MachinesOnIx

I largely agree with what Lovecraft is getting at here that the unknown is the key to eliciting a feeling of fear, even if the primacy of an emotion having to do with age feels weird. Please, Tumblr, understand that I do not share his opinions regarding the Chinese, but the guy was among the first to pick apart the horror genre to find out what made it tick.

Lovecraft's expression of fear of the unknown is decidedly dated, even aside from the bigotry. His writing is famously full of 'Dear reader I dare not describe what I beheld' sort of stuff. It's even more diminished in the public eye by the fact anyone with internet access has a very clear image of Cthulhu as being like a squid dragon as depicted in the sculptures in its eponymous story despite once they actually find the thing and run a boat into it it's like some geometry violating cloud thing.

The thing I do appreciate about Lovecraft is that he's never actually under any compunction to explain anything. Polaris starts with the line 'I am a scholar of the Pnakotic Manuscripts' and that's all we really get. There's an economy of words here in letting us know the narrator is an academic and the subject of his studies is something with an unholy assembly of consonants suggesting it is very strange. In Call of Cthulhu everything we know about the cult and its intentions is communicated by the phenomenally unreliable character of Cesar, who shines a light on the global scale of the operation, fleshing out the worldbuilding while only leaving us with more questions.

Now I'm not breaking any new ground by singing the praises of Stephen King. Dude's far from perfect, and his idiosyncratic style makes all sorts of people just bounce right off, but I think It is probably the best example in the public eye of this 'fear of the unknown' thing in practice. See, for King 'nightmare' is not just a word you use to describe a scary situation. In a nightmare, you feel like there's some hidden logic to the world you can't quite understand. There's a terrible sense of foreboding that preceeds the terror because our brains are familiar with that script. Even if something isn't implicitly awful, there is a pervasive wrongness that our subconscious latches onto.

So lemme just take a second to underline the fact that a clown in a sewer is really fucking bizarre. Like yeah, we're 40 years out from the Tim Curry movie and it's ingrained into the public concious, but please do your best to imagine your response to a sewer clown in an Itless universe. It is important to dispell the whole 'Oh yeah, that old chestnut, the sewer clown' to establish how totally surreal this famous scene actually is.

In the book, the whole un-drugged gladiator thing was Feyd's own doing. See, Feyd's family doesn't take him very seriously. He's been chosen as the na-Baron because he's got charisma and he'll look like the savior of Arakkis after Rabban and Vladimir, but he’s a big showboater that has all his fights rigged. By conspiring with Thufir to get a real Atredies soldier into the arena with him, he is forcing his family to realize how important he is to them. If something happens to him, everything goes up in smoke. But he's also given a chance to demonstrate that he is competent (even if he's cheating with a poisoned blade and some selective brainwashing of the undrugged slave.) The seduction with Lady Fenrig happens off screen, but I think in both Herbert and Villinueve's telling of the story, both of these show us this conflict Feyd has with the pressures of his family whether they're tests from the Baron or something he does to himself in response to those pressures. Finally, and most importantly to Feyd, when the Baron executes his slavemaster for slipping up with the gladiators, the next slavemaster is on Feyd's payroll.

Years down the line the Baron finds a poison needle hidden on one of his slave boys and immediately knows what's up. Feyd is trying to claim the Baron's seat and he's been planning on it ever since He calls Feyd in to make him watch as his entire staff and harem is executed on a whim. Here's where we get the absolute juicy thematic inversion. This shit makes me salivate in a way I might want to talk with a therapist about. The Baron says ‘Feyd, you know what this whole poison needle business tells me? You don't know where your priorities are. I am working on setting up the Harkonnens for generations to come and you're so laser focused on the inheritance you haven’t put any thought into what comes next. So stop trying to kill me and let's talk about your future.’

The Butlerian Jihad is an event set ~10k years prior to the events of Dune in which humanity won their freedom from the machines that they had enslaved themselves to. As a result, it is a religious taboo to create a machine that thinks like a human. That's frankly the bulk of the information presented by Frank Herbert in the text without dipping into books 7+, but whether or not those are canon is frankly an enormous can of worms, which really makes sense when you consider the size of the worms. But boy howdy, Frank loved his subtext and parallelism. Everyone has a foil character, every theme is hit from multiple angles, and Villinueve has been doing an excellent job of capturing a lot of that in repeated imagery and dialogue. The Butlerian Jihad happens off camera, but it's themes are absolutely critical to the big picture.

