Post-Apocalyptic Fiction: A Return to the Medieval (A
Catholic Perspective)
Jeremiah A. Reyes
Abstract
A specific theme in post-apocalyptic science fiction is a return to a new medieval
context. Our paradigm example is A Canticle for Leibowitz by Walter Miller Jr.,
which depicts a worldwide nuclear holocaust followed by the preservation of
modern civilization’s knowledge by a new generation of scribes and monks, and a
restructured Catholic church. Its obvious inspiration being the preservation of
knowledge by the monks after the fall of the Roman empire in the dark ages.
Interestingly, the book ends with a second nuclear war centuries in the future, as an
indictment of the human capacity for violence and destruction.
The same theme, set also in the distant future, can be found in The Book of the
New Sun by Gene Wolfe, a story interspersed with distinctly medieval elements,
such as its crucial and cryptic hagiographical references, and also in Dune by Frank
Herbert, where the “Butlerian Jihad”, a war against artificial intelligence, leads
human beings to develop their natural capacities to unprecedented levels and
towards a new kind of medieval feudalism.
I would like to outline the distinctly Catholic and medieval elements in these
three works, and I would like to use the De Civitate Dei of Augustine as an
interpretative key in my analysis, namely, the weakness of human civilization in
contrast to forms of divinity. Walter Miller Jr. and Gene Wolfe are both Catholic
authors. Frank Herbert was born and raised Catholic, but leaned more towards Zen
Buddhism in later life. Nevertheless one can detect connected themes. The new
saints and papacy in the Canticle, the Christ-figure Severian and cryptic
hagiography in the New Sun, the messianic prophecy of Paul Atreides and the role of
the Orange Catholic Bible in Dune.
Key Words: fiction, science fiction, medieval, Catholic, post-apocalyptic,
futuristic
*****
When it comes to imagining the “end”, the Catholic Medieval tradition certainly
provides a wealth of material and imagery. The word “Apocalypse” itself comes
from the Greek title of the book of Revelation by the Apostle John. Given the
sensational images to be found in the book of Revelation, and the Medieval mind
attuned to symbols and hidden meanings, one finds a long list of Apocalyptic
literature in the Middle Ages, many of them commentaries on the book of
Revelation. Visions of the End: Apocalyptic Traditions in the Middle Ages by
Bernard McGinn provides a useful survey, from the Tiburtine Sybil in the 4th century
to the prophetic visions in the Scivias of Hildegard of Bingen in the 12th century. The
Apocalypse is often connected with the rise of the Antichrist, described in the book
of Revelations as a “beast” whom the nations will worship. (Revelations 13)
It is not surprising then that Catholic fiction authors would also carry with them
this “inheritance”, whether subdued or explicit. It is interesting to know that the very
first “dystopia” novel—that is, the opposite of a “utopia”—was written by the
English priest Robert Hugh Benson in 1907, entitled Lord of the World. He was
describing the rise of the Anti-Christ at the end of the 20th century, and the world
sliding into materialism and secularism. Other Catholic fiction authors like Michael
O’Brien have also written on the theme in his Children of the Last Days series, and
one finds this also in Protestant authors such as Tim Lahaye and his Left Behind
series.
For this talk I’d like to begin with a Catholic author who seems to have most
successfully merged this medieval apocalyptic inheritance with the genre of sciencefiction. William Leibowitz Jr. published his novel A Canticle for Leibowitz in 1959,
the only novel published in his lifetime, which won the 1961 Hugo Award for Best
Science Fiction novel, and is often included in top-ten science fiction lists. The
novel begins six centuries after a great worldwide nuclear war called by the
survivors the “Flame Deluge.” After the nuclear war, the remaining survivors
initiated a persecution of all men of learning, whom they collectively blamed for the
disaster. In a movement called the great “Simplification”, mobs hunted and killed
surviving engineers, scientists and professors. Isaac Edward Leibowitz was an
engineer who worked for the US Military who fled the simplification and found
refuge in a Cistercian monastery. He became a Cistercian priest, and then founded a
new order called the “Albertian Order of Leibowitz”, named after Saint Albert
Magnus, the teacher of Saint Thomas Aquinas and patron of the natural sciences.
