“All right,” said Ford, “I’ll try to explain. How long have we known each other?” “How long?” Arthur thought. “Er, about five years, maybe six,” he said. “Most of it seemed to make some sense at the time.”
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And no sneaky knocking down Mr. Dent's house whilst he's away, alright?
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“Are you telling me,” he said, “that you set yourself up to become President of the Galaxy just to steal that ship?” “That’s it,” said Zaphod with the sort of grin that would get most people locked away in a room with soft walls.
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Arthur glanced around him once more, and then down at himself, at the sweaty disheveled clothes he had been lying in the mud in on Thursday morning. “I seem to be having tremendous difficulty with my lifestyle,” he muttered to himself.
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Arthur stared into his beer. "Did I do anything wrong today," he said, "or has the world always been like this and I've been too wrapped up in myself to notice?"
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As soon as Mr. Prosser realized that he was substantially the loser after all, it was as if a weight lifted itself off his shoulders: this was more like the world as he knew it.
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Earthmen are not proud of their ancestors, and never invite them round to dinner.
Adams Douglas/Hitchhiker's Guide To The Galaxy
Er, excuse me, who am I? Hello? Why am I here? What's my purpose in life? What do I mean by who am I?
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"Ford!" he said, "there's an infinite number of monkeys outside who want to talk to us about this script for Hamlet they've worked out!"
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“Ford,” he said. “you’re turning into a penguin. Stop it.”
Adams Douglas/Hitchhiker's Guide To The Galaxy
If there's anything more important than my ego around, I want it caught and shot now.
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Is that robot yours? he said. “No,” came a thin metallic voice from the crater, “I’m mine.” “If you’d call it a robot,” muttered Arthur. “It’s more a sort of electronic sulking machine.”
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“My God,” complained Arthur, “you’re talking about a positive mental attitude and you haven’t even had your planet demolished today.”
Adams Douglas/Hitchhiker's Guide To The Galaxy
“Myself I’d trust him to the end of the Earth,” said Ford. “Oh yes,” said Arthur, “and how far’s that?” “About twelve minutes away,” said Ford, “come on, I need a drink.”
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Only six people in the Galaxy knew that the job of the Galactic President was not to wield power but to attract attention away from it. Zaphod Beeblebrox was amazingly good at his job.
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"Space," it says, "is big. Really big. You just won't believe how vastly hugely mindboggingly big it is. I mean you may think it's a long way down the road to the chemist, but that's just peanuts to space. Listen ..." and so on.
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Talking to yourself is a sign of impending mental collapse.
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The Encyclopedia Galactica defines a robot as a mechanical apparatus designed to do the work of a man. The marketing division of the Sirius Cybernetics Corporation defines a robot as "Your Plastic Pal Who's Fun To Be With."
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[The Guide] says that the effect of a Pan Galactic Gargle Blaster is like having your brains smashed out by a slice of lemon wrapped round a large gold brick.
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The suns blazed into the pitch of space and a low ghostly music floated through the bridge: Marvin was humming ironically because he hated humans so much.
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“This must be Thursday”, said Arthur musing to himself, sinking low over his beer, “I never could get the hang of Thursdays.”
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"Who said anything about panicking?" snapped Arthur. "This is still just the culture shock. You wait till I've settled down into the situation and found my bearings. Then I'll start panicking."
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“You’d better be prepared for the jump into hyperspace. It’s unpleasantly like being drunk.” “What’s so unpleasant about being drunk?” “You ask a glass of water.”
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Zaphod Beeblebrox, adventurer, ex-hippy, good timer, (crook? quite possibly), manic self-publicist, terribly bad at personal relationships, often thought to be completely out to lunch.
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“Zaphod! Wake up!” “Mmmmmwwwwwerrrrr?” “Hey come on, wake up.” “Just let me stick to what I’m good at, yeah?” muttered Zaphod and rolled away from the voice back to sleep.
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