Originally published in 1959, Walter H. Miller Jr.’s A Canticle for Leibowitz is rightly regarded as a classic work of science fiction. The novel takes place in what has become a standard SF setting: a post-apocalyptic world, devastated by a long-ago nuclear war. Miller describes for the reader a new Dark Age, this one spanning almost two thousand years, and as before, the spark of learning is kept alive by monks toiling away in poverty and humility. Their patron is Saint Isaac Edward Leibowitz, whose holy relics include circuit diagrams and the mysterious list: “Pound pastrami, can kraut, six bagels–bring home for Emma.”

With this kind of opening, one might expect Canticle to be a satire, perhaps in the vein of Douglas Adams or Terry Pratchett. Humor is indeed threaded through the book, sharply biting at times. The pomposity of both Church and State are brought forward for examination, as well as the eagerness of the human mind to seize upon the mundane and proclaim it miraculous. Ordinary men, such as the unfortunate engineer in the title, are recast as saints by ignorant yet sympathetic characters. Kind characters are killed, and villainous or otherwise unpleasant characters go unpunished. The buzzards come and eat the dead, and their philosophers prove “by unaided reason alone that the Supreme Cathartes aura regnans had created the world especially for buzzards.” It seems a harsh criticism of the human condition and even more so of religion, Catholicism in particular.

However, the novel is far more than merely what is now tired social commentary. The characters are memorable in both their strengths and follies. Brother Francis Gerard, the hero of the first section (”Fiat Homo”), is achingly earnest in his devotion to the “Blessed Leibowitz,” holding fast to his faith and to his belief that he has discovered the greatest relic of all, despite being beaten for his “blasphemy.” Dom Paulo, the hero of the second (”Fiat Lux”), wrestles with the angels of politics and scientific rediscovery. Abbott Zerchi, the hero of the last section (”Fiat Voluntas Tua”), tries to do as God commands in the face of an oncoming disaster, and discovers the core of his own beliefs in the process. Throughout the book, a mysterious figure comes and goes, leaving his mark on the rest; whether his presence is proof positive of their faith, or the ultimate indictment of it, is left as a question each reader must decide.

A Canticle for Leibowitz was not groundbreaking even in its time. Humans had been in the Nuclear Age for over a decade, and this was hardly the first book to address what could happen should the Cold War become Hot. The novel’s unique voice relies on telling its tale via religious imagery, via themes of dogma and belief, and also via the theme of the cyclic nature of human endeavors: when given the ability, humans will make war on each other. But all is not lost, even so. The same cycles dictate that there will always be faith, there will always be someone clinging to the scraps of otherwise lost learning, there will always be hope. Canticle is not a happy book, but within its bleak pages, hope for humanity twinkles through. The world may end again and again, but there will always be a new day. Over forty-five years later, with our current pop culture touting stories of the Rapture and the End Times, Miller’s message can still find resonance with anyone who thinks the buzzards shouldn’t have the last word.