Ariste, my child, my pride, my own, was born on a razor’s edge, and I held the blade. Leto desired a son. The Sisterhood commanded me to use my bodily discipline to ensure a daughter. Do I obey my love for my Duke or my duty to the Bene Gesserit? Do I take my part in an ancient genealogical plot leading to the Kwisatz Haderach, or do I have the audacity to accelerate that plan and shorten the way?
Anything outside ourself, this we can see and apply our logic to it. But it’s a human trait that when we encounter personal problems, these things most deeply personal are the most difficult to bring out for our logic to scan. We tend to flounder around.
In the end, I chose a daughter. But it was the nearest choice I’ve ever made, teetering on an edge one molecule thick. We can know no love or joy greater than that for our Ariste, yet I cannot help treading and retreading such a profound, binary decision. In the small hours I wonder what shape the universe would be if I had chosen otherwise.