A Canticle for Leibowitz (St. Leibowitz, #1)

by Walter M. Miller Jr.

they refused to fish there because of Bo’dollos, the giant catfish that brooded in the deep.

‘You are seventeen and plainly an idiot, are you not?’ ‘That is undoubtedly true, m’Lord Abbot.’

My execrable vanity is like that of the fabled cat who studied ornithology, m’Lord.

The principal industries of the continent, excepting a few seacoast regions, were hunting, farming, fighting, and witchcraft – the last being the most promising ‘industry’ for any youth with a choice of careers and having in mind as primary ends, maximum wealth and prestige.

‘Because a doubt is not a denial. Doubt is a powerful tool, and it should be applied to history.’

When you tire of living, change itself seems evil, does it not? for then any change at all disturbs the deathlike peace of the life-weary.

In the third room, he met the goat. It was their first meeting. The goat was standing atop a tall cabinet, munching turnip greens. It looked like a small breed of mountain goat, but it had a bald head that appeared bright blue by lamplight. Undoubtedly a freak by birth. ‘Poet?’ he inquired, softly, looking straight at the goat and touching his pectoral cross. ‘In here,’ came a sleepy voice from the fourth room. Dom Paulo sighed with relief. The goat went on munching greens. Now that had been a hideous thought, indeed.