Customer Reviews

A Canticle for Leibowitz

5 star:		(215)
4 star:		(41)
3 star:		(15)
2 star:		(15)
1 star:		(17)

 

 

Walter Miller's only major novel is not simply a post-apocalyptic science fiction novel but also a multi-layered meditation on the conflict between knowledge and morality. Six hundred years after a nuclear holocaust, an abbey of Catholic monks survives during a new Dark Ages and preserves the little that remains of the world's scientific knowledge. The monks also seek evidence concerning the existence of Leibowitz, their alleged founder (who, the reader soon realizes, is a Jewish scientist who appears to have been part of the nuclear industrial complex of the 1960s). The second part fast-forwards another six hundred years, to the onset of a new Renaissance; a final section again skips yet another six hundred years, to the dawn of a second Space Age--complete, once again, with nuclear weapons.

The only character who appears in all three sections is the Wandering Jew--borrowed from the anti-Semitic legend of a man who mocked Jesus on the way to the crucifixion and who was condemned to a vagrant life on earth until Judgment Day. Miller resurrects this European slander and sanitizes him as a curmudgeonly hermit, a voice of reason in a desert wilderness, an observer to humankind's repeated stupidities, a friend to the monks and abbots, the biblical Lazarus, the ghost of Leibowitz (perhaps)--and even the voice of Miller himself.

Throughout "Canticle," Miller's search for religious faith clashes with his respect for scientific rationalism. For Miller, Lucifer is not a fallen angel but technological discovery unencumbered by a moral compass; "Lucifer is fallen" becomes the code phrase the future Church uses to indicate the imminent threat of a second nuclear holocaust. The ability of humankind to abuse learning for evil purposes, to continually expel itself from the Garden of Eden, perplexes and haunts the author: "The closer men came to perfecting for themselves a paradise, the more impatient they seemed to become with it, and with themselves as well."

Some readers might be turned off by the book's religious undercurrent, but that would be to mistake fiction for a sermon. The work is certainly infused with the author's Catholicism, but its philosophy is far too ambiguous to be read like a homily. This is no "Battlefield Earth." Instead, it is Miller's highly personal act of atonement; he acknowledged later in life that his fictional monastery was first subconsciously, then purposefully modeled on the ancient Benedictine Monastery at Monte Cassino, which, as a World War II pilot, he bombed to smithereens. (An historical aside: most of the major Greco-Roman scientific and mathematical texts were preserved for posterity by Arabic scholars--not by medieval Catholic monks. But this is fiction, and it's not clear whether Miller is trying to replicate Church history as it was or as he felt it should have been.)

In many ways, Miller's Catholicism is as conflicted in the book as it was in his own life. He changed religious beliefs several times; in the 1980s, he immersed himself in Buddhist texts. Throughout "Canticle," you can see Miller wrestling with his spiritual beliefs and with his own demons, and in the final chapters, Miller includes an extended debate over whether suicide and euthanasia (and, tangentially, abortion) are ever viable options, even to avoid the worst forms of pain and certain death. Although he seems to side with Catholic views on these issues, Miller himself committed suicide in 1996.

Rather than distracting the reader with religious and philosophical musings, however, "A Canticle for Leibowitz" is enriched by them. It's not only a compelling, well-written story, it's an allegorical tale that might encourage readers to struggle with their own beliefs and demons.

"A Canticle for Leibowitz" chronicles the rebuilding of "civilization" after nuclear holocaust. It has three distinct sections, each separated by hundreds of years, centering around life at a desert monastary named in honor of a very unusual "saint". Since each section tells its own story, and could be read separately, I'm going to rate each one separately.

PART ONE: FIAT HOMO (5 stars) Tipped off by a mysterious old man (could it be Saint Leibowitz himself?), a nervous novice monk discovers an underground chamber that contains some highly significant relics, for which he suffers abuse from a fearful and sadistic abbot. Eventually, he is sent on a dangerous journey to New Rome, under constant threat from primitive nomads. The ending of this section is rather chilling and ironic, much like a Flannery O'Connor short story.

PART TWO: FIAT LUX (3 stars) This is the only section among the three that really is not able to stand alone as a self-contained story with a definitive ending. I suppose this could be considered the "Empire Strikes Back" of the "trilogy". The basis of this part is the mistrust that exists between religion and science, when a scholar visits the monastary to study the ancient Leibowitz documents and finds, to his astonishment, one of the monks has invented (or re-invented) the electric light. The old man reappears (remember, this is hundreds of years after the first story) as a rather significant player in this section, but, ultimately, this story is merely transitional.

