Douglas Adams: The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy
It’s small, made of hard plastic, and has “Don’t Panic” in large, friendly letters on its cover. In fact, it seems a lot like the sorts of things that we use today, both in terms of how it works and what it does. It’s the Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy, and it’s a device meant to give you a guiding hand in a universe that is, for all intents and purposes, basically insane.
The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy was first a radio play, becoming the series of novels, the one discussed here, in the late 70s and early 80s. The story starts when the Earth is destroyed to make way for a hyperspace bypass. One human, Arthur Dent, survives, along with a strange friend, Ford Prefect, who is actually from a planet somewhere near Betelgeuse. These two later encounter Zaphod Beeblebrox, the president of the galaxy (who has just lost that very title because he steals a ship of incredible importance and power), Marvin the Paranoid Android, who is everything but emotionally stable (well, I suppose he is stable if scorn and loathing are the sorts of emotions that can be stable), and a host of others. What happens along the way is largely incoherent and unrelated to any sort of plot whatsoever. Ostensibly, the first two novels are concerned with two issues: finding the true ruler of the universe, a task that Zaphod set to himself before wiping his own memory, and finding the question that matches the answer to life, the universe and everything, a purpose for which the Earth itself was built and the key to which, therefore, lies in the head of Arthur Dent. (The later novels start to move in their own directions, and also change structurally somewhat, and so won’t be the focus of attention here.)
This is what is supposed to pass for a plot, but the plot is notable above all for being basically ignored thereafter, not simply by the author, but by the characters themselves. Zaphod doesn’t want a damn thing to do with finding the real ruler of the galaxy, though he set himself up to do it. As for life, the universe, and everything, pieces of the puzzle are thrown in virtually at random, with a new lead or some such suddenly emerging by chance. It’s almost as though it appears to say ‘yes, there is something bigger motivating these people, but really it’s not that special.’ In the end, the plot is not very significant, and the ultimate revelations only become significant in terms of their ridiculousness and triteness. I will not spoil it, but the conclusions to both story threads are not merely underwhelming, but fiercely opposed to any satisfying answer. The basic resolution is that, in a nutshell, the galaxy is nuts.
And this revelation, in terms both of what it really is and how it is played out, is the whole point. The first thing to understand about HHGG as a series of novels and as an idea is that, in the end, there’s no point to everything, no conclusion with some sense of finality which makes everything fit. The galaxy where these events take place, when all is said and done, is ridiculous. The hunt for answers doesn’t give the characters, much less the reader, much satisfaction, because the galaxy is not a satisfying thing. In fact, the galaxy as a whole ends up feeling much like our own world; arbitrary, full of self-serving individuals and bureaucratic nonsense, diverting its energies to progressively more useless results, and all around something that looks worse the closer you look at it. The only moments in which Arthur, the man in whom the answer to life, the universe, and everything supposedly lies, is truly satisfied are the moments where he is furthest from the whole, the times when he is (literally) making sandwiches rather than pursuing the truth. Ford, the hitchhiker who’s seen the universe, would rather chase drinks than save galaxies, and is quite clear that he doesn’t care enough to act. Zaphod is even less serious than Ford. And Adams takes it less seriously than all of them.
If there is a real main character to this story, it is not Arthur; he is more of a perspective, a way to wedge our own limited perspective into a story spanning space and time. (Perhaps for this reason he is also the only genuinely believable character. The others are all amazing, beyond belief, and intentionally so; they are mostly caricatures of various sorts. Arthur, on the other hand, in his confusion, irritation, and constant resorting to sarcasm when the situation least calls for it, seems very average in his attempts to reconcile with existence.) The real central character is the Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy itself, or, more specifically, the editors who create its content. The guide, rather than being an impartial encyclopedia, is more of a how-to guide for life in the galaxy. It is practical and cynical; it recognizes the ignoble side of the universe and lives it, offering advice on making drinks and on what planets to avoid, on how to charm your way into the exclusive club on the exclusive planet and on what any idiot should now about space-time disruptions and how to take advantage of them. There is no grandeur in the tone of the guide; just a recognition that, despite it all, people just want to get by as well as they can, and possibly reduce their misery on the way.
