Review of Life, The Universe, & Everything by Douglas Adams
HHGTTG Book 3: All the best bits 😂
I finished reading HHGTTG book 3!
Below are my notes and unhinged thoughts about the whole thing, including what I believe is the part where Douglas Adams admitted his writing secret in plain sight.
A lesson in how to introduce a character: Meet Wowbagger ⬇️
(from pages 317-318 of the Ultimate HHGTTG 6 books in one)
Its occupant, the alien with the expensive complexion, leaned back in its single seat. His name was Wowbagger the Infinitely Prolonged. He was a man with a purpose. Not a very good purpose, as he would have been the first to admit, but it was at least a purpose, and it did at least keep him on the move.
Wowbagger the Infinitely Prolonged was— indeed, is-one of the Universe's very small number of immortal beings.
Most of those who are born immortal instinctively know how to cope with it, but Wowbagger was not one of them. Indeed, he had come to hate them, the load of serene bastards. He had had his immortality inadvertently thrust upon him by an unfortunate accident with an irrational particle accelerator, a liquid lunch and a pair of rubber bands. The precise details of the accident are not important because no one has ever managed to duplicate the exact circumstances under which it happened, and many people have ended up looking very silly, or dead, or both, trying.
Wowbagger closed his eyes in a grim and weary expression, put some light jazz on the ship's stereo, and reflected that he could have made it if it hadn't been for Sunday afternoons, he really could have done.
To begin with it was fun; he had a ball, living dangerously, taking risks, deaning up on high-yield long-term investments, and just generally outliving the hell out of everybody.
In the end, it was the Sunday afternoons he couldn't cope with, and that terrible listlessness that starts to set in at about 2:55, when you know you've taken all the baths you can usefully take that day, that however hard you stare at any given paragraph in the newspaper you will never actually read it, or use the revolutionary new pruning technique it describes, and that as you stare at the clock the hands will move relentless y on to four o'clock, and you will enter the long dark teatime of the soul.
So things began to pall for him. The merry smiles he used to wear at other people's funerals began to fade. He began to despise the Universe in general, and everybody in it in particular.
This was the point at which he conceived his purpose, the thing that would drive him on, and which, as far as he could sec, would drive him on
forever. It was this.
He would insult the Universe.
That is, he would insult everybody in it. Individually, personally, one by one, and (this was the thing he really decided to grit his teeth over) in alphabetical order.
When people protested co him, as they sometimes had done, that the plan was not merely misguided bur actually impossible because of the number of pcople being born and dying all the time, he would merely fix them with a steely look and say, "A man can dream, can't he?" And so he had started out. He equipped a spaceship that was built to last with a computer capable of handling all the data processing involved in keeping track of the entire population of the known Universe and working our the horrifically complicated routes involved.
His ship fled through the inner orbits of the Sol star system, preparing to slingshot around the sun and fling itself out into interstellar space.
"Computer," he said.
"Here," yipped the computer.
"Where next?"
"Computing that."
Wowbagger gazed for a moment at the fantastic jewelry of the night, the billions of tiny diamond worlds that dusted the infinite darkness with light.
Every one, every single one was on his itinerary. Most of them he would be going to millions of times over.
He imagined for a moment his itinerary connecting all the dots in the sky like a child's numbered dots puzzle. He hoped that from some vantage point in the Universe it might be seen to spell a very, very rude word.
Then there’s a lesson in how to do hilarious conversations between people who don’t really understand each other at all (Arthur and Ford) from page 321-322:
I reckoned that if the world wanted me badly enough it would call back. It did."
He took out of his now terribly battered and dilapidated satchel his Sub-Etha Sens-O-Matic.
"At least," he said, "I think it did. This has been playing up a bit." He shook it. "If it was a false alarm I shall go mad," he said, "again." Arthur shook his head and sat down. He looked up.
"I thought you must be dead..” he said simply.
"So did I for a while," said Ford, "and then I decided I was a lemon for a couple of weeks. I kept myself amused all that time jumping in and out of a gin and tonic."
Arthur cleared his throat, and then did it again. "Where," he said, "did
you ... ?"
"Find a gin and tonic?" said Ford brightly. "I found a small lake that thought it was a gin and tonic, and jumped in and out of that. At least, I think it thought it was a gin and tonic.
"I may," he added with a grin that would have sent sane men scampering into trees, "have been imagining it."
