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And
that
could
only
mean
an
end
to
all
—
even
to
the
woman
’
s
own
son
.
What
a
poisonous
hate
she
must
’
ve
had
for
the
Atreides
,
he
thought
.
Something
like
the
hate
I
hold
for
this
Baron
.
Will
my
blow
be
as
final
and
complete
as
hers
?
*
*
*
There
is
in
all
things
a
pattern
that
is
part
of
our
universe
.
It
has
symmetry
,
elegance
,
and
grace
—
those
qualities
you
find
always
in
that
which
the
true
artist
captures
.
You
can
find
it
in
the
turning
of
the
seasons
,
in
the
way
sand
trails
along
a
ridge
,
in
the
branch
clusters
of
the
creosote
bush
or
the
pattern
of
its
leaves
.
We
try
to
copy
these
patterns
in
our
lives
and
our
society
,
seeking
the
rhythms
,
the
dances
,
the
forms
that
comfort
.
Yet
,
it
is
possible
to
see
peril
in
the
finding
of
ultimate
perfection
.
It
is
clear
that
the
ultimate
pattern
contains
its
own
fixity
.
In
such
perfection
,
all
things
move
toward
death
.
—
from
“
The
Collected
Sayings
of
Muad
’
Dib
”
by
the
Princess
Irulan
PAUL
-
MUAD
’
DIB
remembered
that
there
had
been
a
meal
heavy
with
spice
essence
.
He
clung
to
this
memory
because
it
was
an
anchor
point
and
he
could
tell
himself
from
this
vantage
that
his
immediate
experience
must
be
a
dream
.
I
am
a
theater
of
processes
,
he
told
himself
.
I
am
a
prey
to
the
imperfect
vision
,
to
the
race
consciousness
and
its
terrible
purpose
.
Yet
,
he
could
not
escape
the
fear
that
he
had
somehow
overrun
himself
,
lost
his
position
in
time
,
so
that
past
and
future
and
present
mingled
without
distinction
.
It
was
a
kind
of
visual
fatigue
and
it
came
,
he
knew
,
from
the
constant
necessity
of
holding
the
prescient
future
as
a
kind
of
memory
that
was
in
itself
a
thing
intrinsically
of
the
past
.