Adams’ writing style, again particularly in the first two novels, revels in and perfectly reflects the nonsense of the world he portrays. A towel is the hitchhiker’s best friend, because you can use it to, among other things, keep warm, fight off enemies, store bits of wire, food, and other handy items, and even keep yourself dry. Doors have personalities, excited to open and close for you (which is about as irritating as it sounds). The ship Zaphod steals is powered by the improbability of events, which it then makes happen in the process of propelling itself through all points in the universe at once to reach its destinations. It is these oddities, their genesis and purpose, that make up the real content of the novel, because they all engender a sense that the galaxy is full of fools who make and do silly things, and as a result have made the galaxy a complete mess. A door that is excited to open for you tells a lot about the sorts of things people buy in the supposedly advanced galaxy, and makes for a lot of fun. But at the same time it almost sounds like something we might do. An elevator that can see into the future to be at the right floor ahead of time is a phenomenal waste of resources, and perhaps a danger. But there’s also something about it that doesn’t make it seem to stupid not to be made by somebody. What we see here, beside the humor that keeps us reading is a perspective about the way our own world works, a backdrop where great power and effort is expended in useless ways. This universe that Adams has made is broken, but it is also believably our own, and it’s this scene that is the real story.
A short story written by Adams taking place in the setting of the novels, “Young Zaphod Plays It Safe,” highlights this more clearly than the rest. Though the usual Adams comedic writing is there from time to time, this story is strangely serious in its tone. In it, Zaphod is charged with investigating (along with a couple public safety officials) a crashed ship full of dangerous items. The usual items, such bombs, poisons, and so forth, are present. But there are other things. One is a device that harnesses energy from the past in order to use it in the present. There was a lack of energy at some point, so someone had decided, why not take energy from the past? It’s not like they’re using it. Of course, this not only was self-defeating (that energy is no longer there in afterwards, reducing available energy in the future and starting a cycle) but terribly damaging to the past itself, and by extension the present. The most dangerous item of all, though? “Designer personalities,” artificial people made to order, who were in some cases designed such that they could get away with anything, and no one would suspect them. There’s something eerily believable about the possibility of these creations, not necessarily in terms of technological possibility, but as the sort of things our human race as we know it would do. Once again, this universe is believably our own in its insanity and incoherence.
And it’s that universe which HHGG is really about. It’s not about the plot, which Adams appeared to try and finish off for good at least three times. It’s about a world gone mad, about new technology suffering from the same old problems, about all the disaster that new opportunity brings. Basically, it’s about us, the power and stupidity we simultaneously wield, and how, no matter what changes, our problems always seem to stay the same. Adams was no fear-monger or conspiracy theorist; he was a greater fan of technology, and a more avid user of it, than just about anyone else. But unlike many others, he was also acutely aware of the very human problems that technology couldn’t solve, and HHGG is the chronicle of that. It’s the story of a world gone mad, where the characters, the plot, and everything else serve to show us this picture. And like the best parody, it’s simultaneously hilarious, engaging, and really, really disturbing.
The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy was first a radio play, becoming the series of novels, the one discussed here, in the late 70s and early 80s. The story starts when the Earth is destroyed to make way for a hyperspace bypass. One human, Arthur Dent, survives, along with a strange friend, Ford Prefect, who is actually from a planet somewhere near Betelgeuse. These two later encounter Zaphod Beeblebrox, the president of the galaxy (who has just lost that very title because he steals a ship of incredible importance and power), Marvin the Paranoid Android, who is everything but emotionally stable (well, I suppose he is stable if scorn and loathing are the sorts of emotions that can be stable), and a host of others. What happens along the way is largely incoherent and unrelated to any sort of plot whatsoever. Ostensibly, the first two novels are concerned with two issues: finding the true ruler of the universe, a task that Zaphod set to himself before wiping his own memory, and finding the question that matches the answer to life, the universe and everything, a purpose for which the Earth itself was built and the key to which, therefore, lies in the head of Arthur Dent. (The later novels start to move in their own directions, and also change structurally somewhat, and so won’t be the focus of attention here.)
This is what is supposed to pass for a plot, but the plot is notable above all for being basically ignored thereafter, not simply by the author, but by the characters themselves. Zaphod doesn’t want a damn thing to do with finding the real ruler of the galaxy, though he set himself up to do it. As for life, the universe, and everything, pieces of the puzzle are thrown in virtually at random, with a new lead or some such suddenly emerging by chance. It’s almost as though it appears to say ‘yes, there is something bigger motivating these people, but really it’s not that special.’ In the end, the plot is not very significant, and the ultimate revelations only become significant in terms of their ridiculousness and triteness. I will not spoil it, but the conclusions to both story threads are not merely underwhelming, but fiercely opposed to any satisfying answer. The basic resolution is that, in a nutshell, the galaxy is nuts.
