“Three things are never satisfied;
four never say “Enough”:
Sheol, the barren womb,
the land never satisfied with water,
and the fire that never says enough.”
“On Caladan, we ruled with sea and air power," the Duke said. "Here, we must scrabble for desert power. This is your inheritance, Paul.”
There’s no controlling it, really. Some memories just pop into your head. For example, I have a memory of a wooded path on which my friends and I used to ride our bikes. The path was paved with asphalt, but several short-cuts had been stamped up the steeper parts where the switchbacks were. Once I started cutting across, dragging my bike up through the dirt and ferns and a friend shouted, “Hey, don’t do that. You’ll cause erosion.”
We continued to use that path for years and the same deliberation always occurred: Save the time or preserve the land?
Here’s another memory: I’m unwrapping a Christmas present from my uncle, Jack, who usually sends dried fruit from his homestead in Hawaii. This time it’s not pineapple, it’s a copy of Dune. The black paperback displays shadowed figures walking across sand. The cover reads: “Science Fiction’s Supreme Masterpiece.”
But I didn’t want to read Dune. It was the early 2000s and Peter Jackson was releasing his The Lord of the Rings adaptations. My parents had informed me that if I wanted to see those films I would be required to read Tolkien’s work first.
And so Dune was placed on the shelf while The Lord of The Rings came to define those middle years of childhood. And we weren’t just reading about Tolkien’s world, we were living in it. My friends and I forged swords out of scrap boards and raced our bikes like steeds down the streets and into the woods. Beyond the fantasy play, the story bridged a fresh connection between myself and my father. In sum, reading those books and then seeing those (PG-13!) films felt like a “coming of age” in a land much like our own, only more so: the land of Middle Earth.
But last year, after seeing Denis Villeneuve’s first movie adaptation, I finally picked up my uncle’s gift of Dune from twenty years ago. And as I turned its pages, I encountered a work that is oddly similar to Tolkien’s The Lord of The Rings and yet disparate.
Yes, there are similarities between these two. The worlds of Frank Herbert and J. R. R. Tolkien—with their languages and names, species and tools, planets and politics, wisdom and lore—are so sprawling that other creatives within these genres inevitably borrow from them.
And yet, there is a distinctly different tone humming beneath these stories as Tolkien puts forth a soaring idealism and Herbert a suspicious cynicism. The characters of Tolkien’s world display courage, perseverance, and self-sacrifice: a standard beyond ourselves for which we might reach. But Herbert’s characters expose us for what we often feel we are, but with little hope for change.
This is why Dune is speaking so loudly today. Herbert’s skepticism befits the mood. Tolkien’s idealism is a hard sell. And while cynicism will always have residence in a fallen world it offers little towards construction, toward building up that world. Indeed, great is the number of “modern indulgences whether it's certain kinds of pop music or certain kinds of shows (that) really mire us in certain kinds of negative attitudes that aren’t productive for flourishing and aren’t productive for growing in virtue.”
What follows will contrast the themes of place, purpose, and power as they appear in both Dune and The Lord of The Rings. Does the cynicism in Dune offer us a path forward? Or does it just appear as a short-cut that ultimately erodes the land around us?
Tolkien’s penchant for lengthy descriptions has been held against him, but his readers emerge feeling as if they have brushed the leaf and stone of his land. And Tolkien wants us to walk with him across this Middle Earth as both The Hobbit and The Lord of the Rings are, in their simplest forms, about journeys across a place. And these journeys are not without the hazards of sepulchral mines, marshes, and the blackened lands of Mordor. Yet there are sanctuaries like the Shire and Rivendell which provide a vestige of what Middle Earth was like before evil began to corrupt.
And so Tolkien presents to us our own world, “for we know that the whole creation has been groaning together.” And, “so death spread to all men.” But for Tolkien, there will always be hope for those who have courage to make sacrifices for the greater good. Gandalf makes Moria his tomb so that his friends might live. It is only the reckoning that there will be no return journey which enables Frodo and Sam to persevere through the seat of evil itself in the land of Mordor. Tolkien never lets his characters be tempted beyond their ability, but he provides a way of escape that they may be able to endure it.
The same cannot be said for Arrakis: Herbert’s desert planet which serves as the primary setting for Dune. The sun is hot, the dust storms are blinding, and there are giant worms burrowing under the sand. Hebert confronts his readers by putting them into a place where they essentially do not want to be. It is a meaner version of our own world with all of its dangers of violence, war, and natural disasters. But on Arrakis, there is no sanctuary, no offering of “the last homely house.” There is no hope.