PART THREE: FIAT VOLUNTUAS TUA (5 stars) I wanted to give this part 6 or 7 stars, but that would be cheating. This last section is absolutely brilliant. Many hundreds of years later, the inevitable happens, proving that mankind apparently never learns from its mistakes. The very wise abbot (it is interesting how each abbot in these stories is wiser than the last) sees the handwriting on the wall and commissions a group of monastics, accompanied by the relics of Saint Leibowitz, to escape by rocket ship to a distant planet to guarantee the perpetuity of the order and, indeed, of the faith itself. Meanwhile, the abbot and a medical doctor grapple over the appropriateness of euthanasia for suffering victims of the fallout. (Any groups or classes that might be discussing the subject of mercy killing would benefit greatly by reading this section since it lays out the opposing arguments very clearly and forcefully). Although the ultimate disaster takes place, hope is still found in the most unlikely person: a mutant, two-headed woman. And so we begin again.

This book takes a very positive, optimistic view of religion, while it is pessimistic about mankind in general. The stories included here work on many levels, and the book as a whole makes for an enlightening reading experience.

This novel from the 1950's is a deserved classic among the sci-fi intelligentsia. Maybe its laborious title has kept it from being noticed by the popular masses, but this book is a hidden gem for those looking to broaden their horizons. This is probably one of the earliest stories to speculate on a post-nuclear apocalypse, and here Walter Miller created one of the most imaginative and far-reaching examples of that motif. Later nuclear winter stories would get predictable and formulaic, but not this originator. In this masterpiece of storytelling, three ages of human development pass by over the course of 1800 years, but in the end we see that those who don't know history are doomed to repeat it. While it's a bit dated in places, this brilliant and disturbing novel will keep you thinking for a long time after you're done reading it.

In addition to its unique take on historical processes, this book is essentially about the pros and cons of organized religion. In Part 1, humanity is stuck in the middle of several centuries of dark ages after a nuclear war, and once again the Catholic Church (or what's left of it) holds sway over a fearful and unenlightened society. Among the few records of the pre-war world that have survived are some inconsequential notes and blueprints by a minor scientist called Leibowitz. The church has made Leibowitz a saint, and here Miller appears to be commenting on the reverence of organized religion toward matters of doubtful authenticity and importance. Is religious belief built upon weak foundations? In Part 2 humanity is entering a new renaissance of knowledge, with religion being unable to adjust to the new enlightenment. In Part 3, humanity has reached a new technical age, but society is again oppressed by nuclear paranoia and mutually assured destruction. Humanity is about to destroy itself once again in this 1800-year cycle. Miller then takes us on an examination of the strength and relevance of faith in the face of such suffering and destruction. However, for the entire 1800 years and more, the disciples of Leibowitz have kept faith and hope alive. So is organized religion the curse or savior of humanity? Walter Miller contemplates these issues with great lucidity in this lost classic. [~doomsdayer520~]

A Canticle for Leibowitz begins when nuclear warfare (aka The Flame Deluge) destroys the vast majority of civilization. Immediately following the holocaust, a group of survivors called The Simpletons wage a full-scale pogrom and book burning campaign against surviving scientists, politicians, teachers, etc. - those they feel were responsible for the war. The new Dark Age is called The Simplification, which lasts for many hundreds of years. A former physicist named Isaac Leibowitz devotes his life to the Catholic Church after the Deluge. Leibowitz is able to persuade the Church (whom The Simpletons leave alone to a certain extent) to protect whatever written material remains. After being turned over to The Simpletons by a turncoat technician, Leibowitz is killed and considered a martyr by the church. ACfL is a story that spans nearly twelve centuries centering on the abbey seeks to canonize Leibowitz, The Albertian Order of Leibowitz. The story is broken into three sections: Fiat Homo, Fiat Lux, and Fiat Voluntas Tua.

Fiat Homo is about a bumbling young monk named Brother Francis who has a squabble with The Wandering Jew, who later directs Francis to a bomb shelter which contains a few papers that may have belonged to Leibowitz himself. Fiat Lux deals with a war about to be started by powermad dictator Hannegan, who is Idi Amin-like in his stupidity. The dictator's nephew is a brilliant scientist who hasn't quite come to terms with the fact his discoveries are actually rediscoveries. Fiat Voluntas Tua shows two warring societies about to make the same mistake that nearly destroyed humanity eighteen hundred years before.

