Life, the Universe and Everything (The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy, #3)

by Douglas Adams

He wasn’t certain whether he had just got space-sickness or religion.

“My doctor says that I have a malformed public duty gland and a natural deficiency in moral fiber,” he muttered to himself, “and that I am therefore excused from saving Universes.”

There is a moment in every dawn when light floats, there is the possibility of magic. Creation holds its breath.

Just as a slow series of clicks when speeded up will lose the definition of each individual click and gradually take on the quality of a sustained and rising tone, so a series of individual impressions here took on the quality of a sustained emotion—and yet not an emotion. If it was an emotion, it was a totally emotionless one. It was hatred, implacable hatred. It was cold, not like ice is cold, but like a wall is cold. It was impersonal, not like a randomly flung fist in a crowd is impersonal, but like a computer-issued parking summons is impersonal. And it was deadly, again, not like a bullet or a knife is deadly, but like a brick wall across an expressway is deadly.

There is an art, it says, or, rather, a knack to flying. The knack lies in learning how to throw yourself at the ground and miss.

frowned like a man trying to unbend a corkscrew by telekinesis.