126. The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy. Douglas Adams. Illustrated by Chris Riddell. 1979/2021. 289 pages. [Source: Library] [4 stars, speculative fiction, humor, science fiction, audio book]
First sentence: The house stood on a slight rise just on the edge of the
village. It stood on its own and looked out over a broad spread of West
Country farmland. Not a remarkable house by any means – it was about
thirty years old, squattish, squarish, made of brick, and had four
windows set in the front of a size and proportion which more or less
exactly failed to please the eye. The only
person for whom the house was in any way special was Arthur Dent, and
that was only because it happened to be the one he lived in. He had
lived in it for about three years, ever since he had moved out of London
because it made him nervous and irritable. He was about thirty as well,
tall, dark haired and never quite at ease with himself. The thing that
used to worry him most was the fact that people always used to ask him
what he was looking so worried about. He worked in local radio, which he
always used to tell his friends was a lot more interesting than they
probably thought. It was, too – most of his friends worked in
advertising.
The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy is all about
the journey and NOT the destination. Arthur Dent, one of our heroes, is
one of two survivors of Earth's destruction--the other being a stranded
alien named Ford Prefect. Earth was 'set' to be demolished on the same
day that Arthur Dent's house was set to be demolished... many adventures
or misadventures follow once these two hitch a ride on a spaceship (or
two).
The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy follows a dream logic
of sorts. The less you think about it, the more you go with the flow,
you can almost relax into the story and it works. It's silly and
outrageous, but, you're content to go along for the laughs. It helps
that it is quite quotable in places. But like a dream, the ending is
abrupt. You can't help wanting to close your eyes and try to get back
into the dream to see if you can wrap things up.
The ending was my least favorite part. The humor was my most favorite part.
Quotes:
I like the cover,’ he said. ‘Don’t Panic. It’s the first helpful or intelligible thing anybody’s said to me all day.’
‘I’ll
show you how it works,’ said Ford. He snatched it from Arthur who was
still holding it as if it was a two-week-dead lark and pulled it out of
its cover.
‘You press this button here, you see, and the screen lights up giving you the index.’
A screen, about three inches by four, lit up and characters began to flicker across the surface.
‘You want to know about Vogons, so I enter that name so.’ His fingers tapped some more keys. ‘And there we are.’
The words Vogon Constructor Fleets flared in green across the screen.
Ford
pressed a large red button at the bottom of the screen and words began
to undulate across it. At the same time, the book began to speak the
entry as well in a still quiet measured voice. This is what the book
said.
‘Vogon Constructor Fleets. Here is what to
do if you want to get a lift from a Vogon: forget it. They are one of
the most unpleasant races in the Galaxy – not actually evil, but
bad-tempered, bureaucratic, officious and callous. They wouldn’t even
lift a finger to save their own grandmothers from the Ravenous Bugblatter
Beast of Traal without orders signed in triplicate, sent in, sent back,
queried, lost, found, subjected to public inquiry, lost again, and
finally buried in soft peat for three months and recycled as firelighters.
The best way to get a drink out of a Vogon is to stick your finger down
his throat, and the best way to irritate him is to feed his grandmother
to the Ravenous Bugblatter Beast of Traal.
‘On no account allow a Vogon to read poetry at you.’
Arthur blinked at it.
‘What a strange book. How did we get a lift, then?’
‘That’s
the point, it’s out of date now,’ said Ford, sliding the book back into
its cover. ‘I’m doing the field research for the new revised edition,
and one of the things I’ll have to do is include a bit about how the
Vogons now employ Dentrassi cooks, which gives us a rather useful little
loophole.’
A pained expression crossed Arthur’s face. ‘But who are the Dentrassi?’ he said. ‘Great
guys,’ said Ford. ‘They’re the best cooks and the best drinks mixers
and they don’t give a wet slap about anything else. And they’ll always
help hitchhikers aboard, partly because they like the company, but
mostly because it annoys the Vogons.
Vogon poetry is of course the third worst in the
Universe. The second worst is that of the Azgoths of Kria. During a
recitation by their Poet Master Grunthos the Flatulent of his poem ‘Ode
To A Small Lump of Green Putty I Found In My Armpit One Midsummer
Morning’ four of his audience died of internal haemorrhaging, and the
President of the Mid-Galactic Arts Nobbling Council survived by gnawing
one of his own legs off. Grunthos is reported to have been
‘disappointed’ by the poem’s reception, and was about to embark on a
reading of his twelve-book epic entitled My Favourite Bathtime Gurgles
when his own major intestine, in a desperate attempt to save life and
civilization, leapt straight up through his neck and throttled his
brain.
The very worst poetry of all perished
along with its creator Paula Nancy Millstone Jennings of Greenbridge,
Essex, England in the destruction of the planet Earth.
All right,’ said Ford, ‘just stop panicking!’
‘Who
said anything about panicking?’ snapped Arthur. ‘This is still just the
culture shock. You wait till I’ve settled down into the situation and
found my bearings. Then I’ll start panicking!’
‘Arthur,
you’re getting hysterical. Shut up!’ Ford tried desperately to think,
but was interrupted by the guard shouting again. ‘Resistance is
useless!’
All right,’ said Deep Thought. ‘The Answer to the Great Question…’
‘Yes…!’
‘Of Life, the Universe and Everything…’ said Deep Thought.
‘Yes…!’
‘Is…’ said Deep Thought, and paused.
‘Yes…!’
‘Is…’
‘Yes …!!! …?’
‘Forty-two,’ said Deep Thought, with infinite majesty and calm.
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