Book #67

The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy by Douglas Adams

Seconds before Earth is demolished to make way for a galactic freeway, Arthur Dent is plucked off the planet by his friend Ford Prefect, a researcher for the revised edition of The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy who, for the last fifteen years, has been posing as an out-of-work actor.

Together, this dynamic pair begin a journey through space aided by a galaxyful of fellow travelers: Zaphod Beeblebrox--the two-headed, three-armed ex-hippie and totally out-to-lunch president of the galaxy; Trillian (formerly Tricia McMillan), Zaphod's girlfriend, whom Arthur tried to pick up at a cocktail party once upon a time zone; Marvin, a paranoid, brilliant, and chronically depressed robot; and Veet Voojagig, a former graduate student obsessed with the disappearance of all the ballpoint pens he's bought over the years.

Where are these pens? Why are we born? Why do we die? For all the answers, stick your thumb to the stars!

Okay, I’m sorry folks, but it all boils down to this - I didn’t get it.

It’s very possible you need the right kind of brain to enjoy this. It’s very possible I am tramping behind the times only reading this now. It’s highly likely you need to be at least slightly interested in the sci-fi genre to remotely understand what’s going on. I don’t even like reading books about space, I just love a good cult classic.

I have deep respect for those who love this novel as, to me, that marks a level of intelligence I seem not to possess. I liked the characters, I loved the laughs, I enjoyed some of the subtle nods. But that was all. 

So here I go, closing the door on the Adams fans, wishing them an excellent party, and softly stating that I won’t be discussing this further.