If it starts a little bit dry, you may just remember that it is, at core, a story about a desert. Dune’s so long that you’ll probably still have more to read years from now. Prepare yourself for an epic, told by a deep thinker and science lover with a true poet’s heart. The short take? If you haven’t read Dune, there is no better time than now. Like Tolkein to high fantasy, Herbert was not the first to tell a tale of intergalactic imperial conflict and destiny, but the thousands of pages he left us are unique and pivotal, a guiding star of character, philosophy and drama like nothing before. That chair is owned unequivocally by Frank Herbert. Both Wells and Asimov dealt with it directly in their original works, and if they are granddaddies of the genre, there is still room at the head of the table for a father of space operas. This need to know time – the explorer’s credo and Cassandra’s curse – may be the central pillar in all science fiction. What if time were like a desert, a landscape of waves within waves, dry and deadly in perfect symmetry? We would be thirsty travelers yet, with the one goal, and it alone: to crest the next dune. What is time, anyway, that it hangs forever ahead, heavy like a stormfront, with all of our hopes and fears, yet invisible? To our senses, the horizon of a moment is so impenetrable, but everything hinges on its blooming. To see the future – to know tomorrow like we know the past.
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