I just finished reading the new Douglas Adams book, The Salmon of Doubt. It had arrived in the post when I got home from work on Monday, free (I hope) from the Fantasy and Science Fiction Book Club. I sent off a voucher that had almost certainly expired, but I'm not going to feel guilty because they kept trying to make me pay twice for things. When I say "kept", I mean they did it once. But it was £40 instead of £20, or something. And you can't even phone the people up. They have all these different phone numbers, and they all lead to the same automated phone system that is completely unhelpful! I had to send them loads of bits of paper to prove they'd messed things up. To be fair, they did sort it out. But now I want to leave, and they don't tell you how to do that. Why should they? They're making money out of me every month! *sigh*

I digress, though. The book has left me with a strange hollow feeling inside. You see, as much as I enjoyed it, I knew it had to end. And I knew that when it ended I'd be left with nothing else Douglas Adams related to read, ever again. There must be plenty of people out there who feel the same way.

The book is a sort of biographical collection of writings. It has all sorts of articles that he wrote for magazines and things, including his very first published work - a letter to the Eagle comic. The articles are in the main about three things: technology, atheism and wildlife. Along with things like how to make proper cups of tea. But the part that passed the most quickly was the last part - eleven chapters of the book he was working on when he died.

It's interesting that the book that'll be remembered as his "unfinished masterpiece" is a Dirk Gently novel. I always had a problem with the Dirk Gently novels in that, although I loved them, they were incredibly confusing! I was amused to read that even Douglas Adams thought it got a bit confusing. He said, "It's an enormously complicated plot... Part of the complexity is there to disguise the fact that the plot doesn't really work." I like that. :-)

The eleven chapters are even more peculiar because Douglas Adams never really decided what they were going to be. Although it seems on the surface to be a Dirk Gently novel, he wondered if parts were more suited to the more upbeat sixth Hitchhiker's book he was planning on writing. It's hard to take the chapters as being anything like a story, although the main plot is certainly in place. What the plot means is unclear, but it's there.

The thing that makes me forgive an understandable lack of form is that you can take paragraphs out of context, or even sentences, and find them so clever, or hilarious, that they don't need to be in a story to be enjoyed. It's been the same with all his books, even Last Chance to See, his excellent book where he roamed the planet looking for endangered species. The one he called his best work.

I'll give you a couple of examples, but it'd be best if you just go and buy the book...

And James, if you're reading this, can you buy it and complete the novel for me? I would like to know how it ends. And after reading DNA's stories about his school life I'm particularly struck by your similar writing styles. (If you don't know Mr James Nicholls, and you can't see how this can possibly be true, read the Tales of the Geek Underclass.) And now James has a lot to live up to! :-)

"The phone was ringing. Dirk answered it. He sighed. It was Thor, the ancient Norse God of Thunder. Dirk knew immediately it was him from long, portentous silence and the low grumblings of irritation followed by strange, distant bawling noises. Thor did not understand phones very well. He would usually stand ten feet away and shout godlike commands at them. This worked surprisingly well as far as making the connection was concerned, but made actual conversation well-nigh impossible."

"The thing is," explained Dirk, "in London you could certainly walk up to someone and steal their car, but you wouldn't be able to drive it away."
"Some kinda fancy device?"
"No, just traffic," said Dirk.

It seems to be the way of things that when we love someone's creations enough, their work in progress gets published after their death. Think Dickens. Think Tolkien. Because even though the unfinished piece is rough around the edges, and lacking in form, and you'll never find out how it ends, enough genius is in those tantalising fragments to make it worthwhile.

It's almost a year now since Douglas Adams died, unexpectedly of a heart attack. May 11th, 2001. I'll probably forget about it until after May 11th, because I always do things like that. But you'll know I thought about it. Because I wrote it here. I'd like to think there's a chance he's happily sitting in heaven, but he was an atheist. I'm not sure where he thought he'd end up. But there'll always be parts of him on millions of bookshelves all across the world. I suppose that's something...