Return to the Abbey of St. Leibowitz

 “So it was that, after the [Flame] Deluge, the Fallout, the plagues, the madness, the confusion of tongues, the rage, there began the bloodletting of the Simplification, when remnants of mankind had torn other remnants limb from limb, killing rulers, scientists, leaders, technicians, teachers, and whatever persons the leaders of the maddened mobs said deserved death for having helped to make the Earth what it had become.”

– A Canticle for Leibowitz

Time for me to read Walter M. Miller, Jr.’s A Canticle for Leibowitz again. It’s one of the books I reach for when I need a break...from my more serious non-fiction reading, from the news, from numerous stress vectors mercilessly bearing down on what’s left of my psyche. Like many, I find diversion and solace in books, an escape so we can (hopefully) find renewed strength and get up to face our toilsome, everyday challenges in reality.

Author Umberto Eco likened books in a good library to remedies a medicine cabinet:

“We understand that it is good to have many at home rather than a few: when you want to feel better, then you go to the ‘medicine closet’ and choose a book. Not a random one, but the right book for that moment.”

So I rifled through my medicine cabinet of books (and games) and retrieved my copy of A Canticle for Leibowitz. The digest-sized version I now read was not the original I eagerly consumed the summer in high school when I read one fantasy or science fiction book each week. I still have that well-thumbed old mass-market paperback somewhere (I’m a sentimental pack rat), but I prefer the larger edition. The two dogeared pages note where I can find the description of the “Flame Deluge” and subsequent “Simplification,” one in narrative prose, the other as set down in a style of “scriptural mimicry.” I’ve penciled in a few translations from Latin, notably the titles of each section: Fiat Homo (“Let there be man.”), Fiat Lux (“Let there be light.”), and Fiat Voluntas Tua (the fatalistic and not-terribly-comforting “Let Thy will be done.”). And, perhaps my sad favorite, Sic transit mundus, “Thus passes the world,” a sobering reference to Sic transit gloria mundi, “Thus passes the glory of the world.” I expect after this reading my copy will bear a few more dogeared pages and more penciled notes.

I first read the novel in high school, and my recollections remain dimmed by time and tinged by the sense of wonder I felt at exploring the science fiction and fantasy genres. I’m sure I read it again out of nostalgia; though I know I revisited it in 2017, when it seemed appropriate as self-aggrandizing world leaders casually tossed threats of missile strikes. I probably read it in the days leading to the 2020 elections as we suffered through America’s hellscape response to the covid-19 pandemic. And now I return to the desert abbey again to experience the cycle of emergence, avarice, and downfall, with all the friction of characters and factions that, though science fiction, seems all too familiar in our world today.

I’ve written about Leibowitz before in the context of books to which I constantly return. Perusing that old blog article, from the ancient and seemingly more hopeful days of 2012, I do not see my impressions and opinions of the novel and its message have changed:

“The book conveys a sometimes overwhelming pathos that, no matter what we learn from our past, we always seemed doomed to repeat it, if only with a few contextual deviations. Throughout the novel readers keep seeking hope that, maybe this time, humans can set aside their vices and selfishness and move toward something greater, the improvement and future survival of humanity; but ultimately it paints a bleak picture that humanity can’t, and won’t, change from its self-destructive tendencies, that even the influence of religious institutions cannot sway humanity from that course, though it might help in smaller ways.”

To me it now offers a somber, almost calming read, knowing full well where it’s going, but, like any good journey, it invites one to stop and savor vistas along the path, noticing overlooked bits we missed before while walking down this same road. I read it, as we experience anything, in the context of our own turbulent times.

Miller wrote his novel (originally three substantial short stories) inspired by his service flying more than 50 bomber missions as a radio operator and gunner in World War II; no doubt his participation in the bombing of the Benedictine Abbey at Monte Cassino, Italy, provided inspiration, and possibly guilt, reflected in his writing. He followed a path similar creative veterans of WW II walked, pouring his experiences and trauma into his art. Rod Serling tried to make sense of humanity’s inhumanities — and implore us to become more compassionate people — in the warped, evocative landscape of The Twilight Zone. No doubt Jack Kirby tapped into his military experiences as inspiration and motivation for his vast and rich comic book work. Kurt Vonnegut’s fiction and even his recently unearthed strategy game reflect the wartime horrors he endured and the emotional mechanisms he developed to cope with persistent trauma.

My edition of A Canticle for Leibowitz includes an introduction from Mary Doria Russell which helps put Miller’s novel in the context of significant literature; a book that changes you, as her stepbrother noted: “When you’re done reading, you’re a different person.” A Canticle for Leibowitz remains relevant today, more than 60 years after its initial publication. It was born out of the bombings and trauma of WWII and forged in the fear of early atomic brinkmanship. It has endured half a century of tumultuous events, a history of humans doing horrific things to other humans. All with the threat of large-scale war and the ultimate menace of the “Flame Deluge” lurking in the background. Perhaps Russell put it best in her introduction: “It will not disappoint you, for this is a novel of enduring value, and you’ll be different when you finish it.”

I hope my re-reading A Canticle for Leibowitz changes me, even if only slightly, perhaps to give me some small morsel of hope, or simply some fleeting resolve to keep trudging on in the world, despite the monstrous indifference it (and often other humans) shows toward humanity. I invite you — whether you’re a gamer, science fiction fan, or someone seeking some diversion in fiction — to read it with an open mind, taking a literary pilgrimage through its pages, to see how the journey shapes you.

Sic transit mundus.