An unfitting tribute

Douglas Noel Adams was fond of pointing out that he was born in 1952 in Cambridge - nine months before Crick and Watson discovered DNA there for themselves. The creator of The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy franchise, which has been exploited on radio, television, a CD-Rom and the Web, as well as in the old-fashioned form of five novels, died in a Californian gym on 11 May last year.

He has not been allowed to rest in peace. Well-meaning folk have raided the harddrive of his much-worn Macintosh and published their findings to mark the anniversary of his death. The title of the collection comes from a still-born novel that Adams had been tinkering with for years.

So, are these samples of DNA evidence of a major talent? Would they stand up in a court of critical law? No, m'lud. The 11 chapters of The Salmon of Doubt account for a mere 80 pages of this 300-page work. The rest consists of odd articles, interviews and introductions to other books which have been arbitrarily arranged into three sections called Life, The Universe and Everything.

Nevertheless, the picture that emerges from these jottings appears to be a pretty accurate portrait of the artist as a funny man. DNA comes across as a modest agnostic, uncomfortable with his height (6ft 5in), ashamed of his nose (large), fond of Bach, The Beatles, PG Wodehouse ("pure word music") and a nice cup of tea (made the British, not the American, way).

He is interested in ecology and creation theory and, on occasion, conveys his enthusiasm for both with wit. He only becomes boring when he bangs on and on about "stuff": cameras, computers, "little dongly things". A battle with the architects of his Islington home has clearly scarred him, yet he has not lost his sense of humour: "I tend to like local cooking unless I'm in Wales." He is not afraid, in this age of cultural relativity, to be heretical: "All opinions are not equal."

However, DNA's fans - of whom there are millions - will buy this book for The Salmon of Doubt, but they really, really shouldn't. It is an incomplete shaggy dog story with a half-missing cat instead of a dog and, in addition to Dirk Gently, the spoof detective, a three-ton rhino called Desmond.

Like the rest of this omnium-gatherum, it is vaguely amusing yet everybody would have far more fun simply rereading The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy instead. There's plenty of evidence of comic genius in that.

As for the eponymous salmon, it fails to make an appearance. Another fish, though, does manage to bring out the best in Adams. Riding The Rays, written in 1992, starts off as a facetious account of a free trip to Australia to test-drive a Sub Bug, "a jet-propelled underwater buggy sort of thing", and to compare the experience with that of hitching a ride on the back of a manta ray. Adams, of course, soon learns that such a harmful stunt is out of the question.

Suddenly his flippancy falls away as a ray glides into view: "As it moved, shimmering and undulating its giant wings, folding itself through the water, I felt that I was looking at the single most beautiful and unearthly thing I had ever seen in my life."

DNA's awe and way with words gives the reader goose bumps. At least such moments - all too rare in this collection - suggest why Adams should be both mourned and celebrated.