Frank Herbert

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.

Isn’t it odd how we misunderstand the hidden unity of kindness and cruelty

‘I never knew the city man could be trusted completely,’ Stilgar said.
‘I was a city man myself once,’ Paul said.
Stilgar stiffened. His face grew dark with blood. ‘Muad’Dib knows I did not mean—’
‘I know what you meant, Stil. But the test of a man isn’t what you think he’ll do. It’s what he actually does. These city people have Fremen blood. It’s just that they haven’t yet learned how to escape their bondage. We’ll teach them.’