By Walter M. Miller Jr.
Winner of the 1961 Hugo Award for top Novel and greatly one in all the main comprehensive, robust, and enduring classics of recent speculative fiction, Walter M. Miller, Jr.'s A Canticle for Leibowitz is a real landmark of twentieth-century literature -- a chilling and still-provocative examine a post-apocalyptic destiny.
In a nightmarish ruined international slowly awakening to the sunshine after dozing in darkness, the child rediscoveries of technology are secretly nourished through cloistered priests devoted to the learn and renovation of the relics and writings of the blessed Saint Isaac Leibowitz. From right here the tale spans centuries of lack of awareness, violence, and barbarism, viewing via a pointy, satirical eye the relentless development of a human race damned by means of its inherent humanness to recelebrate its grand foibles and repeat its grievous error. heavily humorous, attractive, and tragic, ceaselessly clean, creative, and altogether impressive, A Canticle for Leibowitz keeps its skill to enthrall and amaze. it's now, because it continuously has been, a masterpiece.
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Extra resources for A Canticle for Leibowitz
Oh, you know. Long,” I said. Carole was maybe my best friend at the hospital, but I couldn’t talk to her about this. She waited a moment for me to continue, then started pawing through her ditty bag, the little olive-drab cloth sack we all used as a purse. Triumphantly she extracted a stack of three-by-five cards. “I had a brainstorm. ” I asked. “My schedule. I got tired of reciting it to guys who keep forgetting it and call me up while I’m on duty, so I decided to start copying it out on three-by-five cards.
2 I tramped up the wooden stairs of the barracks and down the landing to my own hooch too tired to spare a glance for Monkey Mountain or the South China Sea, and unsure whether I wanted to continue to beat my breast, lick my wounds, or gloat. What I really wanted to do was sleep, but as soon as I opened the door to my hooch I knew that was going to present a problem. The sun glinted blindingly off the tin roof of the building, giving my room the climate of a kiln. I had nailed a Vietnamese bedspread, an institution-green brocade of a phoenix, over my window in an attempt to provide myself with shade and privacy.
She let out an irritating but relatively healthy wail. I smoothed her covers and wiped the sweat from her knotted forehead. “Give me hell, sweetie, but thanks for not croaking,” I whispered to her. In the next bed, old Xe lay quietly with his hands over his chest. The deep frown lines I had noticed earlier were smooth now, his wrinkles gentle as the furrows made by wind through a wheat field. The dreams that had disturbed 22 Elizabeth Ann Scarborough him earlier seemed to have quieted, and his sleep was peaceful.