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The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy

Douglas Adams

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  • The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy: Quintessential Phase

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Beschreibung

NEW YORK TIMES BESTSELLER • “Extremely funny . . . inspired lunacy . . . [and] over much too soon.”—The Washington Post Book World

SOON TO BE A HULU SERIES • Now celebrating the pivotal 42nd anniversary of the original radio show on which the book was based.

Nominated as one of America’s best-loved novels by PBS’s The Great American Read

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 began 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!

Praise for The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy

“A whimsical oddyssey . . . Characters frolic through the galaxy with infectious joy.”
—Publishers Weekly

“Irresistable!”

The Boston Globe

"Extremely funny . . . inspired lunacy . . . [and] over much too soon."-The Washington Post Book World

"The feckless protagonist, Arthur Dent, is reminiscent of Vonnegut heroes, and his travels afford a wild satire of present institutions."-Chicago Tribune

"Very simply, the book is one of the funniest SF spoofs ever written, with hyperbolic ideas folding in on themselves."-School Library Journal

"[A] whimsical odyssey . . . Characters frolic through the galaxy with infectious joy."-Publishers Weekly

Produktdetails

Einband Taschenbuch
Seitenzahl 224
Erscheinungsdatum 27.09.1995
Sprache Englisch
ISBN 978-0-345-39180-3
Verlag Random House LCC US
Maße (L/B/H) 17,2/10,3/2 cm
Gewicht 111 g
Verkaufsrang 2738

Kundenbewertungen

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4 Bewertungen
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Relevant and funny
von einer Kundin/einem Kunden aus Zürich am 08.03.2020
Bewertet: Einband: Taschenbuch

I absolutely loved this! Adams is incredibly smart and hilarious. His jokes can be silly and observational, showing the absurdities of society, especially British society. It's one of the greatest works of sci-fi and satire out there. I've listened to the audiobook version narrated by Stephen Fry and it was one of the best exper... I absolutely loved this! Adams is incredibly smart and hilarious. His jokes can be silly and observational, showing the absurdities of society, especially British society. It's one of the greatest works of sci-fi and satire out there. I've listened to the audiobook version narrated by Stephen Fry and it was one of the best experiences of my life. Witty, entertaining and creative - this book is even for those who don't like or read sci-fi. It's really that good.

Dont miss it!
von einer Kundin/einem Kunden aus Berlin am 28.11.2010
Bewertet: Einband: Taschenbuch

Mindestens genauso gut wie der Film und auch beim lesen genauso ein Erlebnis. Die Philosophie dieses Buches wird auf so eindrucksvolle Weise näher gebracht das man nachdenken und lachen muss. Einfach Klasse.

Einfach herrlich
von einer Kundin/einem Kunden aus Bern am 14.09.2009
Bewertet: Einband: Taschenbuch

Das Buch entführt den Leser auf eine satirische und spannende Reise. Ich konnte diesen Klassiker nicht mehr aus den Händen legen. Don't panic Satire lebt..


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  • Chapter One

    The house stood on a slight rise just on the edge of the

    village. It stood on its own and looked out over a broad

    spread of West Country farmland. Not a remarkable house

    by any means-it was about thirty years old, squattish, squarish, made of brick, and had four windows set in the front of a size and proportion which more or less exactly failed to please the eye.

    The only person for whom the house was in any way special was Arthur Dent, and that was only because it happened to be the one he lived in. He had lived in it for about three years, ever since he had moved out of London because it made him nervous and irritable. He was about thirty as well, tall, dark-haired and never quite at ease with himself. The thing that used to worry him most was the fact that people always used to ask him what he was looking so worried about. He worked in local radio which he always used to tell his friends was a lot more interesting than they probably thought. It was, too-most of his friends worked in advertising.

    On Wednesday night it had rained very heavily, the lane was wet and muddy, but the Thursday morning sun was bright and clear as it shone on Arthur Dent's house for what was to be the last time.

    It hadn't properly registered yet with Arthur that the council wanted to knock it down and build a bypass instead.

    At eight o'clock on Thursday morning Arthur didn't feel very good. He woke up blearily, got up, wandered blearily round his room, opened a window, saw a bulldozer, found his slippers, and stomped off to the bathroom to wash.

    Toothpaste on the brush-so. Scrub.

    Shaving mirror-pointing at the ceiling. He adjusted it. For a moment it reflected a second bulldozer through the bathroom window. Properly adjusted, it reflected Arthur Dent's bristles. He shaved them off, washed, dried and stomped off to the kitchen to find something pleasant to put in his mouth.

    Kettle, plug, fridge, milk, coffee. Yawn.

    The word bulldozer wandered through his mind for a moment in search of something to connect with.

    The bulldozer outside the kitchen window was quite a big one.

    He stared at it.

    "Yellow," he thought, and stomped off back to his bedroom to get dressed.

    Passing the bathroom he stopped to drink a large glass of water, and another. He began to suspect that he was hung over. Why was he hung over? Had he been drinking the night be- fore? He supposed that he must have been. He caught a glint in the shaving mirror. "Yellow," he thought, and stomped on to the bedroom.

    He stood and thought. The pub, he thought. Oh dear, the pub. He vaguely remembered being angry, angry about something that seemed important. He'd been telling people about it, telling people about it at great length, he rather suspected: his clearest visual recollection was of glazed looks on other people's faces. Something about a new bypass he'd just found out about. It had been in the pipeline for months only no one seemed to have known about it. Ridiculous. He took a swig of water. It would sort itself out, he'd decided, no one wanted a bypass, the council didn't have a leg to stand on. It would sort itself out.

    God, what a terrible hangover it had earned him though. He looked at himself in the wardrobe mirror. He stuck out his tongue. "Yellow," he thought. The word yellow wandered through his mind in search of something to connect with.

    Fifteen seconds later he was out of the house and lying in front of a big yellow bulldozer that was advancing up his garden path.

    Mr. L. Prosser was, as they say, only human. In other words he was a carbon-based bipedal life form descended from an ape. More specifically he was forty, fat and shabby and worked for the local council. Curiously enough, though he didn't know it, he was also a direct male-line descendant of Genghis Khan, though intervening generations and