If I had never seen the first trailers for Dune, had never become absolutely besotted with Timothée Chalamet and Zendaya as a sci-fi power couple, had never found myself weirdly intrigued about the idea of giant sandworms, I probably would never have found myself online ordering a copy of the original 1965 novel that started it all. And I definitely wouldn’t have found myself slogging through it weeks later, my brain tangled in knots over the complicated-enough-to-cry plots (within plots, within plots) and intricate world-building.
Dune has more than earned its place in the science fiction pantheon; it’s a masterpiece, don’t get me wrong. But for the first 50 to 100 pages, you’d be forgiven for wanting to dig Frank Herbert out of his grave and beg him to explain WTF is going on.
The easiest way to put it is that Herbert is not here to help you read his book. He’s created this elaborate universe, and if you want to come along for the ride, fine, but there are no seatbelts, no safety bars, and we’re not stopping for bathroom breaks. In other words, this book feels impenetrable for the first hundred pages or so, and cracking it open is like being thrown into the middle of the ocean and told to swim. He carelessly throws around terminology (melange, mentats, Bene Gesserit) and historical events (“Butlerian Jihad” stumped me for a long time) as though you already know what they mean, and good thing, because we’re already moving on to the next scene, please keep up!
Source: Read Full Article