Enjoyed this in my teens, but not so much now. ( )

Having read his excellent short story collection, I had high hopes for his seminal post-apocalyptic novel. Unfortunately, this has been inconsistently enjoyable and is another example of trying to gel too many things - in this case philosophy, christian mythology, satire and post-apocalyptic dystopia - into one book and not landing with any of them except the setting.

The writing is a dull, meandering mess of often garbled passages (sometimes deliberately in a poor contribution to his attempt to satirise) that rarely contribute to progressing any sense of story or idealism. Sometimes it's clear what Miller is trying to convey with his thoughts and ideas, but usually it ends up a mess.

The characters are fun characactures and Brother Francis' story is the stand out and has the feel of classic parable, with moments of light comedy. But after the tale moves forward in time, there's not much to enjoy. The second act plods along laboriously, with at least some fun connections to what came before and interesting thoughts about the cyclical nature of society, history and technology. A few parallels to history did at least add small value in being thought provoking, but weren't enough to sustain a story over the course of an entire novel. I had hoped it was just the middle Act which bogged things down, but it actually proceeded to get worse and ever more pointless in the final third.

A nice idea which failed to satisfactorly develop and succeeded only in the author showing off his latin and ability to meaninglessly philosophise, with only some interesting thoughts on cyclical history to save it. ( )

Having just come from back from a trip from Cyprus which saw me admiring old and venerable iconostasis, listen to the eerie chants of mass goers behind closed church doors and getting glimpses of the devout kissing pictures of saints, a reread of A Canticle Of Leibowitz was just was the doctor ordered, so to speak.
This book gives me the goosebumps still and because of my recent experiences in and around Byzantine churches, the (re)reading experience was amplified.
The setting is post-deluge - civilization had been utterly destroyed in a nuclear holocaust- and it is a sort of Christian order, the order of the St. Leibowitz that becomes the caretaker and perhaps more importantly the interpreter of past knowledge. The parallels between the Christian church after the destruction of the Roman Empire are striking, by the way.
“From the monster Fallout - deliver us.”
“From the spirit of fornication - deliver us.”
“From the Strontium, the Casium, the Cobalt- deliver us
It all kicks into gear when brother Francis finds among other items, a shopping list and a drawing of a circuit plan in an old fallout shelter which become objects of religious veneration.
It is then when taken out of context, we realize how easily the banal, the trivial is recognized as the ultimately profound, the lifeless becomes alive and ignorance becomes king. We, through the endless arrogance of contemporary societies are not aware that each and everyone of us, just as brother Francis and the whole church of St. Leibowitz, are forever dwelling inside universal concentric circles of dramatic irony. In that sense, ignorance permeates all there is and can’t be abdicated.
Walter Miller’s tale is a forever masterpiece, a classic of speculative fiction. Ah, what arrogance to suppose, to claim that anything can be forever-lasting .
Yet, Miller’s work ticks all the boxes. It is masterly eloquent, at times lusciously, then disturbingly ironic.
“What did the world weigh? It weighs but is not weighed. Sometimes it’s scales are crooked. It weighs life and labor in the balance against silver and gold. That will never balance. But fast and ruthless it keeps on that way. It spills a lot of life that way and sometimes a little gold. And blindfolded a king comes riding across the desert with a set of crooked scales, a pair of loaded dice and upon the flag is emblazoned vexileragis.”
The plot moves on like a steam engine, undisturbed and not caring for a reader’s preference. Driven by the stark reality of circumstance, it takes no prisoners. Simply wonderfully profound. Ah, I’m getting carried away.
A spiritu fornicationis, Domine, libera nos (in religious context fornication is often used as idolatry) Deliver me from the sin of idolatry.
Deo gratias. ( )

She leaned close to whisper behind her hand. “I need be giving shriv’ness to Him, as well.”
The priest recoiled slightly. “To whom? I don’t understand.”
“Shriv’ness-to Him who made me as I am,” she whimpered. But then a slow smile spread her mouth. “I-I never forgave Him for it.”
“Forgive God? How can you-? He is just. He is Justice, He is Love. How can you say-?”
Her eyes pleaded with him. “Mayn’t an old tumater woman forgive Him just a little for His Justice? Afor I be asking His shriv’ness on me?”

A book about hope, death, suffering, endings, nostalgia, heritage, preservation, change, what actually matters, whether a small group of people has the power to change the world, tradition, and other stuff that I'm bad at articulating. Pretty depressing too. It gives an amazing sense of time passing, of how things change, how people forget and remember. The society presented feels real.

I came away with a feeling of just how important nuclear disarmament is, how important peace is, how disgusting justifications for war are. I feel like there's more to say but it's hard to articulate, there's a lot to think about that feels like it needs an essay to put into words.

The ending is a little weird and it's really depressing sometimes and the Latin can be a bit confusing with no translation (BUT whenever it's key to the story it's translated) but otherwise it's great.

Also, I will say that although they get only minimal mention in the book: I have strong sympathy for the "Simpletons" (very minor early spoiler) who burned the books. ( )

This is my book. I hardly ever read books twice, but I've read this at least four times. I'm not sure I can write anything about it that would be useful for another person. I find it utterly wrenching, sorrowful, human. ( )