He waited for a reaction from Arthur, but Arthur knew better than that.
"Carry on," he said evenly.
"The point is, you see," said Ford, "that there is no point in driving yourself mad trying to stop yourself going mad. You might just as well give in and save your sanity for later."
"And this is you sane again, is it?" asked Arthur. "I ask merely for information."
"I went to Africa," said Ford.
"Yes?"
"Yes."
"What was that like?"
"And this is your cave, is it?" said Ford
"Er, yes," said Arthur. He felt very strange. After nearly four years of total isolation he was so pleased and relieved to see Ford that he could almost cry. Ford was, on the other hand, an almost immediately annoying person.
"Very nice," said Ford, in reference to Arthur's cave. "You must hate it." Arthur didn't bother to reply.
"Africa was very interesting," said Ford. "I behaved very oddly there." He gazed thoughtfully into the distance.
The Transportational Chesterfield Sofa
On the quiz I ran on Substack notes, that was the answer to the question where I had the introductory quote to this scene at Lord’s Cricket Ground in England.
Suddenly, this sofa appears in a field, and Ford tries to explain why, which Arthur cannot comprehend.
It’s part of a lovely description of embracing chaos on pg. 325 when Arthur doesn’t understand that the “Eddy” Ford is referring to is NOT a person but rather a movement disturbing the space time continuum:
Arthur looked. Much to his surprise, there was a velvet paisley-covered Chesterfield sofa in the field in front of them. He boggled intelligently at it.
Shrewd questions sprang into his mind.
"Why," he said, "is there a sofa in that field"
" Itold you!" shouted Ford, leaping to his feet. “Eddies in the space-time continuum!"
"And this is his sofa, is it?" asked Arthur, struggling to his feet and, he hoped, though not very optimistically, to his senses.
"Arthur!" shouted Ford at him, "that sofa is there because of the space-time instability I've been trying to get your terminally softened brain to come to grips with. It's been washed up out of the continuum, it's space-time jetsam, it doesn't matter what it is, we've got to catch it, it's our only way out of here!"
He scrambled rapidly down the rocky outcrop and made off across the field.
"Catch it?" muttered Arthur, then frowned in bemusement as he saw that the Chesterfield was lazily bobbing and wafting away across the grass.
With a whoop of utterly unexpected delight he leaped down the rock and plunged off in hectic pursuit of Ford Prefect and the irrational piece of furniture.
They careened wildly through the grass, leaping, laughing, shouting instructions to each other to head the thing off this way or that way. The sun shone dreamily on the swaying grass, tiny field animals scattered crazily in their wake.
Arthur felt happy. He was terribly pleased that the day was for once working out so much according to plan. Only twenty minutes ago he had decided he would go mad, and now here he was already chasing a Chesterfield sofa across the fields of prehistoric Earth.
And then after they materialize with the sofa onto Lord’s Cricket Ground after fast-forwarding in time to modern England, here’s the best police encounter I’ve ever seen that’s straight out of a Monty Python sketch:
(pg. 329)
The men are leaving the pitch in the company of a police officer, and I think everyone's settling down now and play is about to resume."
"Now, sir," said the policeman after they had made a passage through the curious crowd and laid Arthur's peacefully inert body on a blanket,
"perhaps you'd care to tell me who you are, where you come from and what that little scene was all about?"
Ford looked at the ground for a moment as if steadying himself for something, then he straightened up and aimed a look at the policeman that hit him with the full force of every inch of the six light-years' distance between Earth and Ford's home near Betelgeuse.
"All right," said Ford, very quietly, "I'll tell you."
"Yes, well, that won't be necessary," said the policeman hurriedly, "just don't let whatever it was happen again." The policeman turned around and wandered off in search of anyone who wasn't from Betelgeuse. Fortu-nately, the cricket ground was full of them.
Arthur's consciousness approached his body as from a great distance, and reluctantly. It had had some bad times in there. Slowly, nervously, it entered and settled down into its accustomed position.
Arthur sat up.
"Where am I?" he said.
"Lord's Cricket Ground," said Ford
The Satire hits hard with this one…the S.E.P.
Adams hit on the truth that you don’t need to create incredible technological inventions to impress people. You just need to make something that uses their weaknesses against them, which is a lot easier to do.
