley