A Canticle for Leibowitz by Walter M. Miller Jr.

By Walter M. Miller Jr.

Winner of the 1961 Hugo Award for most sensible Novel and broadly one in every of the main comprehensive, strong, and enduring classics of contemporary 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 snoozing in darkness, the baby rediscoveries of technology are secretly nourished via cloistered clergymen devoted to the examine and maintenance of the relics and writings of the blessed Saint Isaac Leibowitz. From the following the tale spans centuries of lack of knowledge, violence, and barbarism, viewing via a pointy, satirical eye the relentless development of a human race damned by way of its inherent humanness to recelebrate its grand foibles and repeat its grievous errors. heavily humorous, attractive, and tragic, forever clean, inventive, and altogether striking, A Canticle for Leibowitz keeps its skill to enthrall and amaze. it's now, because it continually has been, a masterpiece.

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When I was seventeen I lost my virginity to a pretty, startlingly tall girl named Elaine Bowland; I tried to convince myself I was in love with her, but we drifted apart with a combination of regret and relief after eight or nine weeks. After each of these episodes Diane would call unexpectedly, and we’d talk, and I wouldn’t mention Elaine Bowland (or Toni Hickock, or Sarah Burstein), and Diane would never quite get around to telling me how she’d spent her spare time during our hiatus, and that was okay because pretty soon we were back in the bubble, suspended between romance and pretense, childhood and maturity.

It was all mass, no grace. My hands gripped imaginary brakes. I don’t think Jason knew he had a problem until he was three quarters of the way down. That was when the bicycle’s rust-choked chain snapped and flailed his ankle. He was close enough now that I could see him flinch and cry out. The bike wobbled but, miraculously, he managed to keep it upright. A piece of the chain tangled in the rear wheel, where it whipped against the struts, making a sound like a broken jackhammer. Two houses up, a woman who had been weeding her garden covered her ears and turned to watch.

It was Diane, who had been twelve, who bonded with him. They brought out the best in each other. For six months St. Dog had followed her everywhere except the school bus. The two 50 R O B E R T C H A R L E S W I L S O N of them played together on the big lawn summer evenings, and that was when I first noticed Diane in a particular way— the first time I took pleasure in simply watching her. She would run with St. Dog until she was exhausted, and St. Dog was always patient while she got her breath back.

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