Tag Archives: A Canticle for Leibowitz

A Canticle for Leibowitz

Powerful book, this, despite the irony that fifty years after it was first published, nothing remotely close to its apocalyptic vision of nuclear holocaust has yet occurred or even seems likely. Not even with the Iranian push for nukes.

There is another irony about this classic SciFi tale (which is only really SciFi at the end and then space opera not hard science) and that’s the lengthy and inspired Catholic discussion about how even people dying in pain should not offend G-d by taking their own lives. Then, Googling, I discover that the author, Walter Miller Jr., killed himself.

Nevertheless, his book is a wonderful read, thoughtful and challenging, from beginning to end. With plenty left to chew over (see his chin-choppers poem below) long after the last few paragraphs are done with. I love the fact that it takes place in Texas, with Texarkana, Pecos and Laredo in starring roles. Think I can see why he did not write a second one until forty years later and it never equaled the first. The lit crits must have smothered him with love. Then, being a World War II combat vet, he had PTSD guilt to deal with, also. R.I.P.

Time’s last laugh

We are the centuries.

We are the chin-choppers and the golly whoppers,
and soon we shall discuss the amputation of your head.

We are your singing garbage men, Sir and Madam,
And we march in cadence behind you,
chanting rhymes that some think odd.

Wir, as they say in the old country,
marschieren weiter wenn alles in Scherben fallt.

We have your Eoliths, and your Mesoliths and your Neoliths.
We have your Babylons and your Pompeiis, your Caesars and your
chromium-plated (vital ingredient-impregnated) artifacts.

We have your bloody hatchets and your Hiroshimas.

We march in spite of Hell, we do-
Atrophy, Entropy, and Proteus Vulgaris,
telling bawdy jokes about a farm girl name of Eve
and a slick traveling salesman called Lucifer.

We bury your dead, and their reputations.

We bury you.

We are the centuries.

Be born then, gasp wind, screech at the surgeon’s slap, seek manhood, taste a little of godhood, feel pain, give birth,struggle a little while, succumb:

(Dying, leave quietly by the rear exit, please.)

Generation, regeneration, again, again, as in a ritual, with blood-stained vestments and nail-torn hands, children of Merlin, chasing a gleam.

Children, too, of Eve, forever building Edens—and kicking them apart in berserk fury because somehow it isn’t the same.

(AGH! AGH! AGH!—an idiot screams his mindless anguish amid the rubble. But quickly! let it be inundated by the choir, chanting Alleluias at ninety decibels.)

Hear then, the last Canticle of the Brethren of the Order of Leibowitz, as sung by the century that swallowed its name.

LUCIFER IS FALLEN.

Walter Miller Jr.
“A Canticle for Leibowitz”