He made hitchhiking a universal thing.
Literally.
Douglas Adams, author of the five books in the vastly popular comic-space saga "The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy" trilogy (you did indeed read that correctly), plus an assortment of other novels, died in May 2001.
Now comes a posthumous collection of his writings, called "The Salmon of Doubt," which allows his fans one last, gentle look at a revolutionary voice in literature and science-fiction.
"Salmon" is very much a toast to Adams, a eulogy to him.
The assembled writings are fabulous, culled from a massive selection of writings, letters, essays, various introductions and other things from Adams' computer.
The title refers to an included unfinished Dirk Gently book which, had he lived, might have turned into the sixth "Hitchhiker" book.
Other points of interest:
The first published work of twelve-year-old Douglas Adams, a letter to the editor to "The Eagle," a popular boys' magazine.
"Y," in which Adams helpfully points out that the question "Why?" is the only one important enough to have had a letter named after it.
"Riding the Rays," in which Adams gets the idea to compare riding a new technological submarine, the "Sub Bug," to riding manta rays off the coast of Manta Ray Bay near Australia, the rejection of his proposal when it comes to riding the rays and, upon discovering a manta in said bay, his ease with giving up the pursuit of a ride. Quite possibly the best entry in the whole book.
"Is There an Artificial God?" is an interesting speech from Adams on his aetheism, as he breaks downb his non-belief into steps and explores the contrasts between science and religion.
"Cookies," in which Adams finds himself plagued by the most horrid of human entities: The cookie thief. Or does he?
A letter to Disney's unresponsive David Vogel leaving a chart of numbers at which Adams can possibly be reached.
"The Private Life of Genghis Khan": A woman whose village has just been pillaged and burnt to the ground by the Mongol now finds herself right next to him, with one of his warriors forcing her to ask the mighty Khan how his day was...
It is almost spooky how, in a review/essay of P.G. Wodehouse's unfinished novel "Sunset at Blandings," Adams laments the fact that Wodehouse's final work is "unfinished not just in the sense that it suddenly, heartbreakingly for those of us who love this man and his work, stops in midflow, but in the more important sense that the text up to that point is also unfinished."
Heartbreakingly stopped in midflow, unfinished? The same can be said of Adams himself.