There are many reasons why the arbiters of literary taste have never warmed up to science fiction. But one of the most obvious is the overwrought heroic ambitions of the typical sci-fi story. The protagonists of these works are inevitably involved in grand endeavors of galactic proportions, and no matter how remarkable the project at hand—whether the conquest of space or time or aliens with rad weapons—the "mission accomplished" banner is ready to be raised high in the last chapter. Put simpl y , subtlety and nuance don’t have much of a role to play in these tales.
Needless to say, heroic enterprises of this sort fell out of fashion long ago in the world of literary fiction, or exist merely to be derided and toppled. Yet, oddly enough, even science fiction fans have lately grown weary with grandiose schemes and nebula-shaking theatrics. Call it the post- Star Wars burnout, if you will. I don’t attribute this to any greater sophistication among readers—far from it—or to a greater sophistication among writers either, but rather to obvious changes in science and technology in modern times. During the golden age of science fiction, the most exciting scientific advances were linked to large-scale government programs—the space race, the Manhattan project, the Project Blue Book inquiry into UFOs, etc.—and as a result the sci-fi stories of the day adopted similar pretensions. In more recent times, the most noticeable advances in technology have taken place in the world of consumer electronics—in science that can be consumed at home, so to speak—and this has been accompanied by a comparable shift in genre fiction. Science fiction of our current day is increasingly anti-heroic, even somewhat anarchic and counter-culture in its pretensions.
No book better epitomizes the post-heroic tone of sci-fi than Douglas Adams’ The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy . As the name indicates, a certain louche bohemianism permeates its pages. This is star-hopping on the cheap, pursued by those aiming not to conquer the universe, but merely sample its riches on fewer than thirty Altairian dollars per day. You can trace the lineage of many later science fictions books, with their hip and irreverent tone, back to this influential and much beloved predecessor.
The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy is very much a product of its author’s unusual background—while other sci-fi writers apprenticed as contributors to pulp fiction magazines, Adams learned his craft writing and performing comedy (most notably as part of Monty Python), working in television and radio, and taking on a host of quirky jobs (bodyguard, porter, chicken shed cleaner, etc.). In fact, The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy started out as a radio comedy series broadcast on BBC Radio in 1978. This uncharacteristic background makes itself felt throughout Adams’ fiction: in the lithe, sprightly tone of the prose, in the rapid pace of the narrative, and above all in the author ' s taste for the bizarre and outré. Almost every aspect of the novel—plot, character, setting, style—is subservient to Adams 's comic intent.
But if The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy signaled the birth of low-key, antiheroic science fiction, don’t jump to the conclusion that large scale events of interstellar importance don’t take place in its pages. Au contraire! When was the last time you read a novel in which the planet of earth was destroyed in an early chapter? Give the man his due: Adams is not afraid to leave a trail of galactic debris in his wake as he transports his characters from nebula to nebula.
The sudden vaporization of Mother Earth is far from the only improbable plot twist in this book. Whales fly through outer space, and the mystery of life is solved, more or less. Readers are also presented with a spaceship that is propelled by an ultra-high-tech improbability drive—with predictable (or perhaps I should say unpredictable) results. Suffice it to say that even Dickens would have complained about the unlikely coincidences that occur every twenty pages or so during the course of The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy .
Character development is not Adams’ strong suit here (but he got more adept at it over time—check out Dirk Gently’s Holistic Detective Agency for a more controlled and personality-driven narrative). Ford Prefect, our lovable alien from Betelgeuse in the constellation of Orion, is a freelance contributor to a popular guide for galactic hitchhikers. After a regrettably long stopover on the third planet from our own sun, Prefect thumbs a ride on a Vogon spaceship—just in time to avoid a painful practical lesson in eschatology—and brings along earthling buddy Arthur Dent. No, they won’t make readers forget Sal Paradise and Dean Moriarty anytime soon, even if the hapless duo somehow \ manages to cover Kerouacian on-the-road distances in a few milliseconds. But in terms of offering quips and set-up lines for cunning rejoinders, Dent and Prefect can’t be beat even by the Beats.
Before you reach the end of the novel, you will have encountered many unexpected things, not just our flying whale but also a bipolar robot, mice who experiment on scientists, a planet where they make other planets, and the worst poetry in the universe. Whenever the story line seems about to falter—which is regular occurrence in these chapters—Adams just pushes forward, and usually saves the day with the sheer extravagance of his imagination. Okay, the whale notwithstanding, this is not Moby Dick, but in the history of speculative fiction, Adams’ immensely popular novel stands out as a breath of fresh air, and redefined the genre in ways that are still felt today. And, yes, all on fewer than thirty Altairian dollars per day.