Avery

One thing I find fascinating about the saga of Dune is that there's a VERY clear message against having faith in heroes.

Frank Herbert treats heroes as inherently untrustworthy, even less so than other men, as if to say that "A politician will ruin your life, but you can fight back. A bad religion will ruin your descendant's lives, but someone will eventually question it. A hero will ruin everything you ever cherished, and what's worse, you will ask them to do it. And by the time anyone figures it out, it will have been far too late to fix it."

Frank Herbert was, at his core, a political cynic and a philosophical realist. He didn’t just question the idea of heroes—he actively feared them. Not because they were evil, but because of what society does in response to them. To Herbert, a tyrant is dangerous. A charismatic revolutionary is dangerous. But a messiah? That’s the extinction of agency. A messiah is fatal.

Herbert once said:

“The bottom line of the Dune trilogy is: beware of heroes. Much better to rely on your own judgment, and your own mistakes.”

But what’s so radical is how Herbert illustrates this. He doesn’t do it with lectures. He lets the reader feel the seduction—you cheer for Paul, you want him to win, to become the savior. And then, once you're invested, he shows you the giant pile of bodies shoved out back behind the Arakeen shed which that success had cost.

The first novel tricks you. It seems like the classic mythic arc: Boy is born to greatness -> Trains hard -> Gains wisdom -> Defeats the Evil Lord -> Becomes the True King.

But then Herbert pulls the rug out from under the narrative: Paul becomes emperor, yes, but at the cost of countless lives, and his rise unleashes a jihad across the stars, killing untold trillions more. He tries to prevent it, but can’t. Every path he seeks that would avoid the Jihad leads to the ruin of himself and those he cares about, and in the end, the very faith that he finally allows (having exhausted every other option) to be placed in him becomes the never ending engine of catastrophe.

He’s not evil. He genuinely tries to resist the path laid out before him. But he’s trapped, because the very people he tries to save won’t let him choose otherwise. Their belief becomes his cage.

In Messiah, Paul says:

“I wanted only to rid the universe of Harkonnen tyranny... I didn’t want to found a religion. But it’s there.”

By the time he abdicates in Messiah, he’s less a man than a martyr. And the machine of faith rolls on without him. The machine no longer needs the turnkey which gave it life. It will go on and on and continue to spread misery in his name long after he's gone.

Paul is terrifying not because he wants to be a god, but because he tries not to be, and fails. And that’s the horror: the people will believe in something. If not you, someone worse. And if you refuse, they’ll make you holy anyway.

It’s the inversion of the classic “Reluctant Messiah” trope: most stories treat that as a sign of humility. Herbert treats it as a death sentence—a loss of agency, an erosion of the self, and ultimately the seed of empire-wide genocide.

Yet the real horror is what follows.

Paul’s son, Leto II, embraces that messianic role—not out of pride, but because he sees that it’s the only way to break the cycle.

And so, he becomes a god. Maybe not a literal one, but definitely one in all the ways that actually matter. God enough. As such, he rules for 3,500 years, becoming a literal misshappen monster, with only the barest human qualities left identifiable in him. His reign as God Emperor crushes all freedom, all culture, all choice.

Why? To teach humanity the most painful lesson possible: Never again put your fate in one man’s hands.

And it works. But only because he sacrifices his humanity to do it. And even then, it only works for a while. By Heretics of Dune, mankind is already forgetting the lesson, and already backsliding into the Bad Old Ways from the Bad Old Days before the Imperium.

Everything Paul did and enabled was for nothing. He destroyed the Harkonnens, yes, and he avenged his father, yes. And had he been able to stop there, it would have been a happy ending. But try as he might, he couldn't. And his actions directly plunged the universe into over 4000 years of suffering and cultural regression.

It's less "deconstructing" Joseph Campbell's Hero's Journey at this point and more dissecting its corpse under a magnifier and a buzzing lamp.

Herbert, a political journalist, wasn’t writing abstract sci-fi. He was writing an allegory for the 20th century and beyond:

The rise of charismatic dictators (Hitler, Stalin).

The messianic energy surrounding revolutionaries (Mao, Lenin).

The weaponization of religious belief in politics (theocracy, nationalism).

The transformation of movements into myth—and myth into mandates.

To Herbert, the most dangerous thing a society can do is surrender its future to a single narrative, a single person, or a single path.

He didn’t hate religion. Or power. Or leadership. He feared unquestioned belief. That’s Dune's entire soul.

Frank Herbert didn't just warn us about tyrants—he warned us about ourselves. About our tendency to crave heroes. To beg someone else to take responsibility. And how that craving becomes the chains of history.

Dune isn't about sandworms. It’s not about spice. It’s a warning label in mythic clothing:

"Do not worship this man. He will destroy you. And the worst part is, You will ask him to."

At the 1985 Labour party meet, the motion to support LGBT rights as a party was passed due to a block vote from mining unions.

we're looking to create an AI policy, and when we were talking about this, my boss (older millennial) was genuinely shocked to hear that younger people do not (seem) to view AI positively (a la the recent commencement speakers being booed)

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It makes me feel like this

It did not decide. Once upon a time, millions of years ago, there were moths born with an accidental mutation, some blackish spots on their wings, let's say.

Predators thought "hm, well that one has something gross on it. I'm gonna eat the clean one instead just to be safe."

The unspotted moths, being dead, didn't pass on their genes. The spotted moths did, and a few of their babies had even bigger spots than the parents. The predators around them avoided those individuals even more than their siblings (because bigger spots are easier to see.)

Then we fast forward this process 1 million billion times, and the spots get bigger and bigger, and more fly-like. Because the predators are hungry, and their options have shrunk! The "clean" flies are now the ones with big black blobs. A moth with *red* blobs? Now that one really looks like a bad meal.

Throughout this process, no one is making a choice in what they look like. They are being culled, and unintentionally bred, by nature....or, the official term, naturally selected.

Now to me, what's so wonderful about the whole thing is that it would not be possible without mutation, which is to say, an error in the genetic code. If the dna replicated itself perfectly every time, there would be no evolution or genetic diversity on this planet.