Dune Messiah

For readers not attuned to Herbert's thematic preoccupations, Dune Messiah might provide an increasingly bewildering experience. Characters once sympathetic become increasingly less so, protagonists seem to turn on friends and family alike, the global scope of events seems reduced to individual scenes of conflict ... or worse, to characters fretting about conflict but not actually doing anything. Thematically, however, events are a natural extension of what came before.

If characters in Dune set a boulder in motion, in Dune Messiah the reader's gaze shifts first from characters to the boulder's path, and then to its imagined trajectory. That boulder is Paul's "star empire", twelve years on and despite his intention a Qizara no better show more than the Harkonnen state terror it supplanted, while vastly more expansive.

Predominant is the theme of Paul's prescience failing him: he no longer is confident in what he sees, multiple developments surprise him having never appeared in his visions, and the reader learns of plots seemingly concealed from him. Alia too seems to find her spice prescience muddied. One reading of their declining prescience: events now are steered not by individuals and their decisions, but the collective momentum of human systems "grinding on and on". If prescience is understood as a vision of possible future paths, a future shaped by intentional decisions at various times, there's now nothing to see. At least, not in the sense of anticipating someone's move ahead of time, and blocking it, or shaping it, or revealing a hidden agenda. Rather, a clockwork is in motion, the scene is set and running to the end. If the Dune Tarot "interferes" in Paul's ability to see into the future, perhaps that marks personal dynamics being taken over by the impersonal dynamics of systems.

So: whereas initially there was spice prescience (for Paul, for Edric, for Alia, and others) foretelling the forking paths dependent upon various players and their separate intentions, now the Dune Tarot alone serves, showing glimpses of the path predominantly constrained by events already underway? Interesting that in the summaries prepared for the novel's original serialization in Galaxy magazine, Herbert nowhere mentions the Dune Tarot introduced in this novel, but repeatedly "clarifies" the meaning or inefficacy of visions for the characters having them.

The novel closes with Paul walking into the desert in keeping with Fremen tradition, seemingly setting the stage for a third act featuring new characters and new power alignments: the Bene Gesserit sidelined, Irulan brought into House Atreides, Alia and Duncan Idaho paired, and Twins unexpectedly a new counterweight to both Fremen rebels and Imperial actors alike. Presumably the third novel reveals whether that boulder's trajectory continues to shape events of the Imperium or if its influence is largely spent and human actors again shall prevail. show less

"Dune Messiah" is Frank Herbert's second offering in the Dune series of books. Paul Atreides is now the Emperor of the known universe, and the unchecked power he possesses leads to catastrophic consequences. His Fremen warriors wage a brutal jihad across the universe, and I admit that his use of the word, jihad, confused me. Jihad refers to a holy war, and in the original meaning, it only means an internal, spiritual war. His use of the word debases the original meaning further.
Unchecked power leads to conspiracies to unseat and assassinate him, and the book deals with the consequences of almost infinite power and hero worship.
Unlike the first book, which explored several themes, like colonialism, a battle for resources (the spice), show more and power, this book deals with the problems of almost infinite political power.
In this context, the book holds valuable lessons for the rich and powerful people who stride the world's stage these days.
Most of us do not get a peek into the psyche of the megalomaniacs who dominate global politics and resources; however, in "Dune Messiah," Frank Herbert invites us into the mind of Paul Atreides, and we get to understand some of the doubts and troubled thoughts that assail him.
In the end, when he becomes blind and loses his powers, he walks into the desert in the way of the Fremen and, in doing so, becomes a messianic figure.
I feel this is the most powerful moment in the book, when the king walks away from his seat of power after recognizing his limitations. In doing so, he becomes immortal. Very few powerful people walk away – their lust for power is too intense. The lure of the throne often proves irresistible.
The book is thought-provoking and draws you into the tale, but it didn't captivate me as much as the first book. show less

After Villeneuve's second Dune movie, I'm probably not alone in blowing the dust off my decades-old copy of this series and reminding myself of what happened next. Paul Atreides requires only twelve years to conquer the galaxy with his Fremen and control of the spice. Rebellious elements take the form of conspirators among the Bene Gessserit, Spacing Guild, Bene Tleilaxu and recruit his wife Irulan. But Paul's worst enemy is his own guilt and fear about what he has become, or may yet become. It's a book filled with smart people talking, aided by the fact that several of them are experts in reading one another's emotions to the point where dissembling is practically impossible - and yet dissemble they do.

