Miller-Canticle for LeibowitzWalter A. Miller: A Canticle for Leibowitz. Philadelphia: Lippincott, 1960, c1959, and subsequent reprints.

A Canticle for Leibowitz by Walter Miller (1923-1996) remains in print decades after first publication due to a core of science fiction fans of the genre's classics, but undoubtedly, too, because the novel's unabashed Catholicism appeals to successive generations of Catholic readers.

The tryptich of stories, each once published separately and each set in successive post- apocalyptic settings ("Fiat Homo," "Fiat Lux," and "Fiat Voluntas Tua"), center around the monastery of St. Leibowitz in the desert southwest (U.S.). The novel's characters are not solitary hermits in the style of early Christianity but Benedictine salvagers of lost civilization  -- dedicated "bookleggers" and "memorizers" -- protecting the treasured relics of their patron saint and of inherited past knowledge.

Ironically, the fictional Isaac Leibowitz of the title was a 20th-century Jewish scientist who created the nuclear bomb, survived the Flame Deluge, and was martyred by angry survivors in the ensuing Simplification. While the use of Latin and routine instances of traditional monastic ritual and presentation of ethical issues such as euthanasia demark the Catholic setting, the author often satirizes (gently) the monks' more eccentric behaviors, brushing the novel with a relieving touch of humor and irony.

That said, Miller himself was a very haunted man. In World War II, Miller numbered among American bombadiers who destroyed Monte Cassino, the eminent historical monastery in Italy founded by St. Benedict himself. Only later, after conversion to Catholicism and while writing the novel (he had published sci-fi stories throughout the fifties) did Miller realize his act of expiation in A Canticle for Leibowitz. The decades ahead were dominated by post-traumatic stress and depression, and he was unable to write successfully again. In 1996, a few months after his wife's death, Miller committed suicide.

The Hermit in A Canticle for Leibowitz

The hermit appears in each part of the novel, thousands of years apart. Superficially an enigmatic character, Miller's hermit is the archetype of human inconclusiveness, a wanderer, in this case no less than the European folkloric Wandering Jew. The revelation of who he is and his significance culminates in part two. The hermit casts an insight over human fate and apocalyse, an ever present character in the novel.

In part one ("Fiat Homo") the old hermit of the desert reveals to young novice Brother Francis on his Lenten fast in the wilderness the remanants of a fallout shelter containing Leibowitz's writings. The hermit is introduced as a wanderer and a traveller. He leaves a mark in Hebrew letters as a clue to his identity, though part one does not offer an explanation of who the hermit is.

The hermit's brief appearance makes trouble for Gerard back at the abbey when the novice returns with news of relics from the 20th century, claiming that a hermit -- whose existence the abbot vociferously doubts -- showed Gerard the site. After much controversy and recovery of the "relics," Gerard will gain the privelege of copying a discovered manuscript -- a circuit design blueprint -- and taking it to New Rome, where Leibowitz will be canonized. At the end of "Fiat Homo," the hermit reappears on a distant road to bury the unfortunate Gerard, killed by ambushing bandits in a ruthless age evolved from post-apocalyptic collapse into what may be seen as an early and precarious medieval world.

The second part ("Fiat Lux"), set six centuries later in a parallel between early medieval  Europe and a chaotic American plains, offers fuller details about the hermit. The cast of the abbey has changed, of course, but the hermit is the same person as in part one.

The abbot remarks to a monk about the hermit's solitary life in the distant hills. "If he is so lonely," asks the monk, "why does he insist on living like a hermit?" "To escape loneliness," replies the abbot. When the abbot visits the hermit, the author describes the hermit in detail:

The old hermit stood at the edge of the mesa and watched the approach of the dust speck across the desert. The hermit munched, muttered words and chuckled silently into the wind. His withered hide was burned the color of old leather by the sun and his brushy beard was yellow about the chin. He wore a basket hat and a loincloth, of rough homespun that resembled burlap -- his only clothig except for sandals and a goat-skin water bag.