Then on page 339 was what I consider the greatest alien technology invention shown in the book: The Somebody Else’s Problem field:
The second strangest thing about the ship was watching the Somebody Else's Problem field at work. They could now clearly see the ship for what it was simply because they knew it was there.
It was quite apparent, however, that nobody else could. This wasn't because it was actually invisible or anything hyperimpossible like that. The technology involved in making anything invisible is so infinitely complex that nine hundred and ninety-nine billion, nine hundred and ninety-nine million, nine hundred and ninety-nine thousand, nine hundred and ninety-nine times out of a trillion it is much simpler and more effective just to take the thing away and do without it. The ultrafamous sciento-magician Effrafax of Wug once bet his life that, given a year, he could render the great megamountain Magramal entirely invisible.
Having spent most of the year jiggling around with immense Lux-O-Valves and Refracto-Nullifiers and Spectrum-By-Pass-O-Matics, he real-ized, with nine hours to go, that he wasn't going to make it.
So, he and his friends, and his friends' friends, and his friends' friends' friends, and his friends' friends' friends' friends, and some rather less good friends of theirs who happened to own a major stellar trucking company, put in what is now widely recognized as being the hardest night's work in history and, sure enough, on the following day, Magramal was no longer visible. Effrafax lost his bet-and therefore his life-simply because some pedantic adjudicating official noticed (a) that when walking around the area. where Magramal ought to be he didn't trip over or break his nose on anything, and (b) a suspicious-looking extra moon.
The Somebody Else's Problem field is much simpler and more effective, and what is more can be run for over a hundred years on a single flashlight. battery. This is because it relies on people's natural predisposition not to see anything they don't want to, weren't expecting or can't explain. If Effrafax had painted the mountain pink and erected a cheap and simple Somebody Else's Problem field on it, then people would have walked past the mountain, around it, even over it, and simply never have noticed that the thing was there.
And this is precisely what was happening with Slartibartfast's ship.
The 😂Breakup
Doing a comedic breakup is surprisingly hard. This scene shows how to use tiny realistic details in a crazy setting like on a spaceship and make it feel hysterically funny without dwelling too much on hurt feelings.
On page 365 when Trillian finally leaves Zaphod, it was the funniest breakup I’ve ever read:
Zaphod stayed in bed with one head stuck under a pillow and the other doing crosswords till late into the night.
Trillian nodded patiently again, counted to a sufficiently high number, and told herself that the important thing now was just to get Zaphod talking.
She prepared, by dint of deactivating all the robot kitchen synthomatics, the most fabulously delicious meal she could contrive-delicately oiled meats, scented fruits, fragrant cheeses, fine Aldebaran wines.
She carried it through to him and asked if he felt like talking things through.
"Zark off," said Zaphod.
Trillian nodded patiently to herself, counted to an even higher number, tossed the tray lightly aside, walked to the transport room and just teleported herself the hell out of his life.
She didn't even program any coordinates, she hadn't the faintest idea
where she was going, she just went—a random row of dots flowing through the Universe.
"Anything," she said to herself as she left, "is better than this."
Douglas Adams admitted his writing secret in plain sight
The very best part though was the description from the Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy about learning how to fly.
From what I’ve read about how much Douglas Adams himself struggled with writer’s block and finishing books after deadlines, I imagine that this is actually a metaphor for learning how to write (drafting a book particularly) well.
I’ll show you what I mean by first putting the beginning of the description, and then I’ll replace the words “fly” and such with “writing” so that you get it.
The original part begins like this on page 364:
The first part is easy.
All it requires is simply the ability to throw yourself forward with all your weight, and the willingness not to mind that it's going to hurt.
That is, it's going to hurt if you fail to miss the ground.
Most people fail to miss the ground, and if they are really trying properly, the likelihood is that they will fail to miss it fairly hard Clearly, it is this second part, the missing, which presents the difficulties.
One problem is that you have to miss the ground accidentally. It's no good deliberately intending to miss the ground because you won't. You have to have your attention suddenly distracted by something else when you're halfway there, so that you are no longer thinking about falling, or about the ground, or about how much it's going to hurt if you fail to miss it.
It is notoriously difficult to prize your attention away from these three things during the split second you have at your disposal. Hence most people's failure, and their eventual disillusionment with this exhilarating and spectacular sport.
