Once, a long time ago, I read a classic science fiction novel by Walter M. Miller. The novel in question was the perennially-famous A Canticle for Leibowitz. It is a novel composed of three distinct novellas—the first establishes the world. The second builds upon events in the first. The third builds upon events in the second and the first. A single character recurs, though I often wonder if this character is to be taken as a literal character, or simply as a function of the story: a part of the spiritual inquisition taking place. For those unfamiliar with A Canticle for Leibowitz, it was initially published in October of 1959, and remains in print today. Though the text itself remains unchanged, numerous covers have come to grace the tale, and numerous interpretations have attached themselves to the novel itself, rather like memetic barnacles on the hull of a slow-moving ship. I appreciated the novel when I first read it; I read it—a long time ago—as a self-imposed assignment, undertaken in my membership within a science fiction writer’s workshop hosted by a moderately famous, reasonably successful sf/fantasy writer. I enjoyed the novel at the time, and it left something of a lasting impression. A glib description of that book will always highlight the crux of the story: a document discovered by a humble monk. The document in question was penned by the Saint Leibowitz and it is of extreme spiritual and religious significance. I reads: “…pound pastrami, can kraut, six bagels—bring home to Emma.” As one can see, such a cryptic message can only be a riddle intended for future, post-apocalypse-dwelling monks to interpret in their attempt to gain insights into…well…into the significance of Saint Leibowitz. I recently re-read A Canticle for Leibowitz. I found a 1970s edition of it in a used bookstore. I grabbed it, instantly, inordinately happy with such a brilliant discovery. During the 1970s, Bantam Books published a number of novels, all enhanced by a common cover aesthetic. The science fictional offerings featured equally high-quality (uncredited) artwork, centered on the cover, beneath the title and byline. The title was always rendered in a bold, 1970’s-style typeface but the author’s name was always rendered in simple, black, Roman lettering. In my formative years as a science fiction reader, I’d acquired a number of books by Samuel R. Delany, all published (or re-printed) by Bantam Books in the early 1970s. Those books, Nova, Dhalgren, and Triton shared common cover attributes and established Bantam Books as the publishing house responsible for really good looking books. As I read the 1970s Bantam Books reprint of A Canticle for Leibowitz, I discovered subtleties in the story I missed in my younger years. I saw strange, almost troubling similarities shared by the crumbled, dead cathedral depicted on the cover, and an actual church within walking distance of my job. I photographed the church, thinking of Saint Leibowitz. I thought of The Memorabilia and the Republic of Texarkana. I thought of barbarians and mutants, of vultures, and the poignant characters. I can’t remember the name of this church, nor can I remember my initial response to seeing it as I saw it on the night this photograph came into being. All I can really say is that I had Walter Miller’s magnum opus in my bag and I anticipated reading for a few hours that night, immersed in both a classic science fictional tale, and the scent of the book itself: an olfactory echo of the relics contained in the fictional Memorabilia. I enjoyed the book immensely, this time around…I enjoyed holding it and smelling it and revisiting characters I hadn’t read in a long, long time. As always, thank you for viewing, reading, and commenting, and I hope you’re all having a great week.