And this revelation, in terms both of what it really is and how it is played out, is the whole point. The first thing to understand about HHGG as a series of novels and as an idea is that, in the end, there’s no point to everything, no conclusion with some sense of finality which makes everything fit. The galaxy where these events take place, when all is said and done, is ridiculous. The hunt for answers doesn’t give the characters, much less the reader, much satisfaction, because the galaxy is not a satisfying thing. In fact, the galaxy as a whole ends up feeling much like our own world; arbitrary, full of self-serving individuals and bureaucratic nonsense, diverting its energies to progressively more useless results, and all around something that looks worse the closer you look at it. The only moments in which Arthur, the man in whom the answer to life, the universe, and everything supposedly lies, is truly satisfied are the moments where he is furthest from the whole, the times when he is (literally) making sandwiches rather than pursuing the truth. Ford, the hitchhiker who’s seen the universe, would rather chase drinks than save galaxies, and is quite clear that he doesn’t care enough to act. Zaphod is even less serious than Ford. And Adams takes it less seriously than all of them.
If there is a real main character to this story, it is not Arthur; he is more of a perspective, a way to wedge our own limited perspective into a story spanning space and time. (Perhaps for this reason he is also the only genuinely believable character. The others are all amazing, beyond belief, and intentionally so; they are mostly caricatures of various sorts. Arthur, on the other hand, in his confusion, irritation, and constant resorting to sarcasm when the situation least calls for it, seems very average in his attempts to reconcile with existence.) The real central character is the Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy itself, or, more specifically, the editors who create its content. The guide, rather than being an impartial encyclopedia, is more of a how-to guide for life in the galaxy. It is practical and cynical; it recognizes the ignoble side of the universe and lives it, offering advice on making drinks and on what planets to avoid, on how to charm your way into the exclusive club on the exclusive planet and on what any idiot should now about space-time disruptions and how to take advantage of them. There is no grandeur in the tone of the guide; just a recognition that, despite it all, people just want to get by as well as they can, and possibly reduce their misery on the way.
Adams’ writing style, again particularly in the first two novels, revels in and perfectly reflects the nonsense of the world he portrays. A towel is the hitchhiker’s best friend, because you can use it to, among other things, keep warm, fight off enemies, store bits of wire, food, and other handy items, and even keep yourself dry. Doors have personalities, excited to open and close for you (which is about as irritating as it sounds). The ship Zaphod steals is powered by the improbability of events, which it then makes happen in the process of propelling itself through all points in the universe at once to reach its destinations. It is these oddities, their genesis and purpose, that make up the real content of the novel, because they all engender a sense that the galaxy is full of fools who make and do silly things, and as a result have made the galaxy a complete mess. A door that is excited to open for you tells a lot about the sorts of things people buy in the supposedly advanced galaxy, and makes for a lot of fun. But at the same time it almost sounds like something we might do. An elevator that can see into the future to be at the right floor ahead of time is a phenomenal waste of resources, and perhaps a danger. But there’s also something about it that doesn’t make it seem to stupid not to be made by somebody. What we see here, beside the humor that keeps us reading is a perspective about the way our own world works, a backdrop where great power and effort is expended in useless ways. This universe that Adams has made is broken, but it is also believably our own, and it’s this scene that is the real story.
A short story written by Adams taking place in the setting of the novels, “Young Zaphod Plays It Safe,” highlights this more clearly than the rest. Though the usual Adams comedic writing is there from time to time, this story is strangely serious in its tone. In it, Zaphod is charged with investigating (along with a couple public safety officials) a crashed ship full of dangerous items. The usual items, such bombs, poisons, and so forth, are present. But there are other things. One is a device that harnesses energy from the past in order to use it in the present. There was a lack of energy at some point, so someone had decided, why not take energy from the past? It’s not like they’re using it. Of course, this not only was self-defeating (that energy is no longer there in afterwards, reducing available energy in the future and starting a cycle) but terribly damaging to the past itself, and by extension the present. The most dangerous item of all, though? “Designer personalities,” artificial people made to order, who were in some cases designed such that they could get away with anything, and no one would suspect them. There’s something eerily believable about the possibility of these creations, not necessarily in terms of technological possibility, but as the sort of things our human race as we know it would do. Once again, this universe is believably our own in its insanity and incoherence.
And it’s that universe which HHGG is really about. It’s not about the plot, which Adams appeared to try and finish off for good at least three times. It’s about a world gone mad, about new technology suffering from the same old problems, about all the disaster that new opportunity brings. Basically, it’s about us, the power and stupidity we simultaneously wield, and how, no matter what changes, our problems always seem to stay the same. Adams was no fear-monger or conspiracy theorist; he was a greater fan of technology, and a more avid user of it, than just about anyone else. But unlike many others, he was also acutely aware of the very human problems that technology couldn’t solve, and HHGG is the chronicle of that. It’s the story of a world gone mad, where the characters, the plot, and everything else serve to show us this picture. And like the best parody, it’s simultaneously hilarious, engaging, and really, really disturbing.
posted by Derek at 11:50 PM
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