In addition to writing this brilliant novel, the late Walter M. Miller Jr. was in the same bombing raid that destroyed Benedictine Abbey at Monte Casino during World War II. This event I'm certain had much to do with Miller writing ACfL. ACfL brilliantly proves how no amount of technological progress exempts us from responsibilty for our deeds. When something bad happens, be it to us or someone else, we are not to say "That's life." in order to lessen the load on ourselves. ACfL also points out how people have gone to downright atrocious extremes to reclaim Eden instead of accepting the world as it is. The closer someone comes to making paradise for themselves, the more miserable they become. In short, the problem is not technology. The problem is not God. The problem is us.

There's no point in even trying to describe A Canticle for Leibowitz. It's pure Genius-with-a-capital-G. If you're literate and don't need all the whiz-bang crap that usually populates sci fi (I don't even think I would consider this sci fi, it's so... WAY beyond the norm); that is, if you can think independently, Read This Book. Don't worry about all the latin... he doesn't translate most of it but you can imply meaning from context.
So... I can't describe it, but here are some reasons why I consider Canticle pure Genius.

Canticle :
1. Offers an entirely classical and yet revolutionary reading of history.
2. Is a darn good story.
3. Is purely intellectual, working to excite thought and reason and possibility rather than visual senses or innovations.
4. Gives credit to Christianity for preserving literacy over the centuries, a fact that is usually overlooked.
5. Respects religion; most sci fi novels either disdain religious people, lampoon them, or write them off as annoying or dangerous quacks. This one treats them with the respect they deserve.
6. Is, perhaps, an incredible act of penance by the author (read the "about the author" when you finish).
7. Addresses all the serious questions in life: suicide, war, pacifism, what the role of religion in society is... the list is endless.
8. Is the epitome of intertextuality. It doesn't mention any specific works (though the Inferno is quoted), but it draws heavily (purposefully) from world and biblical history... not only so that it may enlighten us about the current text (the arrow usually goes that way), but rather to prompt us to view PREVIOUS texts in a totally different way.
9. Asks the question: Why do we mistrust our historical sources so much?
10. Hasn't dated itself a day since it was written in 1959. Not a day.
11. Contains thoughts so terrible and yet beautiful it made me cry.

So read it. Or abandon hope, ye who enter here.

We grew up in the shadow of the very real possibility of nuclear warfare. As children we lived with the Red specter of the East haunting the outskirts of our otherwise safe and peaceful childhood. Our parents had just fought a long bloody war against a Nazi Germany and an Imperialistic Japan. We saw the black and white images of that war played across the grainy screens of a new modern wonder we called a television. But the Red menace of atomic warfare had no face we could see and focus on. Perhaps the sight of a silly old man at the UN pounding on the desk with his shoe as he threatened to bury us, was the closest personification we had of that threat. So we went through the 1950's and early 1960's. It would be another 30 some years before that Red specter collapsed under the weight of its own inconsistencies and illusions.

Of all the nuclear apocalyptic literature of that era, A Canticle for Leibowitz remains the most profound and classic. It was one of the few Sci-Fi books I choose to keep in my library.

After thirty some years, I recently read it again. From the perspective of an Evangelical Christian, I found it even more profound the second time around. Miller wrote Canticle during the Roman Catholic period of his life, but the issues and questions regarding the relationship of morality to science and life that he wrestles with in this book are fundamental to all of mankind as a whole.

At the end of the book there is an allusion to the words of Jesus in Matthew 10:14-15. To understand that allusion, you will need to not only be familiar with that passage of the Bible, but also know that this last scene takes place around the year 3781 A.D., about 1800 years after the world had first blown itself up in nuclear warfare, out of which carnage it had relapsed back into another long dark age in which knowledge had once again been preserved in the monastery. Out of the ancient ashes of that 20th century collapse, civilization has finally risen again only to once again self-destruct.

I am not the "smartest" reader all of the time - I often can catch only the most obvious of metaphors and allegories. This book really speaks on many levels, and I think that's the true secret to its lasting power.

On the surface, the book is a well-written tale of an Abbey that has survived through the ages (the book takes place a millennium from now). The book is heavily layered, however, like an onion.How many times you read this book and how quick you are to catch on to various themes will determine how many layers you experience.

I was fortunate enough to consider some of the themes of the book, particularly that religion, although divinely inspired, will always be fallible because it is man-made. Some of the things the Abbey has made sacred (including the canonization of a Jew) really makes you think about how today's religion has been interpreted through the centuries. Another theme worth exploring is the fact that man really doesn't learn from his mistakes. This becomes hauntingly obvious in the last third of the book.