But our sense of place never comes only from the land itself, but also from the history of that land. Tolkien understands this and fills Middle Earth with the lore of past ages and kings. And this history bears weight upon the present. It is Isildur’s victory over Sauron and attainment of the ring that sets in motion Gollum’s acquiring of it, then Bilbo’s, and finally Frodo’s. As Frodo treks across the land with his burden he is confronted with the legacy of failure around it: the failure of real people (to Frodo) with real names. Agency matters for Tolkien.
Lore is similarly pervasive in Dune but its emphasis is not on people and their choices but on vast, shadow agencies which wield power and influence across infinite lifetimes. Entities like the Spacing Guild, CHOAM, the Houses, and the Bene Gesserit are described, but cannot be fully understood by the reader. Much less can they be appealed to by the characters. These are bureaucracies.
“Few products escape the CHOAM touch,” the Duke said. “Logs, donkeys, horses, cows, lumber, dung, sharks, whale fur—the most prosaic and the most exotic . . . even our poor pundi rice from Caladan. Anything the Guild will transport, the art forms of Ecaz, the machines of Richesse and Ix.”
Living in Middle Earth means knowing how to chop logs and care for horses. These activities can be hard but they are also beautiful. That’s Tolkien: the challenges of living are offset by relishing beauty which moves us to praise of God. But in Dune the logs and the horses have their representatives, effectively driving a wedge between the people and their own lives.
Herbert’s world with its environmental disasters and bureaucratic complexities resonates today, yet he offers neither his characters nor his readers hope aside from the Darwinian. This “survival of the fittest” does not offer a satisfying purpose for living.
Several years ago I brought a copy of M. Scott Peck’s People of The Lie to work for my lunch break. When a colleague asked about the provocative title, I shared that Peck, a psychiatrist and author, was recounting experiences with people he believed to be evil by the measure in which they rejected truth and ignored the destructive consequences. My coworker, not one to bury the lede, replied with incredulity: “You actually believe there are evil people?”
There is a sense in which Dune asks the opposite question: “You actually believe there are good people?” While Tolkien presents a world in which the powers of good and evil are clearly defined, Dune’s ethics are slippery: good and evil are not found according to “sides” but to degree.
Yes, Tolkien’s world has ambivalence (eagles and ents) and animosity (elves and dwarves); but evil itself can be pointed to. In fact, it was the presence of evil in The Hobbit that was a point of concern for one critic who wrote, “The only snag I can see is that many parents… may be afraid that certain parts of it would be too terrifying for bedtime reading.”
Tolkien, in a letter dated to October of 1937, wrote in reply, “I am afraid that snag appears in everything; though actually the presence (even if only on the borders) of the terrible is, I believe, what gives this imagined world its verisimilitude. A safe fairyland is untrue to all worlds.”
By matching good against evil, Tolkien engages his readers’ minds. By establishing evil as threatening, Tolkien stirs his readers’ hearts. And by displaying acts of heroism in the face of evil, Tolkien animates his readers’ wills to wonder, "Might I also have the will and the courage to do good when it is costly or dangerous to me?"
By contrast, the idea of “purpose” in Dune remains opaque. This is part of Herbert’s mastery and part of what makes Dune feel so relevant today. We often feel like Paul Atreides who scrambles through a world of deception, manipulation, and layers of intention. “Listen carefully, Feyd…Observe the plans within plans within plans.”
And it is not as though Herbert is unwilling to distinguish between good and evil, but he seems disinterested in putting forth a standard for which his readers might strive. Instead, he submerges his readers into strata of evil as if to say, “Abandon all hope, ye who enter here.” Tolkien’s characters are not without fault, but when they fail they do so before a framework of what is good, true, and beautiful. This moral framework stands as majestic as the landscape of Middle Earth itself and it is this arc that offers a purpose for living.
Tolkien summarizes this thought in a 1969 letter to a young girl who wrote to him on a school assignment to ask: “What is the purpose of life?” Tolkien responds,
“The chief purpose of life, for any one of us, is to increase according to our capacity our knowledge of God by all the means we have, and to be moved by it to praise and thanks.”
But in Dune—like the hills of sand on which it is set—characters stumble to find a higher ground for which to climb. And ultimately, “No one does good, not even one. … The venom of asps is under their lips. …and the way of peace they have not known.”