The hermit is Benjamin Eleazar, whom the author calls "Old Jew," centuries old by the hermit's own claim. He has taken on the burden of his religion, awaiting redemption and a redeemer, but seeing none, yet -- or, rather, seeking redemption in a change in human behavior, but seeing none. The old hermit is the proverbial Wandering Jew, condemned to wait, to linger, until the end of time, but his very presence is to the wise abbot both a sign of reassurance and of foreboding. The humane dialogue between Jewish hermit and Cathollic monk is well executed in this section.

As if to emphasize his lonely mission, the hermit later appears at an abbey banquet celebrating the visit of the cynical scientist Thon Taddeo, cousin of the emperor, who had come to the review the abbey's cache of scientific secrets in it neglected archive of old documents. At the banquet, Taddeo harangues the monks on the superiority of science over ignorance, of reason over morality. As he concludes his speech, an unexpected figure at the beggar's table stirs: the hermit Benjamin. The old man makes his way slowly to the lecturn dominated by Taddeo, who regards him with humor and derision at first, then revulsion. Benjamin reaches the lecturn and stares intently at Taddeo, kneading the scientist's arm.

His [the hermit's] face clouded. The glow died. He dropped the arm. A great keening sigh came from the dry old lungs as hope vanished. The eternally knowing smirk of the Old Jew of the Mountain returned to his face. He turned to the community, spread his hands, shrugged eloquently.

"It's still not Him," he told them sourly, then hobbled away.

In the third part of the novel ("Fiat Voluntas Tua"), centuries have passed. The modern age boasts advanced technology and space missions. On the outskirts of a village, children throw rocks at an elderly hermit identified as a tramp.

"Lookit, lookit!" they shout. "It's old Lazar! Auntie say he be old Lazar, same one 'ut the Lor' Hesus raise up! Lookit! Lazar! Lazar!"

The reference is to another medieval European folkloric identity of the Wandering Jew: the Gospel Lazarus raised from the dead by Jesus but who, stubbornly confirmed in his refusal to believe that the Messiah has already come, is condemned to wander the earth until the second coming of Christ.

At a communal supper in the abbey one day, the abbot must announce heavily what the news media is reporting: "Lucifer is fallen," meaning that a nuclear exchange has occurred. A tense peace will follow for several days, not dissipating the expectation of total war. An air of finality will grip even the abbey. The abbot notices that in the midst of his solemn announcement to the community, struggling to offer hope, sits at the beggar's table an "old fellow with a brushy beard, stained yellow about the chin," who wears "a burlap bag with armholes," and who is smiling wryly at the abbot. Later, the abbot speaks to the beggar, who has "nodded pleasantly" as the abbot approaches.

"Who are you, if I may ask. Have I seen you somewhere before?" "Call me Lazarus," says the beggar. The wry smile reminds the abbot of the same smile of wise irony on the visage of the wooden statue of St. Leibowitz in his cell. Clearly the hermit sees nothing good forthcoming from humanity. They say nothing further.

That night "belonged to Lucifer. It was the night of the Atlantic assault against the Asian space installations." In successive days, the war ensues, and on the last day, with many of the younger monks having already reached New Rome and aboard a spaceship launched for an existing human colony on Alpha Centaurus, the abbot witnesses a nuclear strike. First falls the blinding flash of light, then the great noise and a powerful wind destroying the nearly deserted abbey. The abbot is trapped within the church that falls on him. The apocalypse that will destroy the earth ensues, and human salvation will not have come after all, as the old hermit had wisely foreseen.

Conclusion

A Canticle for Leibowitz reflects its fifties origins, skillfully weaving the unusual combination of religion and science fiction without bravado or triumphalism. Miller poured his heart into crafting a narrative that retained tradition and applied it to a world without innocence. His appreciation for the historical role of monks and monasteries in maintaining the memory of civilization forms the novel's dogged structure, animated by his sheer admiration. At the same time, the reader is left bereft of hope in the human condition, hope in his own contemporaries or in those of a  future post-apocalyptic world and its second (or third) chance to redeem humanity.