I read almost everything Michael Crichton wrote, in junior high, high school, and college. I even read his autobiography, Travels, which is about as close to The Celestine Prophecy as I’ve seen. (Who knew dude had a transcendent conversation with a cactus?)
Anyway, I grew out of Crichton’s books. I don’t mean to make that sound like his writing is for younger people – I just read so much of his that I couldn’t read any more (same with Elizabeth Peters/Barbara Michaels and M.C.Beaton).
Books can be like blinders, ushering you though time not with guidance, but with an alternate place to be – to be comfortable. Crichton did this for me, and so I’m a little bit sad today.