Things are collapsing in the concluding book of The Book of Dust, the next of Philip Pullman's grand trilogies set in a realm that appears, now more than ever, as a charged and tilted version of our own. Organizations are failing, or reorganizing themselves along novel and disquieting lines. An invisible force "is wrecking the air and the seasons"; at the same time, "wealth is decaying, and no one knows why". Power is draining from governments, and accumulating in the chambers of theocrats, the vaults of conglomerates, the control of rioters. "Something is at work, stealthily, imperceptibly", says trader a merchant figure, keeping a watchful eye on the ancient paths from his seat in an Aleppo cafe. "Aspects we thought were firm and strong are deteriorating and collapsing."
The Central Mystery and Her Quest
Exactly what that force might be, and how to counteract it, is the question that animates the concluding book, which picks up where The Secret Commonwealth concluded. This is, according to many, Pullman's last venture into the carefully crafted, deeply captivating world he first unveiled 30 years ago, with the release of His Dark Materials. It's a world whose terrain corresponds to that of the real world, but whose past tacks and jibes with ours; where the people appear and reason and act like us, but are paired by daemons, essences in animal form; where the air are filled with sorceresses and gryphons, but underneath, buses are caught and tea is sipped, and mature scholars carry Harrods shopping bags. Lyra, whom we first introduced to as a 12-year-old in the first trilogy, and then saw again as a infant in La Belle Sauvage, the introductory book with which the author began The Book of Dust, is now a young woman: still distinctly the spiky and tenacious heroine of the prior volumes, but older, more sorrowful, more cautious, less sure. This limitation is heightened by her division from her soul companion, Pantalaimon – but it was also, paradoxically, the trigger which caused him to abandon her in the first place.
Converging Storylines
His choice to go off in pursuit of that childlike part of her which she may have forgotten (an trait which he symbolizes as her "imagination"), and her mission to reunite with him, were the incitements of The Secret Commonwealth, which saw Lyra undertake a picaresque journey across Europe and into the mountain region, encountering with marvel and risk on the way. But from the outset, underlying forces were in play, and sinister powers at work. The religious council – the religious ruling body, and Pullman's masterfully eerie incarnation of rigid, administrative evil – is under fresh command, and flexing its muscles. Lyra's uncle – our protagonist's relative, who holds responsible her for his sibling's death – has positioned himself into the role of leader of the authority's ruling assembly, and is set on using his recently acquired influence to extend the institution's rule. Malcolm Polstead, who saved infant the heroine to security along a flooded Thames as an young boy in the prequel, is now an university scholar with a secondary role in espionage: he is sent to Geneva to learn more about his plans. And underlying all of this is the enigma surrounding the rare and valuable essential oil which seems in some way to be the origin of a social and financial upheaval rippling out from the region. The extract is regarded by various factions as a tradeable good, by alternate groups as a research-based or spiritual miracle, and by yet others – the zealous "mountain dwellers" – as a wellspring of malevolence; an challenge that must be eradicated. The question of its origins, what it stands for, and whether it should be removed or safeguarded is becoming urgent.
Like the original trilogy, Lyra's deeds, and her future, are demonstrated to be inseparably connected with the destiny of the world
In the previous volume, these narratives ran largely in side by side. In the conclusion, they converge. Similar to the original series, her movements and her path are unveiled to be deeply linked with the future of the universe. Her private journey to reunite with her companion and rediscover her creativity becomes the central conflict in a larger war with an authoritarian system which, as such regimes typically do, is attempting to quell autonomy of thought, creativity and expression: all the personal, rebellious ways in which people can be liberated.
Cosmic Openings and Philosophical Struggles
The book starts with the unveiling of a collection of curious openings in the fabric of the world's sky: gateways that seem to open into alternate realities. An example of a window seems to be the source of the highly contested botanical substance. The Magisterium, with the antagonist at its leadership, designates these openings as a problem to the institution's doctrine and aims to destroy them. As our protagonist begins to move from rigid logic and back to instinct, however, her belief that these locations must be preserved – that their meaning and what they offer is mysteriously vital – grows. "The substance, or the extract, or the vision, or the Rose Field, or no matter what we call it," she says, "we require it." The setting for a poetic tussle between naivety and knowledge is prepared.
Plot Rhythm and Personal Evolution
At over six hundred pages, The Rose Field|this volume|the
