The Hitchhiker’s books have always been a big deal to me. My siblings and I got them early — probably because I have family in England — so I was already deep into Douglas Adams when my friends didn’t know who he was yet. It seemed like a big secret that we had all to ourselves, at least for a while.
Obviously I liked them because they were funny. But I also liked them because Arthur was so depressed all the time. I was a mopey child, and they seemed to hit a particular black note that nothing else I read did. To this day the theme music from the radio show gives me major-league sad nostalgic feelings.
But I’m not a Hitchhiker’s purist.
