Things are collapsing in the concluding book of The Book of Dust, the next of Philip Pullman's magisterial trilogies set in a universe that seems, in this volume especially, as a energized and skewed version of our own. Organizations are failing, or reorganizing themselves along novel and disquieting lines. An invisible force "is ruining the air and the seasons"; simultaneously, "currency is failing, and no one knows why". Authority is flowing away from authorities, and pooling in the offices of theocrats, the vaults of corporations, the hands of rioters. "Some force is at work, silently, very subtly", says merchant a trader character, keeping a vigilant eye on the trade routes from his place in an city cafe. "Things we thought were stable and durable are weakening and failing."
Core Enigma and Lyra's Journey
Exactly what that force might be, and how to counteract it, is the inquiry that animates the concluding book, which picks up where The Secret Commonwealth concluded. This is, reportedly, the author's concluding venture into the carefully crafted, infinitely beguiling realm he first unveiled 30 years ago, with the release of the first trilogy. It's a domain whose geography aligns with that of this world, but whose history veers and changes with ours; where the people look and reason and behave like us, but are paired by external spirits, souls in creature form; where the skies are teeming with sorceresses and legendary creatures, but below, buses are caught and beverages is consumed, and mature academics carry fancy shopping bags. Lyra, whom we first encountered as a 12-year-old in the His Dark Materials trilogy, and then met once more as a toddler in the prequel, the prequel with which the author began the series, is now a mature individual: still clearly the sharp and tenacious protagonist of the prior volumes, but aged, sadder, warier, more doubtful. This restraint is heightened by her division from her animal guide, her daemon – but it was also, ironically, the cause which led him to leave her in the first place.
Converging Storylines
The daemon's resolve to depart in search of that childlike part of Lyra which she appears to have shed (an aspect which he epitomises as her "creativity"), and her quest to rejoin with him, were the catalysts of the prior book, which saw Lyra undertake a adventurous trek across Europe and into the mountain region, meeting with marvel and peril on the way. But from the outset, underlying forces were in motion, and darker forces at work. The religious council – the faith's ruling body, and the author's deliciously chilling representation of austere, procedural malice – is under fresh command, and asserting its power. The antagonist – our protagonist's uncle, who faults her for his sibling's death – has manoeuvred himself into the position of leader of the Magisterium's High Council, and is intent on using his recently acquired power to broaden the institution's control. Malcolm Polstead, who carried baby the heroine to security along a flooded river as an young boy in the prequel, is now an university scholar with a additional duty in spycraft: he is assigned to Geneva to find out more about Delamare's aims. And behind all of this is the mystery surrounding the uncommon and valuable botanical extract which appears somehow to be the source of a social and financial disturbance spreading out from the region. The substance is seen by various factions as a tradeable good, by different parties as a empirical or mystical wonder, and by further factions – the fanatical "highland figures" – as a source of darkness; an challenge that must be destroyed. The question of its origins, its significance, and whether it should be eliminated or safeguarded is escalating in importance.
As in the original trilogy, Lyra's actions, and her destiny, are revealed to be deeply entwined with the destiny of the world
In its predecessor, these narratives ran largely in tandem. In the conclusion, they merge. Like the first trilogy, her movements and her path are unveiled to be deeply linked with the destiny of the realm. Her private journey to rejoin with her soul and rediscover her creativity becomes the key conflict in a wider war with an oppressive government which, as these systems typically do, is striving to suppress freedom of thinking, creativity and culture: all the internal, defiant ways in which humans can be independent.
Atmospheric Fissures and Ideological Conflicts
The novel starts with the unveiling of a series of strange fissures in the structure of the planet's air: windows that look to give on to other worlds. One such window appears to be the source of the fiercely disputed rose oil. The authority, with its leader at its leadership, designates these openings as a problem to the church's beliefs and endeavors to eradicate them. As the heroine begins to turn away from strict reason and back to instinct, yet, her certainty that these locations must be preserved – that their significance and what they offer is mysteriously crucial – increases. "Dust, or the extract, or the creativity, or the Rose Field, or no matter what we call it," she says, "we require it." The scene for a Blakean conflict between naivety and experience is established.
Story Tempo and Character Development
At over six hundred pages, The Rose Field|this volume|the
