Douglas Adams is one of those authors that I keep going back to. I think I first read the Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy series when I was about 13, and the Dirk Gently books shortly thereafter. I’ve reread them all several times, including this past month. They have amazing staying power.
You may have heard Adams described as a science fiction author. But I think his true gift was for comedy. Adams was blessed with a slightly askew brain that came up with memorably wacky ideas. Sort of like Roald Dahl for grown-ups.
Adams rocks for three basic reasons:
- Hilarious turns of phrase (the kind that make you bust out laughing so that everyone stares at you),
- A wicked gift for simile and metaphor, and
- Sheer creative genius.
Characters
Unlike my previous Favorite Author Shout Out, Emily Giffin, Adams would never win any awards for in-depth characterization. Don’t get me wrong, his characters are memorable. Who could forget Zaphod Beeblebrox, the egomaniacal two-headed President of the Galaxy? The oh-so-English Everyman, Arthur Dent? And Marvin, the depressed robot?
But Adams’ characters are more like the characters in Star Wars. Unique, unforgettable, but fairly one-dimensional. Which is fine (in both cases), because it works for the stories.
Mad Skills
Maybe it’s because I first read Adams’ books at an impressionable age. Maybe it’s because I know how deeply his fans’ loyalty runs (in high school I belonged to a bulletin board on the Prodigy internet service, devoted entirely to Adams and his fans).
But there’s something about Adams’ books that transcends mundane stuff like genre and plot and character and setting. Something that makes you look at the world sideways and feel enlightened by the perspective. Something that grabs you and talks philosophy with you all night long until you reach that dazzling mental place where your brain is on fire with ideas.
His books are not just cult classics. They’re classics.
Here are some highlights from Adams’ books. Fans will recognize them, and for those who are not yet fans, I hope they make you smile and want to read more.
From The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy
“Ford,” said Arthur.
“Yeah?”
“What’s this fish doing in my ear?”
“It’s translating for you. It’s a Babel fish. Look it up in the book if you like.”
… “The Babel fish,” said the Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy quietly, “is small, yellow and leechlike, and probably the oddest thing in the Universe. It feeds on brainwave energy received not from its own carrier but from those around it. It absorbs all unconscious mental frequencies from this brainwave energy to nourish itself with. It then excretes into the mind of its carrier a telepathic matrix formed by combining the conscious thought frequencies with nerve signals picked up from the speech centers of the brain which has supplied them. The practical upshot of all this is that if you stick a Babel fish in your ear you can instantly understand anything said to you in any form of language.
“Now it is such a bizarrely improbably coincidence that anything so mind-bogglingly useful could have evolved purely by chance that some thinkers have chosen to see it as a final and clinching proof of the nonexistence of God.
“The argument goes something like this: ‘I refuse to prove that I exist,’ says God, ‘for proof denies faith, and without faith I am nothing.’
“ ‘But,’ says Man, ‘the Babel fish is a dead giveaway, isn’t it? It could not have evolved by chance. It proves you exist, and so therefore, by your own arguments, you don’t. QED.’
“ ‘Oh dear,’ says God, ‘I hadn’t thought of that,’ and promptly vanishes in a puff of logic.
“ ‘Oh, that was easy,’ says Man, and for an encore goes on to prove that black is white and gets himself killed on the next zebra crossing.”
From Life, the Universe, and Everything
The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy has this to say on the subject of flying.
There is an art, it says, or rather, a knack to flying.
The knack lies in learning how to throw yourself at the ground and miss.
***
…Zaphod heard the “Whop” sound, and it made him very nervous.
He leaned tensely against the wall and frowned like a man trying to unbend a corkscrew by telekinesis. He laid his fingertips against the well and felt an unusual vibration. And now he could quite clearly hear slight noises, and could hear where they were coming from –they were coming from the bridge.
He inched his way up the corridor as if he would rather be yarding his way down it, which was true.
***
There was a sound he couldn’t immediately identify, partly because he didn’t know the tune “I Left My Leg in Jaglan Beta” and partly because the band playing it was very tired, and some members of it were playing in three-four time, some in four-four, and some in a kind of pie-eyed pi-r-squared, each according to the amount of sleep he’d managed to grab recently.
***
Prak nodded sympathetically, and Arthur relaxed a little.
“It’s… well, it’s a long story,” he said, “but the question I would like to know, is the Ultimate Question of Life, the Universe, and Everything. All we know about it is that the answer is Forty-Two, which is a little aggravating.”
Prak nodded again.
“Forty-two,” he said, “yes, that’s right.”
He paused. Shadows of thought and memory crossed his face like the shadows of clouds crossing the land.
“I’m afraid,” he said at last, “that the Question and the Answer are mutually exclusive. Knowledge of one logically precludes knowledge of the other. It is impossible that both can ever be known about the same Universe.”
He paused again. Disappointment crept into Arthur’s face and snuggled down into its accustomed place.
“Except,” said Prak, struggling to sort a thought out, “if it happened, it seems that the Question and the Answer would just cancel each other out, and take the Universe with them, which would then be replaced by something even more bizarrely inexplicable. It is possible that his has already happened,” he added…
From So Long and Thanks for All the Fish
As he drove on, the rain clouds dragged down the sky after him for, though he did not know it, Rob McKenna was a Rain God. All he knew was that his working days were miserable and he had a succession of lousy holidays. All the clouds knew was that they loved him and wanted to be near him, to cherish him and to water him.
***
The storm had now definitely abated, and what thunder there was now grumbled over more distant hills, like a man saying, “And another thing…” twenty minutes after admitting he’d lost the argument.
***
(From the Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy’s entry about the Earth)
Tips for aliens in New York:
Land anywhere, Central Park, anywhere. No one will care or indeed even notice.
Surviving: Get a job as a cabdriver immediately. A cabdriver’s job is to drive people anywhere they want to go in big yellow machines called taxis. Don’t worry if you don’t know how the machine works and you can’t speak the language, and have large green antennae growing out of your head. Believe me, this is the best way of staying inconspicuous.
If your body is really weird, try showing it to people in the streets for money.
***
The night was uneasy with rain. The rain clouds themselves had now moved on, but the sky through which they had passed had been disturbed by them and now wore a damply ruffled air, as if it didn’t know what else it might not do if further provoked.
The moon was out in a watery way. It looked like a ball of paper from the back pocket of jeans that have just come out of the washing machine, which only time and ironing would tell if it was an old shopping list or a five-pound note.
The wind flicked about a little, like the tail of a horse that’s trying to decide what sort of mood it’s in tonight, and a bell somewhere chimed midnight.
***
He phoned the BBC and asked to be put through to his department head.
“Oh, hello. Arthur Dent here. Look, sorry I haven’t been in for six months but I’ve gone mad.”
“Oh, not to worry. Thought it was probably something like that. Happens here all the time. How soon can we expect you?”
“When do hedgehogs start hibernating?”
“Sometime in spring, I think.”
“I’ll be in shortly after that.”
“Righty-ho.”
***
Arthur… narrowly avoided being run down by McKenna’s All-Weather Haulage, and watched in horror as it ran down Fenny’s umbrella instead. The lorry swept along the motorway and away.
The umbrella lay like a recently swatted daddy longlegs, expiring sadly on the ground. Tiny gusts of wind made it twitch a little.
***
“I wonder if you’d like to buy some tickets for our raffle? It’s just a little one.”
He was being leaned over by a rather stiffly slim, middle-aged woman with a prim knitted suit and a prim little perm, and a prim little smile that probably got licked by prim little dogs a lot.
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