A Canticle for Leibowitz (1959)

I still am not sure what to think of this book. I can't decide if I should be in despair for the repetitive stupidity of mankind, or if I should have hope that maybe humankind will stop being such idiots. The author mixes religion with secularism. There is humor and irony in the Sainthood of Leibowitz. There are no adequate way to describe this story, other than it follows the Monks of the Order of St. Leibowitz from near it's founding at an Abbey in Utah through to the interesting ending of this story. It was a hard book to read in that oftimes I was totally disgusted with humanity and those in power. I still don't know what to think. Even though it was written in 1959, the behavior of our governments and those wielding power have not changed. They are still power hungry morons not caring a bit about those who try to do right. ( )

A classic, and rightly so. Beautiful and melancholic writing on the end of the world and what comes next. ( )

I was probably expecting some more Dan Simmons esque weirdness, vs what I got a pretty bog-standard sci-fi morality play. ( )

[Full review here: http://wetwiring.wordpress.com/2012/04/08/a-canticle-for-leibowitz-religion-and-...

Strange. It's consistently interesting in its depiction of a post-apocalyptic society, until about halfway through the "Fiat Voluntas Tua" section. Up to this point it had been fairly dispassionate and interesting examination of the role of a monastery in such a society, one by turns ignorant and fearful of scientific progress, as a repository of the isolated and frayed threads of knowledge. Then there is a swerve into a narrative on the abuse secular powers inevitably make of science, one which is crowd-pleasingly cynical, marking this book as a product of the Cold War.

Reading this immediately after Neal Stephenson's Anathem, I found in it many prefigurations of what Stephenson would examine from a more rigorous perspective. Disappointingly, the last section of Canticle loses it completely, as the author's Catholicism takes over. This part of the plot makes little sense unless you happen to agree with that Church's brutal (but according to its own theological premises, logical) theodicy, and seems to function as little more than an apologia for Miller's beliefs. Another author might have attempted to present Zerchi's position in the abstract, thus giving the sceptical reader something to engage with. Miller abdicates such a difficult task, and instead implies that if you do not agree with his position (through the mouthpiece of Zerchi) you are not just compromised, but guilty.

As a genre work, it is an important part of the post-apocalyptic canon. As literature, it is decidedly third-rate, and buckles under the weight of its leaden ironies. I cannot help but feel it is so highly revered because it engages - crudely - with some spiritual themes often absent from SF. An author such as Stephenson is capable of engaging with such themes, without compromising the hard-headedness for which he is held in such high regard. In contrast, Miller is is lobotomized. In terms of literature on the whole, aside from the SF genre, Hesse's Glass Bead Game manages to consider the role of knowledge in the abstract (admittedly sans apocalypse) and yet you don't feel that you are being bashed over the head.


Overall, it is an interesting effort, but put in the context of both later SF, and literature in general, it's not much more than a period piece. ( )

This title from the NPR Top 100 Science Fiction and Fantasy list came highly recommended from my coworkers, and I found it to be well deserving of the praise. Divided into three sections, the novel begins in a post-nuclear-apocalyptic world where monks and the Church work to preserve memories and relics of the time before. A young novice is out on a vision quest of sorts in the deserts of Utah, which are notorious for wolves and grotesque disfigured monsters (humans born with defects due to the nuclear fallout), and encounters a strange pilgrim who can read and write. The novice later stumbles upon an old abandoned fallout shelter, which seems to him like a holy ground, full of artifacts and ancient writings harkening back to the days of Leibowitz, the saint for whom his order is named. This discovery is received with mixed reactions at the monastery, but the novice believes fervently that he was meant to make this discovery, and spends many long years labouring over the documents found. In the second section, the society is beginning to experiment with technology, and the Brothers of Saint Leibowitz are working on a machine to produce artificial light. In the third section, nuclear warfare has once again returned, and the monastery, a place of refuge, is preparing to evacuate in the face of total annihilation.

Although this book is now over fifty years old, it has aged gracefully, and is still very readable. The first section is the longest, and most engrossing; however, the third section poses a number of questions regarding conduct in the face of destruction, as well as ethics and making decisions in spite of persecution. Mary Doria Russell wrote the introduction to the edition I read, and I would definitely recommend it to fans of her work, as well as those who enjoy Sharon Shinn’s Samaria series. ( )