If Brother Francis copying the Memorabilia by candlelight and Dom Zerchi’s moral stand at the euthanasia clinic gripped you, you’ll be drawn to the Jesuit linguist Father Emilio Sandoz in The Sparrow. After first contact on Rakhat turns from wonder to trauma, Sandoz must confront a crisis of belief as harrowing as any in the Abbey of Saint Leibowitz. The novel pairs spiritual inquiry with cultural encounter the way Miller pairs relics and reason, asking what survives when revelation meets ruin.

If the way A Canticle for Leibowitz leapfrogs from Brother Francis’s age to Thon Taddeo’s renaissance to Dom Zerchi’s spacefaring exodus thrilled you, The Years of Rice and Salt offers a similarly sweeping canvas. Following a group of souls reincarnating across eras, it tracks how knowledge, faith, and power cycle through history—much like the abbey’s long vigil over the Memorabilia as empires burn and rebuild.

If you loved how the monks puzzle over blueprints-as-relics and elevate Saint Leibowitz while a shattered world misremembers the Flame Deluge, Riddley Walker dives even deeper into the poetry of ruin. In a future Kent, Riddley navigates puppet shows and myths that garble pre-blast science—echoing how the Memorabilia preserves truth and error together—and must decide what kind of knowledge to resurrect.

If the abbey’s scriptorium, the sparring with Thon Taddeo, and vows that guard learning against a hostile world captivated you, Anathem is a kindred delight. Inside the concent of Saunt Edhar, Erasmas and fellow avout live by strict disciplines, tangle with metaphysics, and are thrust into a crisis that tests the purpose of seclusion—much as the Order of Saint Leibowitz must decide when to open its gates to the world’s demands.

If the desert pilgrim’s mischievous wisdom, the mordant jokes about relics, and the bleak irony surrounding Dom Zerchi’s final choices resonated, Vonnegut’s The Sirens of Titan hits that same vein of dark laughter. Following Malachi Constant through interplanetary misadventures, it skewers grand plans and invented religions—much as Miller satirizes our need for meaning amid catastrophe—while still landing a humane punch.