The Butlerian Jihad was a holy war. It was not merely a rebellion against the machines, it was a crusade against them. The prohibition against thinking machines isn't just a law, it's in the pan-universal Bible. Absolute psychopath Pieter DeVries himself claps back at the Baron for insinuating he might have a use for a computer, and this is a guy who has been hired specifically for his preternatural absence of morals. Let's hold onto that idea for a minute. 

Probably my favorite scene in the first book is the one where planetologist Liet-Kynes is dying out in the desert. As the last of his strength fades to dehydration he hallucinates conversations he had with his father concerning terraforming Arakkis for human habitability. He's told that the means are not complicated. There is already enough water on the planet, the Little Makers just have it all trapped deep underground as part of the sandworm reproductive cycle. You just need to isolate enough water to start irrigating plant life, and once it's established that'll keep the water on the surface on its own. The hard part is making sure everyone on the planet is environmentally conscious enough to foster a developing ecosystem. Nobody can drink any of that water while it's being collected, because they'll just introduce it back into the water cycle where the Little Makers are. It's going to take generations, so that sort of water discipline is going to have to go above and beyond a social convention. People need to be willing to die before they'll take a sip and compromise the plan. Ghost Dad Kynes concludes that the only mechanism in the human experience to enforce this consensus is religion. 

In the context of this whole parallelism thing, you have probably noticed that the Butlerian Jihad is not the only holy war in the narrative. Paul sees a new jihad as the only way of creating a future where humans can flourish. Now you might be saying ‘Wait now, Machines. I thought the point of Paul’s holy war was to avenge Leto and disempower established power structures by taking away the control of the spice!’ And you’d be right. The thing is, without getting into spoiler territory, Dune Messiah is not going to be about how everything just gets so much better now that Paul has destroyed the economy, government, and untold billions of human lives. This isn’t the endgame. Dude can see the future and the way he does it involves looking into the past. Paul lives in a society defined by a holy war and his goal is to redefine society. 

Precious little has been learned, save for the extent of rodential avarice. Let the church say what it will of mankind’s inclination towards sin, had God granted any beast of nature half the faculties of man we would be more likely to see essays in defense of cannibalizing the young rather than the abandonment of the habit. Yes, there is risk inherent to participating in my studies, and yes it is customary that dangerous work be compensated with additional pay, but I cannot help but feel that tradition ought to be relaxed in the new context of the Neath in the same manner we have abandoned customs regarding marriage and romance in the face of irrefutable proof that  there are a great deal more categories of personhood than the two commonly accepted on the Surface. 

None of them will suffer any permanent harm until my endeavors are successful and in that eventuality the contract guarantees generous provisions to compensate the family of the deceased. And still, they expect hazard pay as though their deaths were permanent affairs. One in every ten poor souls at any textile mill in London can be seen missing eyes or fingers but are still paid a pauper’s wage because their mutilation is left to chance. If a breakthrough is made tomorrow, perhaps one rat in one hundred will have suffered more than a protracted nap before whatever subnatural force set their little hearts beating once more. 

While postmortem interviews have proved informative, the stories are all the same. Regardless of the means of death, the subjects report memories of passage on a small boat in dark waters drifting towards a distant shore. Other passengers may or may not be aboard, but descriptions of the gondolier seem to all indicate a common person (granting, of course, allowances for the subjective interpretation of species, rats and humans alike consider the boatman ‘sharp-eyed’ and ‘well-dressed.’)  Witnesses corroborate the presence of a chess set, though I’ve nothing but rumors to ascertain its purpose. Elizabeth, is this why you always played like you had something to lose?

Cantigaster-; dreadful name

‘Give me my robe, put on my crown; I have

Immortal longings in me: now no more

The juice of Egypt's grape shall moist this lip:

Yare, yare, good Iras; quick. Methinks I hear

Antony call; I see him rouse himself

To praise my noble act; I hear him mock

The luck of Cesar, which the gods give men

To excuse their after wrath: husband, I come:

Now to that name my courage prove my title!

I am fire and air; my other elements

I give to baser life. So; have you done?

Come then, and take the last warmth of my lips.

Farewell, kind Charmian; Iras, long farewell.’