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Douglas Adams’s ‘The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy’
When I first picked up “The
Hitchhiker’s
Guide
to
the
Galaxy,” it was one of those
nights that doesn’t come with
any specific days attached. I
was 10 or 11 years old, lying on
the floor next to my brother
in the darkened study of my
mom’s boyfriend’s apartment
in
Jacksonville.
I
couldn’t
sleep.
The fact that I couldn’t
sleep, in my opinion, had less
to do with being on the floor
and more to do with the fact
that I could hear my mom
and
her
boyfriend
talking
downstairs. It was the night
before
Thanksgiving
and
before
my
now-stepfather’s
birthday, and they were trying
to have a nice time, just the two
of them: drinking wine, talking
in hushed voices on the couch
and laughing at each other’s
jokes. This was before they got
engaged, before I had any idea
that I would eventually wind
up making a home for myself in
Fla. At the moment, I was just
a kid marooned in the darkness
of a study, kept awake by my
own anger and indignation,
which resurfaced every time
I heard another sound from
downstairs.
I had no watch, but it felt
as
though
eternities
were
passing, suspended there in the
darkness next to my sleeping
brother
while
soft
laughs
and snatches of conversation
drifted below me, annoying me
for no rational reason. I ended
up resorting to the bookcase,
which sat against the wall only
a foot or two away from me. I
picked out a book at random:
a smallish paperback with a
shiny blue cover.
I read until I couldn’t hear
anything at all.
I had never read anything
like “The Hitchhiker’s Guide to
the Galaxy” before, and I don’t
think I ever have since. I loved
it at the time because it was
simply fun to read. The opening
passage, which explains outer
space and the position of
humanity before zooming in
to focus on a house, felt to me
like the beginning of some
broad, galactic fairy tale. The
book was full of thoughtful,
omniscient musings on the
total
improbability
and
absurdity
of
the
universe,
with language that sounded
comfortable, as though it were
possible to acknowledge such
things and still feel safe and
self-assured.
And yet it was the characters
who really stood out to me,
who stick with me to this
day. I loved Zaphod, with his
wildly unpredictable schemes
and strangely touching quest
to recover his past self, and
Marvin, the iconic robot who
would respond to a question
like “What’s up?” with “I don’t
know, I’ve never been there.”
I was enchanted by Ford, who
accepts the dangerous and
the tortuous with matter-of-
fact fairness, and Trillian, the
spontaneous
mathematician
who
could
fly
an
alien
spaceship and stand up for
herself in a room full of men in
the middle of an apocalypse. I
identified with all of them in
turns, but perhaps most of all
Arthur, who embarks on his
own journey so haphazardly
and cluelessly and yet tries to
do his best at every step of the
way.
These were characters who
were faced every day with
the destructive, nonsensical
nature of the universe. And
while they were almost never
sure of themselves in anything,
they also remained unfazed.
They expected nothing specific
of life, and when life gave them
exactly that, they didn’t feel
the need to do anything other
than stay true to themselves.
They could get arrested by
Vogons, thrown back and forth
through time and space, be
cornered by soldiers, shot at
and have their home planets
destroyed. Marvin would still
be
miserable,
and
Zaphod
would still be ridiculously
over-the-top. In one of the
climactic scenes, Ford decides
he’s going to investigate what’s
going on, and he asks the
others, “Is no one going to say,
‘No, you can’t possibly, let me
go instead?’” When they all
shake their heads, he says, “Oh
well,” and stands up and goes
anyway. Because that’s just
what Ford would do.
I ended up stealing the
paperback from my mom’s
boyfriend and rereading it over
and over. Eventually, as a gift,
I received the bound Barnes &
Noble Classics edition of “The
Ultimate Hitchhiker’s Guide,”
featuring all five books in the
series plus a short story. I fell
in love with the way Adams
could tell a story, deeply clever
but seemingly effortless. By
some miracle, each character
was compelling and dynamic,
despite
the
fact
that
the
writing itself really doesn’t
spend very much time in their
heads. The story is a comedy
and an adventure, but it’s also
surprisingly sad, complex and
thoughtful. My reaction to any
given line or scene depends in
large part on the day, whether
I’m feeling bored — in which
case I’ll turn to any given
page and start laughing — or
truly down and emotionally
vulnerable, in which case some
of the story’s more existential
preoccupations
will
really
LAURA DZUBAY
Daily Arts Writer
BOOKS THAT BUILT US
stick with me.
Maybe this is part of why
it’s so easy to return to this
story over and over again.
It works for any day. I want
to think like Trillian, react
like Ford, party like Zaphod,
love like Arthur. I don’t want
to feel depressed or wry
or cynical, but when I am
feeling it anyway, I want to
be able to articulate it like
Marvin.
I still have both copies
with me, the black and
gold classic volume and the
paperback, which is now
worn, with dog-eared pages
and a creased spine. I flip
through them whenever I
need to drown out the world,
telling myself, “Hey, it could
always be worse. My entire
planet could be destroyed
— and look, these people’s
planet was destroyed, and
they’re
still
doing
OK.”
Then, eventually, I set the
book back down and go out
into my own world again,
knowing that it will not
make any sense and that I
shouldn’t expect too much
of it, and telling myself not
to panic along the way.
The Michigan Daily — michigandaily.com
Arts
Friday, March 16, 2018 — 5