The Order was composed mainly of memorizers and bookleggers. The
memorizers were tasked to memorize entire volumes of written works, even without
understanding their contents. The bookleggers were copyists who also buried books
in secret places in the desert. Together they preserved the collection they called the
Memorabilia:
The Memorabilia was there, and it was given to them by duty
to preserve, and preserve it they would if the darkness in the
world lasted ten more centuries, or even ten thousand years, for
they, though born in that darkest of ages, were still the very
bookleggers and memorizers of the Beatus Leibowitz. (p. 66, A
Canticle for Leibowitz)
It must be noted that aside from this specific task, which they only called their
worldly job (p. 175), the monks of the order were busy with the usual monastic
activities, such as prayer and contemplation, and the copying of so-called perennials:
Missals, Scripture, Breviaries, the Summa Theologiae, Encyclopediae, etc. They
represented one arm of the overall preservation of the Catholic church; New Rome
had relocated several times in the course of six centuries, settling eventually
somewhere in the Midwest. There is a tension in the objectives of the order that gets
gradually unravelled in the novel, between the preservation of the knowledge and
technology of the past for future generations who, if they weren’t better than their
predecessors, could possibly repeat the same mistake, and then the concerns of a
higher divine order whose concerns were beyond time and the passing of the
centuries.
Twelve centuries after the Flame Deluge, human civilization has slowly rebuilt
itself, and a new generation of scientists come onto the scene. The scientist Ton
Thaddeo, who according to the book was a rare genius of the same rank as Aristotle
and Einstein, someone who could start a new epoch, was surprised to discover the
technology of the past hidden in the Abbey of Saint Leibowitz. He chides the monks
for keeping this information hidden for so long, and of course manages to obtain the
manuscripts and technology in the end, in the name of learning and objective
science. He is fully aware that his superiors might use it for destructive purposes,
but he tries to distance himself from that responsibility, with the attitude of an
“objective” scientist.
The recurring theme is the temptation at the Garden, of the serpent saying: “and
you shall be as Gods, knowing good and evil.” (p. 234) The criticisms levelled by
the monks at the arrogant Thon Thaddeo are not on technology per se, otherwise the
order would not have preserved it for so long, but technology placed in the hands of
those whose hearts and souls are not right, who are after knowledge and power
without any morality. In the words of Dom Paulo, the Abbot of the order: “Taste and
be as Gods. But neither infinite power nor infinite wisdom could bestow godhood
upon men. For that there would have to be infinite love as well.” (p.238) The
pessimism of Walter Miller is also perhaps captured in the words of the same abbot
when he tells Thon Thaddeo the scientist, “[The world] never was any better, it
never will be any better. It will only be richer or poorer, sadder but not wiser, until
the very last day.” (p. 234)
Six more centuries pass, that is, eighteen centuries after the Flame Deluge. The
third and last chapter of the book greets us with the rumours of war and tension
between American and Asian continents. As a backup plan the Order of Saint
Leibowitz has obtained a starship which would be able to transport the Memorabilia,
and members of the order, to the small human colony of Alpha Centauri if the war
should erupt with nuclear weapons. In preparing for such an event, Abbot Dom
Zerchi thinks to himself:
Listen, are we helpless? Are we doomed to do it again and
again and again? Have we no choice but to play the Phoenix in an
unending sequence of rise and fall? Assyria, Babylon, Egypt,
Greece, Carthage, Rome, the Empires of Charlemagne and the
Turk. Ground to dust and plowed with salt. Spain, France, Britain,
America—burned into the oblivion of the centuries. And again
and again and again. Are we doomed to it, Lord, chained to the
pendulum of our own mad clockwork, helpless to halt its swing?
(p. 266-267)
The cyclical nature of rise and fall is also perhaps captured by the words of
Brother Joshua, who was chosen to lead the crew of the starship.
