Walter Miller got me thinking.....

"Blessed St. Leibowitz, keep them dreaming down there."

I have often wondered why this particular line from this particular book has stayed in my memory since I first read it back in 1985. It's from a James Michener novel titled SPACE, and the character speaking it is a fictional astronaut that is about to die on the moon. Leibowitz is another story altogether.

St. Leibowitz is a character from a novel titled A CANTICLE FOR LEIBOWITZ, by Walter Miller. Sometime in the future, we're going to blow ourselves to hell, and those that remain will create a religion based upon old artifacts and a grocery list from a scientist named Leibowitz.

One story led me to another story.
And both stories led me to a conclusion.
And that conclusion was that those things that we consider truths are often random labels.

Imagine the day when all the people disappear, and THEN the aliens come. And they look around our planet. And what conclusions will they draw?

The people in the middle of the country seemed to have worshiped at a large steel altar shaped like a parabolic arch. Placed next to a large river, we must conclude that the indigenous people were aware of their mortality, in that the river AND the arch have a distinctive beginning and ending. Special significance should be placed upon the two saints often mentioned at the arch, St. Lewis and St. Clark, and the fact that they named the city after only one of them, and changed the spelling of the name should be explored.

On the eastern shore of the continent stands a large statue of a lady with a torch and a tablet, alone on an island. We believe that the symbol of fire emanating from her uplifted hand could be counted as a threat to all possible invaders coming from the large sea, so this could be a Goddess of War for these people. However, the significance of the writings on the base, i.e. "Give me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses yearning to breathe free" could indicate that the lady is a symbol of death; that the tired and poor who have reached the end of their usefulness are brought before the lady for judgement. More research is required.

On the western edge of the continent we have discovered nothing of merit, although there is a small area inland worth mentioning. In our research, we stumbled upon a tome of ancient wisdom, telling of a piece of wood that was turned into a boy. We believe that in this barren area of the west, we have discovered what the book described as "Pleasure Island." We have yet to find any traces of the books mentioned hybrid of human/jackass, but we believe that it's just a matter of time.

All hail St. Pinocchio.
In the name of Geppetto, Pinnochio, and the truthful nose. Amen.

You can never truly KNOW anything.