The first act of Dune revolves around a plot to betray and murder the father of Paul Atreides, Duke Leto Atreides. A key moment occurs when the traitor—after acting on his ill intent—removes a signet ring from the Duke’s finger to stash away as a gift for Paul. Later when Paul puts on the ring he not only uses it as a symbol of his heritage, but of the revenge that he is going to bring on his father’s behalf.
Of course, Frodo too is given a ring by his uncle, Bilbo, who used its power of invisibility for mischief and to get out of some tight spots in his younger days. But when Frodo receives the ring it is apparent that an evil is at work within it. Yes, the ring still makes the wearer invisible, but it now does more than that. The wearer becomes “subtracted” from their own world; they are wraith-like. In short, they become a non-person and, if they wish, can deceive, manipulate, or kill.
The hazard of possessing the ring for an extended time can be seen in Bilbo himself when he admits, “I feel all thin, sort of stretched, you know what I mean: like butter that has been scraped over too much bread.” It is the ring who possesses their owner, rather than their owner possessing it. As such, all are warned against its use. “The very desire of it corrupts the heart.”
When Paul Atreides is given his father’s ring he receives a purpose of vengeance which will finally come to possess him. At first Paul is a sympathetic character: his people have been wiped out and his ring symbolizes a gleam of resistance. But as Paul increases in power he falls into that universal danger about which Frodo was warned. The longer he wears the ring Paul becomes less of himself: less human, subtracted and swept away in mania and revenge. It’s often pointed out that Herbert intended Dune to be something of a cautionary tale. Those who think they may wield great power soon find themselves wielded. And those who would champion a righteous and just cause—people we think as our saviors—not immune from a corrupting desire.
And so it is that when Tolkien ends his tale it is Frodo, like his uncle Bilbo before him, who finds that he has become more of himself by enduring trial and self-sacrifice. But when Herbert ends his story Paul is hollowed out and maddened by the power that has possessed him.
The characters in Dune all attempt to grasp for power and subsequently fall into corruption. But in Tolkien’s world, characters are tested by degrees, as Gandalf admits, “There are many powers in this world, for good or for evil. Some are greater than I am. And against some I have not yet been tested.”
Galadriel is tested when Frodo offers the ring for her possession. She passes the test by self-control and yielding to the ring-bearer. Aragorn is tested in his return to Minas Tirith where the throne–his birthright!–is managed by a maddened steward. Instead of seizing power, Aragorn camps outside the city to avoid being seen as a usurper. Boromir fails his test when he tresspasses on a power which has not been given to him, yet through repentance he dies a hero. One cannot hide from evil, but one can resist it by cultivating virtue opposite the vice.
* * *
During their nine years on television, the writers of Seinfeld kept the mantra: “No hugging, no learning.” This cynical posture towards resolution and growth kept Seinfeld funny. It also provided a counter to much of the glib television that had everyone hugging and learning after twenty minutes. (“You actually believe that?”)
And it is with a similarly skeptical posture that Dune—a nearly 60 year old work—is speaking so loudly now. Dune extends a commentary on our own planet, our politics, and our dealings with power that resonates. Hugging opens us to being hurt; learning reveals a lack. It’s easier to do neither. It’s easier to be cynical.
Lady Jessica levels this very critique in Dune against her failing bodyguards: “They’re becoming like the men of the pre-Guild legend… sick at their guns—forever seeking, forever prepared and forever unready.”
Dune portrays only this cynical soldier. One who postures as hunting for the ideal but is forever unready to take hold of it. Indeed, he cannot recognize it should it come. This is the fruit of cynicism, this is the path that causes erosion. If in skepticism and mistrust we stick out our hands it will not be to grab for an ideal, but to keep our world an arm’s length away. Herbert’s immersive and complex world is worth exploring. But it’s ultimately a cautionary tale about broken places, confused purposes, and corrupted power.
But where Herbert isolates a malady, Tolkien extends a cure: “Set your minds on things that are above.” For in The Return of the King, when Merry and Pippin reunite and share amazement at the things small hobbits have been privy to, Merry remarks, “It is best to love first what you are fitted to love, I suppose: you must start somewhere and have some roots, and the soil of the Shire is deep. Still, there are things deeper and higher…”
This is the idealism of Tolkien. Not a “pollyannaism,” but that men and women by loving what they are fitted to love would move beyond the state of things as they are, deeper and higher toward what things can be.