The closer men came to perfecting for themselves a paradise,
the more impatient they seemed to become with it, and with
themselves as well. They made a garden of pleasure, and became
progressively more miserable with it as it grew in richness and
power and beauty; for then, perhaps, it was easier for them to see
that something was missing in the garden, some tree or shrub that
would not grow. When the world was in darkness and
wretchedness, it could believe in perfection and yearn for it. But
when the world became bright with reason and riches, it began to
sense the narrowness of the needle’s eye, and that rankled for a
world no longer willing to believe or yearn. Well, they were going
to destroy it again, were they—this garden Earth, civilized and
knowing, to be torn apart again that Man might hope again in
wretched darkness. (pp. 287-288)
The novel unsurprisingly ends with nuclear detonations, the destruction of
civilization on Earth, including the Abbey of Saint Leibowitz, and the starship
taking off into space.
Now of course one might criticize the novel for being too pessimistic, after all
the Apocalypse has not come as some foretold, but we must remember that Walter
Miller also served in World War II, which served in his personal life as a kind of
“apocalypse.” He served as a radioman and tail-gunner for the air bombing crew
which dropped bombs on the Benedictine Monastery at Monte Cassino, the oldest
monastery in the world founded in the 6th century. This event served as the main
inspiration for his novel, but it also contributed to his bouts of guilt and depression
that plagued the author for his whole life. He stopped writing completely at the age
of 36, and then decades later took his own life.
The bombing of Monte Cassino is a significant key in understanding the novel.
Thomas Woods describes the role that Monte Cassino and monastic life in general
has played in Western history, preserving knowledge and tradition and enduring
periods of great turmoil:
It has been said of Monte Cassino, the motherhouse of the
Benedictines, that her own history reflected that permanence.
Sacked by the barbarian Lombards in 589, destroyed by the
Saracens in 884, razed by an earthquake in 1349, pillaged by
French troops in 1799, and wrecked by the bombs of World War II
in 1944—Monte Cassino refused to disappear, as each time her
monks returned to rebuild.” (p. 28. How the Catholic Church Built
Western Civilization.)
Just like in A Canticle, history shows how the monks preserved the human
knowledge of the past, preserving the manuscripts of Cicero, Virgil, and other
classical writers. But it was not only in terms of manuscripts, but also when it comes
to the development and use of technology, such as techniques in agriculture and
metalworking. Historical evidence refutes the common caricature of the Catholic
church in the medieval ages as being completely against science and learning. This
tradition of the preservation of knowledge eventually picked up steam and gave
birth to the Medieval University, which flourished in the 12th to the 14th centuries, in
places like Paris and here in Oxford.
Another interpretative key for A Canticle can also be found in the De Civitate
Dei by Augustine of Hippo. Augustine wrote the City of God against those who
wanted to blame the Sack of Rome by barbarians to the Christians, in particular, that
it was because many Romans had turned away from worshiping their pagan gods
that the Sack of Rome occurred. In response, Augustine recounts how the Roman
gods were not able to save Rome from many of its previous military failures, and
how even more generally, one should not be surprised by the fall of a “City of Man”.
Here he introduces his famous distinction between the City of God and the City of
Man:
Two cities have been formed by two loves: the earthly by the
love of self, even to the contempt of God; the heavenly by the
love of God, even to the contempt of self. The former, in a word,
glories in itself, the latter in the Lord. For the one seeks glory
from men; but the greatest glory of the other is God, the witness
of conscience. (Book 14, Chapter 28, City of God)
In Miller’s novel, in addition to the Catholic Church, there is another constant
reminder of the City of God. The character of the Wandering Jew, who is present in
all three chapters separated by six hundred years each, and who is practically
immortal. He is waiting for the coming of Christ. Perhaps one of the most poignant
scenes is when he comes to look at the scientist Thon Thaddeo, and with a sigh says:
“It’s still not Him.” (p. 216) One can perhaps say the Walter Miller shares the same
indictment of the City of Man as Augustine also had:
But the earthly city, which shall not be everlasting (for it will no
longer be a city when it has been committed to the extreme
penalty), has its good in this world, and rejoices in it with such joy
as such things can afford. But as this is not a good which can
discharge its devotees of all distresses, this city is often divided
against itself by litigations, wars, quarrels, and such victories as
are either life-destroying or short-lived… If they neglect the better
things of the heavenly city, which are secured by eternal victory
and peace never-ending, and so inordinately covet these present
good things that they believe them to be the only desirable things,
or love them better than those things which are believed to be
better,—if this be so, then it is necessary that misery follow and
ever increase. (Book 15, Chapter 4, The City of God)
Another Catholic science-fiction author, still living, is Gene Wolfe. His tetralogy
The Book of the New Sun published in the 1980’s is also counted as a classic. His
style is much more obscure and cryptic than Walter Miller’s, full of intricate
symbolism, but in this sense it is not so different from the style of the Book of
Revelation or the Medieval apocalyptic writers.