Somewhere I got the idea Herbert show more had intended this as the ending of the prior novel and gave it new life as a sequel instead, but I can't find a source to back that up. I'm in accord with Villeneuve, that the first book's story is incomplete without this sequel's emphasizing the fallout and its surfacing of the central theme: beware who you deify. The Bene Gesserit and Bene Tleilaxu knew the danger of not being able to control the figurehead they wanted. The Fremen did not, and here we see how their civilization was transformed for the worse: religion as government, innocents of the desert become world destroyers, and internal division.

This second novel often disappoints those wishing for another large-scale epic adventure tale like the first. Herbert is introspective here, overtly challenging his own creation and all of our beliefs about the role of a mythic hero figure. The Dune series dates from a time when the creator's vision was paramount, long before there was focus on what will earn the most "likes". As literature, it is stronger for it. show less

My memory of my childhood reading of Dune Messiah held that it broke stylistically from the preceding volume of the series. But on this re-read more than forty years later, I found the prose and structure quite congruent with what had come before. It was a shorter book, certainly. Still, it gave the same sort of selectively omniscient perspective, sympathetic to Paul but with multiple glimpses of the machinations of his foes. It even sustained and developed the liturgical strand of the prior book.

Those who enjoyed the world building of Dune should not be disappointed here. There is more on the Spacing Guild, including an actual steersman character. More importantly, the story introduces the Bene Tleilax: an order less venerable but as show more inscrutable and threatening as the Bene Gesserit sisterhood. They are technologists of prosthetic devices who are so accomplished that they can virtually reanimate the dead.

I had forgotten the detail of the "Dune tarot." Evidently the new religion centered on Muad'Dib gave rise to an efficacious instrument of vernacular divination that could incidentally interfere with the cosmic Atreides prescience. Alia seemed especially vexed by it.

In the original Dune I read Frank Herbert to have been weighing in against the "great man theory" of history. At the same time Paul Atreides had a "terrible purpose" and would become the greatest human of his age, the storytelling was nevertheless clear that the times made the man, not the man the times. He often felt himself to be a tool of a greater collective impulse that his decisions could not divert or mitigate. That sensibility is maintained and further developed in the second book, which lacks the kinetic heroism of the first. Once the holy war has been accomplished, praeterhuman intellect and foresight hardly help in charting a course for empire. "To see eternity was to be exposed to eternity's whims, oppressed by endless dimensions" (211).

Now that I am a more mature reader, I was given to notice how these two books parallel--not in plot details, but in themes and broad motifs--Sophocles' Theban plays Oedipus Rex and Oedipus at Colonus. I will see if Antigone is reflected in Children of Dune.

The Brian Herbert 2007 introduction is worth skipping, unless you think Donald Trump is saving America. Even then, don't read it if you haven't first read the book. It has one notable spoiler, but more significantly it sets up strange expectations by "defending" the novel against dusty criticisms from the 1970s. show less

I think I like this more than Dune, which is a little shocking to me, as I genuinely enjoyed Dune quite a lot. Honestly, it might be as simple as this was the quicker read. The world was already largely set up, so there was less to learn and absorb, and also of course the page count is significantly less.

I liked the drama and the increased cynicism, and I enjoyed getting more into the mechanics of prescience, how it works and how it doesn't. I often found myself frustrated by Paul's seeming inability to do anything. For all his vaunted skill and destined chosen one-esque build up in Dune, he seemed as trapped in the maze as the rest of the rats. I think Alia's character perspective helped really flesh out the limitations of the kwisatz show more haderach prescience, and that felt more grounded to me.

I will say, the one thing this book could have easily done without was the introduction. I came so close to not even starting this book, after I read that. Not only did it literally contain spoilers, it also insulted the reader's ability to understand the content of the previous book and of this one. When an introduction to a book talks down to you, you really question the wisdom in deciding to keep reading. I, for one, did not actually ever deify Paul in my head, think him a 'hero', nor did I anticipate some perfect world manifesting under his rule. I found it pretty obvious in Dune that Paul feared what he would become, and saw no way to avoid it that did not lead to further and worse consequences. I never anticipated seeing him become a benevolent ruler, and frankly, any reader who did was, in my opinion, supplying story where there was none. The intro did solidify for me that from now on, unless it is clearly part of the book, in some artistic fashion, I will not read introductions.

