By Walter M. Miller Jr.

Winner of the 1961 Hugo Award for top Novel and largely certainly one of the main comprehensive, strong, 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 slumbering in darkness, the newborn rediscoveries of technological know-how are secretly nourished via cloistered priests devoted to the learn and upkeep 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 via its inherent humanness to recelebrate its grand foibles and repeat its grievous blunders. heavily humorous, lovely, and tragic, endlessly clean, creative, and altogether notable, A Canticle for Leibowitz keeps its skill to enthrall and amaze. it really is now, because it constantly has been, a masterpiece.

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Flower petals drifted down onto the trail. They were yellow or greenish white. In the afternoon it began to rain. She stopped and made camp under an overhang. She went to sleep early. Sometime in the night she woke. Her fire was still burning. On the other side of it was Enshi. He was plucking a bird. She lifted her head. He made the gesture of greeting, then held up the bird. It was large and fat. “I found it on a nest. I have the eggs, if they haven’t broken. ” “He wouldn’t talk to me. ” “You’re in my territory; and I thought you might be hungry.

The person touched the side of my head, feeling the hair there, then touched the hair that flowed down between my shoulder blades. ” I reached back and took the clip off my hair, shaking my head. The hair flew out. My host started. He or she took hold of several strands and tugged. For a moment I stood the pain, then I said, “Hey,” and touched—very lightly—the furry hand. The person let go. —and waved me toward the fire. Other people appeared, wearing kilts or tunics. I saw more necklaces made of copper and belts with metal buckles.

It was the person who had broken up Nahusai’s party. ” I said in the native language. He or she made a gesture—a vertical slash—then turned and walked away. I went back to the house feeling a bit nervous. The person had radiated hostility. Who was he or she? I couldn’t ask. I didn’t know the right words. For the next half-dozen days the sky remained clear. The weather was hot. Yohai and I worked in the garden. Mostly, we brought water from the river: pot after heavy pot. We poured the water out on the dry ground.

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