God Emperor of Dune (Dune #4)

by Frank Herbert

All rebellions are ordinary and an ultimate bore. They are copied out of the same pattern, one much like another. The driving force is adrenalin addiction and the desire to gain personal power. All rebels are closet aristocrats. That’s why I can convert them so easily.

“Yes, but what about messiahs?” “Like my father?”

Over here sand blows; over there sand blows. Over there a rich man waits; over here I wait.

“Words such as mine have long been recognized for their mysterious power. There is a secret knowledge here which can be used to rule the forgetful. My truths are the substance of myths and lies which tyrants have always counted on to maneuver the masses for selfish design.

“Yes, but Siaynoq also contains the idea of light as that which reveals reality. You continue to shine light on what you see.”

Scratch a conservative and you find someone who prefers the past over any future. Scratch a liberal and find a closet aristocrat.

“Sometimes my dreams are blocked off and redirected into strange places,” he said. “If my cosmic memories are a web, as you two certainly know, then think about the dimensions of my web and where such memories and dreams might lead.”

The brothels, the atrocities, the tyrants, the acrobats, nudists, surgeons, male whores, musicians, magicians, ungenciers, priests, artisans, priestesses . . .

“When he still had a manly shape. It was after the death of his sister but before he began to change into the Worm. The Oral History says the brides of Leto vanished into the maze of the Imperial Citadel, never to be seen again except as faces and voices transmitted by holo.

“The mind imposes this framework which it calls ‘reality.’ That arbitrary framework has a tendency to be quite independent of what your senses report.”

Yake had presented her with a single sheet of memerase paper containing what he described as “a summation of recently reported violence in the Festival City.”

I will die four deaths—the death of the flesh, the death of the soul, the death of the myth and the death of reason. And all of these deaths contain the seed of resurrection.”

“This wise man observed that wealth is a tool of freedom. But the pursuit of wealth is the way to slavery.”

“And it’s the survivors who maintain the most light and poignant hold upon the beauties of living. Women know this more often than men because birth is the reflection of death.”

“A bad administrator is more concerned with reports than with decisions. He wants the hard record which he can display as an excuse for his errors.” “And good administrators?” “Oh, they depend on verbal orders. They never lie about what they’ve done if their verbal orders cause problems, and they surround themselves with people able to act wisely on the basis of verbal orders. Often, the most important piece of information is that something has gone wrong. Bad administrators hide their mistakes until it’s too late to make corrections.”

“Never attempt to reason with people who know they are right!” “But when you know they are wrong . . .” “Do you believe in me?” “Yes.” “And if someone tried to convince you that I am the greatest evil of all time . . .” “I would become very angry. I would . . .” She broke off. “Reason is valuable,” he said, “only when it performs against the wordless physical background of the universe.”

“Playing to the Devil’s Gallery,”

“Religious institutions perpetuate a mortal master-servant relationship,” Leto said. “They create an arena which attracts prideful human power-seekers with all of their nearsighted prejudices!”

Leto spoke with infinite sadness: “You, too, shall pass away. Will all your works be as dust forgotten?” Without any warning, even as he spoke, Leto’s body convulsed in a thrashing roll which heaved him from the cart. The speed of it, the monstrous violence, threw him within centimeters of Moneo, who screamed and fled across the crypt. “Moneo!” Leto’s call stopped the majordomo at the entrance to the lift. “The test, Moneo! I will test Siona tomorrow!”

“The wall of past-beyond-recall Hides me from an ancient fall

Where all the waters tumble! And plays of sprays Carve caves in clays Beneath a torrent’s rumble.”

“I will quote the Lord Leto on that,” Moneo said. “‘I am all of God that need be seen. I am the word become a miracle. I am all of my ancestors. Is that not miracle enough? What more could you possibly want? Ask yourself: Where is there a greater miracle?’”

“Stroke it gently,” he said. Her hand obeyed not his voice but something from within her. The finger movements were precise, eliciting his own memories, a thing passed from child to child to child . . . the way so much information and misinformation survived. He turned his face to its limit and looked sideways at her face so close to his. Pale blue drops began to form at the flap’s edge. Rich cinnamon smells enveloped them. She leaned toward the drops. He saw the pores beside her nose, the way her tongue moved as she drank. Presently, she retreated—not completely satisfied, but driven by caution and suspicion much the way Moneo had been. Like father, like daughter.

Small souls who seek power over others first destroy the faith those others might have in themselves.”

Most civilization is based on cowardice. It’s so easy to civilize by teaching cowardice. You water down the standards which would lead to bravery. You restrain the will. You regulate the appetites. You fence in the horizons. You make a law for every movement. You deny the existence of chaos. You teach even the children to breathe slowly. You tame.

“The nightingale nests in the plum tree, but what will she do with the wind?”

He has learned that it is difficult to live in the present, pointless to live in the future and impossible to live in the past.”

“Most believe that a satisfactory future requires a return to an idealized past, a past which never in fact existed.”

“A seed blown on the wind could be tomorrow’s willow tree,” Leto said.

Leto said: “In the time of the stomach, friendships of the stomach are to be nurtured and cultivated. Let us be on our way, Moneo. Tuono awaits.”

After that awesome climb, she no longer thought of him as quite human. He was something else, a demiurge who stood next to God.

“Insect cries in roots of pampas grass.” Moneo hummed the song to himself: “Insect cries mark the end. Autumn and my song are the color Of the last leaves In roots of pampas grass.” Moneo nodded his head to the refrain: “Day is ended, Visitors gone. Day is ended. In our Sietch, Day is ended. Storm wind sounds. Day is ended. Visitors gone.”

“Caution is the path to mediocrity. Gliding, passionless mediocrity is all that most people think they can achieve.”