Dune. By Frank Herbert. Audiobook

Emma Smith

"I must not fear. Fear is the mind-killer. Fear is the little-death that brings total obliteration."

Calling this year odd and stressful feels like an understatement - it's practically a cliche at this point. These uncertain, constantly shifting times have turned many of us into anxious zombies, staring at our phones for the next fix from the news cycle. During the early days of the second lockdown, I found my antidote. I put down my phone, turned off the TV, and sought refuge on the desert planet of Arrakis.

I came to Dune fresh, having just finished the Harry Potter series at thirty. I’d never seen David Lynch’s film, but as a fan of Denis Villeneuve, his choice to tackle a text famously described as "difficult" and "unfilmable" intrigued me. I always prefer to read the book before seeing the adaptation, so I borrowed a gorgeous 50th-anniversary copy from my local library, determined to finish before the film's December release. Then, in true 2020 fashion, the film was delayed. My plans were scuttled, but my journey had already begun.

And what a journey it was. Dune became one of the most profoundly pleasurable reading experiences of my life.

Let me break it down. In humanity's far future, a feudal galaxy is ruled by a Padishah Emperor. The ultimate prize is the spice Melange - a substance that extends life, expands consciousness, and is absolutely vital for interstellar travel. This priceless resource exists on only one planet: the brutally beautiful desert world of Arrakis, known as Dune.

The planet's indigenous Fremen have watched outsiders plunder their home for centuries. Now, stewardship is being transferred from the villainous House Harkonnen to the noble House Atreides, led by Duke Leto. Our focus is his son, Paul, who is awakening to strange psychic abilities inherited from his mother, Lady Jessica. Their arrival on Arrakis is not a peaceful transition, but the opening move in a vicious, interplanetary power struggle. Think Game of Thrones with ornithopters and personal energy shields.

Published in 1965, Dune became a cornerstone of counterculture. Yet, reading it today, it feels startlingly current. Aside from military briefings viewed on "filmbooks," the technology doesn't feel dated. Herbert’s vision was prescient, touching on drone warfare and ecological collapse. His descriptions are masterful - he gives you just enough to ignite your imagination, letting you picture the dragonfly-like 'thopters and the vast, consuming sands.

The book's themes have been dissected for decades, and for good reason. It’s a story about falling empires, superpowers waging war over a desert resource - a narrative that echoes the Gulf Wars and critiques late-stage capitalism. Its central focus on ecology and planetary stewardship feels prophetically aligned with our current climate crisis.

It's important to note its cultural footprint and its flaws. Herbert drew deeply from Islamic culture and language. Through a modern lens, one can critique the "white savior" narrative, though the Fremen are never ascribed a specific Earth ethnicity. Similarly, the villainous Baron's portrayal engages in troubling, outdated "queer coding."

A word of caution: this book is dense. Herbert introduces concepts like the "Bene Gesserit," the "weirding way," and the "Kwisatz Haderach" with minimal hand-holding. My edition had a glossary, and I used it frequently when Paul accumulated titles like Usul and Muad'Dib. Yet, it was never a slog. The complexity is part of the addictive pull.

I give this book my strongest recommendation. It's a monumental work that fully deserves its legendary status. I'm now deep into the sequel, Dune Messiah, and I have a feeling I'll be walking the sands of Arrakis for a long time to come.