Tings are unraveling in the final volume of The Book of Dust, the second of Philip Pullman's magisterial trilogies set in a world that appears, now more than ever, as a charged and skewed version of our own. Establishments are failing, or reassembling themselves along novel and troubling lines. An unseen force "is wrecking the air and the seasons"; at the same time, "currency is failing, and no one knows why". Authority is draining from governments, and gathering in the offices of religious leaders, the treasuries of corporations, the grasp of crowds. "Something is at work, stealthily, very subtly", says merchant a trader character, keeping a observant eye on the ancient paths from his place in an Aleppo cafe. "Things we thought were stable and solid are faltering and collapsing."
Key Puzzle and Her Quest
Just what that force might be, and methods to fight it, is the inquiry that animates this final volume, which continues where The Secret Commonwealth concluded. This is, by all accounts, Pullman's last excursion into the elaborately built, endlessly enchanting universe he first introduced in the distant past, with the publication of His Dark Materials. It's a realm whose terrain aligns with that of our world, but whose chronicles veers and changes with ours; where the individuals look and reason and act like us, but are accompanied by external spirits, souls in creature form; where the skies are populated with sorceresses and legendary creatures, but below, transports are ridden and drinks is drunk, and older academics carry Harrods shopping bags. The protagonist, whom we first met as a 12-year-old in the His Dark Materials trilogy, and then revisited as a infant in La Belle Sauvage, the prequel with which Pullman began The Book of Dust, is now a mature individual: still recognisably the spiky and tenacious main character of the prior volumes, but aged, melancholic, more cautious, more doubtful. This restraint is intensified by her division from her daemon, her daemon – but it was also, ironically, the catalyst which caused him to abandon her in the first place.
Interwoven Plots
His choice to leave in quest of that youthful part of Lyra which she appears to have shed (an quality which he represents as her "creativity"), and her mission to reconnect with him, were the catalysts of the prior book, which followed the protagonist undertake a adventurous journey across Europe and into the Caucasus, facing with marvel and risk on the way. But from the outset, underlying forces were in play, and sinister powers at work. The church authority – the religious governing authority, and Pullman's brilliantly sinister embodiment of strict, bureaucratic malice – is under fresh command, and showing its strength. Marcel Delamare – our protagonist's relative, who faults her for his sibling's death – has manoeuvred himself into the position of head of the authority's governing body, and is set on using his fresh authority to broaden the church's control. Another protagonist, who rescued young the heroine to refuge along a overflowing Thames as an young boy in La Belle Sauvage, is now an academic with a sideline in espionage: he is sent to a key location to find out more about the antagonist's intentions. And behind all of this is the puzzle surrounding the scarce and valuable botanical extract which seems somehow to be the cause of a social and financial upheaval emanating out from the region. The substance is seen by various factions as a tradeable good, by others as a research-based or mystical wonder, and by yet others – the extremist "mountain dwellers" – as a origin of darkness; an insult that must be eradicated. The dilemma of where it comes from, what it stands for, and if it should be destroyed or preserved is coming rapidly to the fore.
Similar to the original trilogy, Lyra's actions, and her future, are revealed to be deeply entwined with the future of the universe
In The Secret Commonwealth, these plots ran broadly in tandem. In this final book, they converge. Like the original series, Lyra's actions and her fate are shown to be inseparably woven with the future of the world. Her private quest to reconnect with her daemon and recover her creativity becomes the primary battleground in a wider conflict with an controlling system which, as such authorities always have, is seeking to suppress autonomy of reason, creativity and art: all the internal, rebellious ways in which humans can be independent.
Dimensional Rifts and Moral Battles
The book starts with the unveiling of a collection of unusual openings in the structure of the world's atmosphere: portals that look to lead to other worlds. A particular window appears to be the source of the much debated botanical substance. The authority, with the antagonist at its helm, labels these windows as a threat to the church's doctrine and endeavors to eradicate them. As Lyra begins to turn away from rigid rationalism and return to feeling, however, her certainty that these locations must be protected – that what they stand for and their value is mysteriously crucial – grows. "Dust, or the substance, or the creativity, or the botanical realm, or whatever we label it," she says, "we require it." The stage for a philosophical conflict between innocence and knowledge is prepared.
Plot Rhythm and Protagonist Growth
At over six hundred pages, The Rose Field|this volume|the
