There are so many elements of Dune that I adore. The myriad Machiavellian factions, their complexities, strategies and drama. Its dazzling tapestry of politics, religion, genetics and environmental resource stitched through with the vibrant wildcard thread of prescience. The way the vastness of its planetary scope never overshadows the individual's travail. I appreciate the structure; each chapterhead a slice of evocative historical quote or observation. Is it a memoir of our past or of our future? I appreciate that the first twenty pages act as a literary cover charge - only those readers of intent manage to plow through it. I love that the work is so ridiculously substantial and yet, in the end, such genuinely great fun. I've read this classic many times, all six in the original series many times, enough even to acquire a fondness for God Emperor (admittedly hard to do) if only because it provides manifest evidence for why Paul pulled back and ran away. Not everyone can face making that kind of long-term, tough love commitment to the human race. Sometimes, yes, it falls to our sons.
And then sometimes it probably shouldn't.
Dune was published in 1965. Five sequels followed. When Frank Herbert died in 1986 his son, a sci-fi writer of burgeoning reputation, was encouraged by the publishing world to continue the string. Unfortunately, while many cartons of his father's papers had been left behind, none could be found with reference to where he'd planned to take the story. So Brian Herbert took what he had (work notes on the original world-building) and teamed up with Kevin J. Anderson to produce a trilogy of prequels. It was during this prequel-writing stage, eleven years after his father's death, that a Seattle bank notified the family of two safe deposit boxes leased in Frank's name. These boxes contained copious notes and outlines for the seventh installment of the original Dune series.
Well, hurray-hurray! This is great! And it's certainly understandable that Brian and Kevin would carry on with the prequel project while they poured through the newly-discovered material for the long-awaited seventh installment to the original series. House Atreides, House Harkonnen and House Corrino were duly written and released. Oh, and while they were at it, hey, might as well...here comes a second prequel trilogy: The Butlerian Jihad, The Machine Crusade and The Battle of Corrin. (Are you beginning to squint? Because I'm beginning to squint.) That's six books. Big books. Six big books of, it must be said, diminishing quality. Were they tired? Overworked? Fried by the complicated Dune universe? No clue, but it's such a shame because by the time they got to that glorious seventh part of that glorious original series - which they doubled down, of course, into two novels, Hunters of Dune and Sandworms of Dune - suffice to say it was, to this reader at least, ever-so-distinctly underwhelming. (Tolerance, as George R.R. Martin and Patrick Rothfuss will tell you, is not a reader-quality you really want to mess with.) But why stop there? In addition, these tomes were produced: Paul of Dune, The Winds of Dune, Sisterhood of Dune, Mentats of Dune, Navigators of Dune...
It's never going to end. (It really isn't.) And I've gone from five stars (Frank's work) to four to three and now two - because the story's as flat as a tech manual and the dialogue is simply atrocious. I mean, E.L. James atrocious. But, you know, it's idiots like me who once upon a time fell in love with a book who keep this gravy train rolling.
So choo-choo, Antigone. It's all on you.