When an introduction (yes, I'm still on this, it's THAT bad) has the reader asking themselves, in all seriousness, 'is this satire?', and then concluding that it is not, you've messed up. In addition to my above complaints, Brian also writes in direct contradiction to his father's wishes, and seems incapable of self-reflection or realization, to the extent that it begins to feel like dramatic irony. Here are a few quotes from the intro that illustrate some of why I disliked it so much:

"Frank Herbert told interviewers that he did not want to be considered a hero", followed by, "In Dreamer of Dune, the biography I wrote about him, I described him as a legendary author" and, perhaps most hilariously, "If he had been a politician, he would have undoubtedly been an honorable one, perhaps even one of our greatest U.S. presidents." Umm, wtf? And they still publish new printings with this at the beginning?! show less

I’m going to talk a little bit about what happens in the story, so, spoiler alert schmoiler alert but the book was published in 1969 so the information has been out there for a while now.

Anyhow, in Book 1 we see Paul Atreides rising up to save the poor Fremen who are being oppressed and persecuted at every turn by the cruel Harkonnens. He becomes their hero and defeats the oppressors and deposes the big bad meanie emperor for good measure, thus saving the day forever and ever. Hooray!

Messiah takes up the story 12 years later, and in the first ten pages we learn that these scrappy oppressed Fremen, the erstwhile “good guys,” have used this time to launch a fanatical jihad in Paul’s name, slaughtering billions, and eventually show more colonizing and converting all but a fraction of the known universe at swordpoint.

This is Herbert making a point about the dangers of charismatic leaders and the hero-worship they can engender. Anyway, the mythos around Paul becomes so big and so pervasive that it takes on its own existence, his personal feelings notwithstanding. It’s exacerbated by the fact that he is not only the political leader but also a religious one (combining religion and government = ALWAYS bad news). It’s an interesting study in what happens after the great victory when there’s no monster left to vanquish except yourself. show less

A lot has happened in twelve years. The desert planet Arrakis is now the seat of power for the god-emperor Muad'dib and his holy sister. Water is plentiful as the jihad, guided by prescient knowledge of futures which may be, sweeps ten thousand worlds into the greatest empire in history. For the remnant who resist or resent Muad’dib’s rule, one question alone remains: how do you kill a god?

The second book of Frank Herbert’s “Dune” series upset my expectations in the best possible way. Perhaps I was subconsciously misled by my appreciation for Isaac Asimov’s “Foundation” series, which shares some surface similarities. Both deal with themes of power, empire, religion, and prescience. I could even draw some interesting show more parallels between Herbert’s Muad’dib and Asimov’s Mule.

Probably, then, I anticipated an Asimovian sequel in which Muad’dib’s power starts to expand beyond Arrakis even as he fights to avoid his “terrible purpose” of bloody jihad. But where Asimov’s interest lies in the mechanics of power, Herbert’s lies in the deep currents that bring empires into existence only to dash them on the rocks of their own success.

In this, Herbert’s debt to Ibn Khaldun looms large. The medieval Islamic scholar constructed a theory in which strength originates outside of empire, where scarcity and hard living forge collective clan virtues that empower tribes to invade and topple states, only themselves to fall as their virtue succumbs to riches and soft living, inviting new and virtuous tribes from the hinterland to invade as the cycle restarts.

This theory runs beneath every wind-blown ridge in “Dune Messiah.” The sheer scale of Muad’dib’s victory softens the hard-edged virtues of Fremen warrior culture, transmutes a pure and living faith into the sprawling theocratic bureaucracy of the Qizarate, and strips morality of power by reducing it to law, regulation, and the commands of a god-emperor. How long can a government stand when virtue, faith, and morality are hollowed out by the very success they created?

Though this Ibn Khaldunian perspective drives the narrative, "Dune Messiah" is a book thick with themes, from ecology to gender politics to the power of language to the tensions that thrum at the intersections of science and faith. The theme that struck me most forcefully, though, was the futility of struggle against a universe driven by blind and remorseless eternity.

Some try to control eternity through reproduction or technology, like the Bene Gesserit and the Bene Tleilax, respectively. Some try to control it through faith or superstition. But neither biology nor bioengineering nor priestcraft nor mysticism can resist forces that existed long before you did, and will exist long after your memory is forgotten.

Even a god-emperor, who peers deeply enough into time to sense its pitiless gears, can only grope for the least horrifying alternative available. Calm acceptance of fate is the only rational choice in a universe such as this, for in the sacred words of Muad’dib as recorded in The Stilgar Commentary, “You do not beg the sun for mercy.” show less