I was recently browsing an online forum for science fiction reading and discussion. One post, in particular, caught my eye. The post’s author was talking about how they had just finished reading Dune and were a little underwhelmed. They wrote about how the narration felt distant and stilted, about how Paul was an inaccessible protagonist. And while I was initially taken aback and indignant reading this post, the more I reflected, the more it occurred to me that I’ve heard this criticism of Dune before. I try to force everyone I meet to read Dune, and of the few who have listened to me, several have said that the book reads oddly. Dune employs formal and jarring language. My instinct is to reject this feedback out of hand. When I read Dune, it’s almost a religious experience. The prose seem to have supernaturally perfect rhythm. “Fear is the mind-killer. Fear is the little-death that brings total obliteration.” Those words are the only thing I’ve ever considered tattooing on my body. They’re simple and quiet phrases but they catch in my mind like they were designed with hooks and barbs to latch onto my synapses. How can people read these lines as being cold and devoid of feeling? They’re desperate alive and full of life. What’s the discrepancy?

While I don’t agree with critics condemnation of Herbert’s prose, I admit that I can see where they’re coming from. Over the course of Dune, the language changes. It begins as many science fiction novels do from the perspective of a child moving through an adult’s world of new technologies and ideas. But over the course of the book the narration changes slowly. As Paul makes the transition into Muad’dib, the writing becomes more formal, the subject matter becomes more metaphysical. I think that my love of Herbert’s cold, stilted writing in these sections stems from the way that I see language deepening and complicating the narrative of Paul Muad’dib. Dune, within the world of the story, is a history of Paul as written by one of his apostles. It is the story of a boy that the narrator fears may be a god. It is a biblical story, in a way. Hundreds of generations of focused human breeding and the inexorable pull of fate granted Paul with extra-human power. And as Paul’s power grows, he loses the uncertainty of action that defines the human perspective. Paul can see all of time, and he grows to know exactly what he must do and say to achieve the outcomes he desires. We mere humans muck about in the uncertainty of the repercussions of our actions. Paul is no longer human but is playing the role of a human. He is acting out a part, move for move, word for word, set in time to prevent the fire of chaotic jihad from spreading across the universe. His concerns, like the concerns of prophets in our earthly religions, are greater than human concerns. It makes sense that any description of this pseudo-deity would be filled with the lofty, inaccessible language of destiny, infinities, and doom. I agree that, often, Herbert’s writing does not create a fully human, approachable character of Muad’dib. But that human character does not exist. The human paul slips away into godliness as he drinks from the cup of the infinite. But Paul still has a mortal body. He still loves his family and mourns the dead, and Herbert does a masterful job of sprinkling moments of genuine human emotion into the narrative. As the stilted language of a person who feels entrusted with the weight of the universe begins to encroach into the narration over the course of the book, these human moments serve to illustrate the loss of self that Paul feels as Maud’dib. The narrative evolution underlines the emotional significance of the book, and that’s pretty dope.

I would say yes, but with some caveats. I haven’t read every science fiction book ever written, and therefore do not have the background knowledge with which I could make a surefire claim to Dune’s greatness, but I will do my best to lay out my reasons for loving this book.

Dune won both the Hugo and Nebula awards in 1966 and although book sales were initially tepid, the franchise grew to contain subsequent novels, comic books, board games, video games, and one (admittedly bad) movie. And while I could expound upon the sprawling complexity and detail of Dune’s universe, what makes this franchise special is its unique focus on the human element. Dune, unlike many prominent science fiction franchises, pays little attention to technology. Robots and machines are almost absent from the narrative. The protagonist fights in gladiatorial duels with nothing but a knife and his wits. Space pilots navigate hyperspace using prescient visions imparted by a mystical drug called “spice.” Through a system of eugenics and specialized education, certain bloodlines in the human race have become something more; transhumans capable of reading people’s minds and seeing the future. And while the universe of Dune is huge and complex, the book focuses primarily on the way that this transhuman evolution changes people. The book’s protagonist, Paul Atreides, learns that he is Maud Dib, the fabled savior of a planet and its people. In the process of becoming this fabled hero, Paul gains the ability to see all of space and time. The narrative meditates long on the impact that this change has on Paul. And while an epic space opera plays out in the background as assassination and planetary invasion keep the plot moving forward, the novel is centered around characters struggling to do ‘right’ in a universe where people can become gods. It’s a story about faith and destiny and what those things even mean. It’s a great book, maybe the best science fiction novel ever, and I could not recommend it enough.

https://www.wired.com/2012/12/and-the-winner-is-readers-choice-for-top-10-science-fiction-novel/

And I’m not saying this (^) is proof, but…