The actual “apocalypse” this time happened millions of years ago, so far back
that it can no longer be remembered. The actual events of the novel begin during the
time of the “dying sun”. Mankind has already achieved such technologies as timetravel and interstellar transportation, and has already communicated with extraterrestrials, but all that is left are remnants and traces of that once glorious past.
The hero of the novel is Severian, a professional torturer, who in the course of
the novel is transformed into a kind of Christ figure, whose destiny is to lead the
world to travel once more into the stars. There is a contrast between the profession
of Severian with its preoccupation with death, and the artefact which is put into his
possession called the Claw of the Conciliator, which has the power to heal and
sometimes resurrect people from the dead. It is an artefact that was stolen from the
mysterious Order of the Pelerines, a religious order with affinities to the monastics
in A Canticle, who preserve a sacred legend about the “Conciliator.” Stephen Palmer
notes how the second book in the series, the Claw of the Conciliator is “steeped in
the Roman Catholic tradition” (Palmer). Throughout the novel however, the
Catholic and medieval elements woven with science fiction elements.
Another great science-fiction classic, sometimes compared to the Lord of the
Rings in the fantasy genre, is the novel Dune by Frank Herbert, published in 1965.
Herbert was raised Catholic, but later in life leaned more towards Zen Buddhism.
However one can certainly detect many Catholic themes in his works.
Just like in the previous novels, Dune begins long after the apocalyptic event,
this time called the “Butlerian Jihad”, which was a crusade against computers,
thinking machines, and robots, 10,000 years before the actual events of the novel.
This apocalyptic event led humankind to develop their potentials to previously
unimaginable levels, and the rise of a feudalistic galactic empire. The Orange
Catholic Bible is also introduced, a compilation of the sacred texts of many
religions.
Similar to the Order of Leibowitz, and to the Order of the Pelerines, we
encounter the “Bene Gesserit”, a religious sisterhood who have developed
superhuman abilities, and who have for generations preserved the knowledge of
human bloodlines and orchestrated a selective breeding program one day produce
the “Kwisatz Haderach”, a messianic figure who would have god-like powers. The
hero of the novel, Paul Atreides, manages to fulfil this prophecy. Under his power he
is able to consolidate all the feuding kingdoms and begin a new era of galactic
peace. The novel Dune is the first in a series of six novels. There will be an
introduction of an even more divine element in the later books, when Paul’s son,
Leo II becomes a God-emperor, a mixture between a man and sandworm, who can
see into the future, and sets mankind on a 3,500 year “Golden Path”.
To sum up, a detectable trend in science-fiction—and I have listed three works
which are considered greats in the genre—is an apocalypse and decline followed by
a new kind of medieval age. There is always a “religious order” in the picture,
similar to the medieval monks, who preserve something of the forgotten past, and at
whose inspiration is of a higher “divine” order.
Bibliography
Augustine. The City of God. Translated by Marcus Dods. Massachusetts:
Hendrickson Publishers, 2008.
Herbert, Frank. Dune. London: Gollancz, 1965.
Jr., Walter Miller. A Canticle for Leibowitz. New York: Bantam Dell, 1959.
Wolfe, Gene. The Book of the New Sun. New York: SFBC, 1998.