From: Matthew Gaylor (freematt@coil.com)
Date: Mon May 14 2001 - 08:29:54 MDT
http://www.edge.org/documents/adams_index.html
DOUGLAS ADAMS (1952 - 2001)
LAMENT FOR DOUGLAS
By Richard Dawkins
[5.14.01]
This is not an obituary, there'll be time enough for them. It is not
a tribute, not a considered assessment of a brilliant life, not a
eulogy. It is a keening lament, written too soon to be balanced, too
soon to be carefully thought through. Douglas, you cannot be dead.
A sunny Saturday morning in May, ten past seven, shuffle out of bed,
log in to e-mail as usual. The usual blue bold headings drop into
place, mostly junk, some expected, and my gaze absently follows them
down the page. The name Douglas Adams catches my eye and I smile.
That one, at least, will be good for a laugh. Then I do the classic
double-take, back up the screen. What did that heading actually say?
Douglas Adams died of a heart attack a few hours ago. Then that other
cliché, the words swelling before my eyes. It must be part of the
joke. It must be some other Douglas Adams. This is too ridiculous to
be true. I must still be asleep. I open the message, from a
well-known German software designer. It is no joke, I am fully awake.
And it is the right - or rather the wrong - Douglas Adams. A sudden
heart attack, in the gym in Santa Barbara. "Man, man, man, man oh
man," the message concludes,
Man indeed, what a man. A giant of a man, surely nearer seven foot
than six, broad-shouldered, and he did not stoop like some very tall
men who feel uncomfortable with their height. But nor did he swagger
with the macho assertiveness that can be intimidating in a big man.
He neither apologised for his height, nor flaunted it. It was part of
the joke against himself.
One of the great wits of our age, his sophisticated humour was
founded in a deep, amalgamated knowledge of literature and science,
two of my great loves. And he introduced me to my wife - at his
fortieth birthday party. He was exactly her age, they had worked
together on Dr Who. Should I tell her now, or let her sleep a bit
longer before shattering her day? He initiated our togetherness and
was a recurrently important part of it. I must tell her now.
Douglas and I met because I sent him an unsolicited fan letter - I
think it is the only time I have ever written one. I had adored The
Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy. Then I read Dirk Gently's Holistic
Detective Agency. As soon as I finished it I turned back to page one
and read it straight through again - the only I time I have ever done
that, and I wrote to tell him so. He replied that he was a fan of my
books, and he invited me to his house in London. I have seldom met a
more congenial spirit. Obviously I knew he would be funny. What I
didn't know was how deeply read he was in science. I should have
guessed, for you can't understand many of the jokes in Hitchhiker if
you don't know a lot of advanced science. And in modern electronic
technology he was a real expert. We talked science a lot, in private,
and even in public at literary festivals and on the wireless or
television. And he became my guru on all technical problems. Rather
than struggle with some ill-written and incomprehensible manual in
Pacific Rim English, I would fire off an e-mail to Douglas. He would
reply, often within minutes, whether in London or Santa Barbara, or
some hotel room anywhere in the world. Unlike most staffers of
professional help lines, Douglas understood exactly my problem, knew
exactly why it was troubling me, and always had the solution ready,
lucidly and amusingly explained. Our frequent e-mail exchanges
brimmed with literary and scientific jokes and affectionately
sardonic little asides. His technophilia shone through, but so did
his rich sense of the absurd. The whole world was one big Monty
Python sketch, and the follies of humanity are as comic in the
world's silicon valleys as anywhere else.
He laughed at himself with equal good humour. At, for example, his
epic bouts of writer's block ("I love deadlines. I love the whooshing
noise they make as they go by") when, according to legend, his
publisher and book agent would literally lock him in a hotel room,
with no telephone, and nothing to do but write, releasing him only
for supervised walks. If his enthusiasm ran away with him and he
advanced a biological theory too eccentric for my professional
scepticism to let pass, his mien at my dismissal of it would always
be more humorously self-mocking than genuinely crestfallen. And he
would have another go.
He laughed at his own jokes, which good comedians are supposed not
to, but he did it with such charm that the jokes became even funnier.
He was gently able to poke fun without wounding, and it would be
aimed not at individuals but at their absurd ideas. To illustrate the
vain conceit that the universe must be somehow pre-ordained for us,
because we are so well-suited to live in it, he mimed a wonderfully
funny imitation of a puddle of water, fitting itself snugly into a
depression in the ground, the depression uncannily being exactly the
same shape as the puddle. Or there's this parable, which he told with
huge enjoyment, whose moral leaps out with no further explanation. A
man didn't understand how televisions work, and was convinced that
there must be lots of little men inside the box. manipulating images
at high speed. An engineer explained to him about high frequency
modulations of the electromagnetic spectrum, about transmitters and
receivers, about amplifiers and cathode ray tubes, about scan lines
moving across and down a phosphorescent screen. The man listened to
the engineer with careful attention, nodding his head at every step
of the argument. At the end he pronounced himself satisfied. He
really did now understand how televisions work. "But I expect there
are just a few little men in there, aren't there?"
Science has lost a friend, literature has lost a luminary, the
mountain gorilla and the black rhino have lost a gallant defender (he
once climbed Kilimanjaro in a rhino suit to raise money to fight the
cretinous trade in rhino horn), Apple Computer has lost its most
eloquent apologist. And I have lost an irreplaceable intellectual
companion and one of the kindest and funniest men I ever met. I
officially received a happy piece of news yesterday, which would have
delighted him. I wasn't allowed to tell anyone during the weeks I
have secretly known about it, and now that I am allowed to it is too
late.
Richard Dawkins, Daniel C. Dennett, Douglas Adams, Jared Diamond, Steven Pinker
The sun is shining, life must go on, seize the day and all those
clichés. We shall plant a tree this very day: a Douglas Fir, tall,
upright, evergreen. It is the wrong time of year, but we'll give it
our best shot. Off to the arboretum.
* * * *
The tree is planted, and this article completed, all within 24 hours
of his death. Was it cathartic? No, but it was worth a try.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
It was announced today that RICHARD DAWKINS has been elected a Fellow
of the Royal Society. Dawkins is an evolutionary biologist and the
Charles Simonyi Professor For The Understanding Of Science at Oxford
University; Fellow of New College; author of The Selfish Gene,The
Extended Phenotype,The Blind Watchmaker, River Out Of Eden (Science
Masters Series), Climbing Mount Improbable, and Unweaving The Rainbow.
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