If, however, you are lucky enough to have your attention momentarily distracted at the crucial moment by, say, a gorgeous pair of legs (tentacles, pseudopodia, according to phyllum and/or personal inclination) or a bomb going off in your vicinity, or by suddenly spotting an extremely rare species of beetle crawling along a nearby twig, then in your astonishment you will miss the ground completely and remain bobbing just a few inches above it in what might seem to be a slightly foolish manner.
This is a moment for superb and delicate concentration.
Bob and float, float and bob.
Ignore all considerations of your own weight and simply let yourself waft higher.
Do nor listen to what anybody says to you at this point because they are
unlikely to say anything helpful.
They are most likely to say something along the lines of "Good God,
you can't possibly be flying!"
It is vitally important not to believe them or they will suddenly be right.
And now let’s take that passage and make it about writing (my altered version below):
The first part is easy.
All it requires is simply the ability to throw yourself [into the chair with a paper & pen or computer], and the willingness not to mind that it's going to hurt.
That is, it's going to hurt if you fail to [actually write something].
Most people fail to [write anything useful], and if they are really trying properly, the likelihood is that they will fail to [write a single word without going back and deleting it all again]. Clearly, it is this second part which presents the difficulties.
One problem is that you have to [write something without overthinking it]. It's no good deliberately intending to [write something great] because you won't. You have to have your attention suddenly distracted by something else when you're halfway there, so that you are no longer thinking about [writing, reviews, or about how much it's going to hurt if you fail to write anything you like yet again.]
It is notoriously difficult to prize your attention away from these three things during the split second you have at your disposal. Hence most people's failure, and their eventual disillusionment with this exhilarating and spectacular sport.
If, however, you are lucky enough to have your attention momentarily distracted at the crucial moment by, say, a gorgeous pair of legs (tentacles, pseudopodia, according to phyllum and/or personal inclination) or a bomb going off in your vicinity, or by suddenly spotting an extremely rare species of beetle crawling along a nearby twig, then in your astonishment you will [forget that you were trying to write something] and remain [with your fingers hovering above the keyboard or your pen tip resting above the paper] in what might seem to be a slightly foolish manner.
This is a moment for superb and delicate concentration.
[Press letters on the keyboard. Or allow the pen to move on the paper.]
Ignore all considerations of [everything else in your mind] and simply let yourself [keep writing].
Do not listen to what anybody says to you at this point because they are unlikely to say anything helpful.
They are most likely to say something along the lines of "Good God, you can't possibly be [writing that book]!"
It is vitally important not to believe them or they will suddenly be right.
Any my friends, it is by following that advice that I was able to write my first official release, the Sci-Fi Comedy series called “The Intergalactizen’s Guide to Taming Earthlings” published here on Substack. 😁
My method of distraction was by listening primarily to house music while writing, especially tracks by the sister and brother DJs on YouTube Tinzo and Jojo on the BookClub Radio channel.
And it worked.
I’ve written a new book blurb for it too! (Thanks to coaching from Tenacious Writing and guest teacher Jessie Cunniffe).
🛸In “The Intergalactizen’s Guide to Taming Earthlings”…🌍
Most of the galaxy wants to destroy Earth for being an utter nuisance – except for one group of Intergalactizens, beings who thrive on betting against unpredictable odds and disguising themselves as cats.
They’re running experiments to test if Earthlings can be controlled. If these fur-clad intergalactizens succeed in proving to the United Intergalactic Commission that they've tamed the planet, then they will forever retain custody of Earth. They're currently logging their difficulties and successes in a famous Guide Book:
“The Intergalactizen’s Guide to Taming Earthlings”
No humans have ever known about any of this nor The Guide – until Jerry.
Jerry is a Londoner who fled the city because he hates cats, people, and wants to get rich winning Blackjack games online with his knack for always calculating the odds correctly … in peace and quiet.
Yet his solitude was shattered upon hearing the transmission from The Guide that he accidentally hacked into.
Now the only person Jerry does care about, his best mate Declan, is a target of these space cats for “training” to surrender his free will amidst a house demolition gone wrong. Plus, a space cat discovers Jerry is spying on them.
Worse still, this Intergalactizen space cat has become obsessed with taming Jerry.
Thanks for reading and stop by this page of my book reviews index if you want to see more of my hot takes on other books where I went into more detail about specific techniques from other writers that I loved.
BTW, I also did a book review on Book 2 of HHGTTG “Restaurant at the End of the Universe” as an illustration of how it compares to “USA humor vs. U.K. humor” that was a lot of fun 😂