I would recommend this book to nearly anyone, especially those who enjoy a good sci-fi yarn or who like books that can be explored from so many different angles. I doubt this book will stay on my shelf too many years before I decide to give it another go.

A Canticle for Leibowitz is one of those you books you read because you heard it was a twentieth century classic and thought, "Maybe I should read that." I am not sure why it is a classic, but it was an interesting read. It is a collection of what amounts to three novellas set in the desert Southwest after a nuclear holocaust. The first story (set some 600 years in the future) introduces the reader to the Albertian Order of Leibowitz, a group of monks whose founder was murdered by a mob for protecting books, and are dedicated to the protection and preservation of knowledge. The order hopes the blessed Leibowitz will be canonized a saint, and a young novice called Francis may have found something that could turn the tide toward Leibowitz's recognition. The remaining two stories follow the Order through two millennia of the development of civilization again. To tell more of the plot would spoil the fun. This book is an examination of the preserving role the Catholic church played in history; only it is set in the future in periods similar to the Dark Ages, the Renaissance, and another period hauntingly familiar to the Cold War Era. Miller not only spins a compelling yarn, he wrestles with practical, historical, and theological questions we all wrestle with. There were slow parts, hence the 3 1/2 rather than 4 stars, but over all it was worth reading for its sheer ability to provoke questions in an entertaining fashion. Over-all, worth reading.

I first read this book over thirty years ago, after hearing Frederick Pohl on the radio say that if you only wanted to read three Sci-Fi novels, this was one (the other two were Dune and Stranger in a Strange Land). Having been raised an Orthodox Catholic during the time of bomb shelters, the Cuban Missile Crisis, and the fear of godless communism, this book was a fair warning to mankind of what the future could become. Understanding the beliefs of the Old Catholic faith does make the story easier to understand but the messages are just as thought provoking to any one who will just ponder the story. There is no happy ending but a very real one instead.

An earlier review stated that this story can inform our children and grandchildren what type of thinking went on during those grim days of the 50's and 60's. The story will also let them know what a real nightmare is to anyone who had to live under the fear of a nuclear holocaust where there are no survivors, only the dead and those who envy the dead: "Lucifer has fallen!".

It was with some trepidation that I sat down to read "A Chronicle for Leibowitz" for the fourth time, and for the first time in two decades. Could it possibly be as good as I remembered it? Would the great-granddaddy of all nuclear apocalypse books seem like a period piece, now that we know mankind has dodged the mushroom-shaped bullet?

It was better than I remembered it. There's so much wisdom, so much breadth of sympathy for humanity in every state of belief and unbelief, so much erudition, so many sly jokes I hadn't caught the first three times. The more you learn, the more you grow, the more you'll find this remarkable book has to offer. (And, incidentally, the book stretches your perceptions further than yesterday's headlines. Yes, mankind has dodged one nuclear bullet; but our self-destructive folly is still with us, the weapons have not been destroyed, and our wise leaders have begun telling us it's important to keep the ones we have in reserve, and a good idea to build more of them.)

The book begins after atomic apocalypse, abetted by mob rage, has dismanteld all of civilization except the Catholic Church. It is structured as a series of three novellas, separated by centuries of future time. These novellas, linked by a common location at the abbey of Saint Leibowitz in the Utah desert, encourage identification with richly detailed , funny, admirable characters; and then enforce a cool objectivity by sweeping those characters away into the dust of the past. The simultaneous caring attachment and disengagement that result are more effective than any theological treatise in conveying a sense of what it might be like to practice the virtue known as charity.

On one level, the whole book becomes a medieval _memento mori_, a reminder of the transience of life. On another level, it is a tryptich: an ornate altarpiece painted in three realistic panels. The panels proceed from near future to far future, and from innocence (the bumbling and easily awed novice Brother Francis, through whose misadventures the Blessed Leibowitz becomes canonized) to devastating experience (the abbot of Saint Leibowitz, providing for the continuity of a human race that may never outgrow its self-destructiveness, forced to impose and to suffer crucifixions, and to watch an hours-old child begotten by virgin birth die before his eyes.)

The midcentury saw four great sf novels on the theme of the apocalypse. One (George Stewart's "Earth Abides") preceded this one, and in its own way matched its dignity and grandeur, though not its multileveled complexity. The other two, Zelazny and Dick's "Deus Irae" and Fritz Leiber's "A Specter Is Haunting Texas", both now sadly out of print, owe obvious debts to Miller's work. But in the end, Leibowitz stands alone.