Things are unraveling in the final volume of The Book of Dust, the second of Philip Pullman's grand trilogies set in a universe that appears, now more than ever, as a charged and skewed version of our own. Institutions are crumbling, or reassembling themselves along new and disquieting lines. An invisible force "is ruining the air and the seasons"; simultaneously, "currency is failing, and no one knows why". Power is flowing away from governments, and accumulating in the halls of theocrats, the treasuries of conglomerates, the grasp of mobs. "An element is at work, silently, gradually", says trader a trader character, keeping a observant eye on the Silk Roads from his post in an city cafe. "Aspects we thought were secure and strong are faltering and collapsing."
The Central Mystery and The Protagonist's Path
Precisely what that something might be, and how to counteract it, is the inquiry that animates the concluding book, which picks up where the previous book left off. This is, according to many, Pullman's concluding foray into the carefully crafted, deeply captivating universe he first revealed 30 years ago, with the launch of Northern Lights. It's a domain whose landscape corresponds to that of our world, but whose history veers and changes with ours; where the humans appear and think and behave like us, but are accompanied by animal souls, essences in beast form; where the air are filled with sorceresses and mythical beasts, but underneath, buses are caught and drinks is sipped, and middle-aged scholars carry fancy shopping bags. The protagonist, whom we first introduced to as a 12-year-old in the first trilogy, and then revisited as a toddler in La Belle Sauvage, the introductory book with which the author began the series, is now a mature individual: still distinctly the sharp and tenacious main character of the previous installments, but older, sadder, warier, less certain. This circumscription is amplified by her division from her daemon, Pantalaimon – but it was also, unexpectedly, the catalyst which led him to leave her in the first place.
Interwoven Plots
His choice to go off in search of that innocent part of her which she may have forgotten (an trait which he symbolizes as her "imagination"), and her mission to reconnect with him, were the catalysts of its predecessor, which followed the protagonist undertake a picaresque journey across Europe and into the mountain region, meeting with marvel and risk on the way. But from the beginning, underlying forces were in motion, and malevolent elements at work. The religious council – the church's controlling power, and the author's masterfully eerie incarnation of rigid, bureaucratic malice – is under fresh command, and showing its strength. Lyra's uncle – the heroine's relative, who holds responsible her for his sibling's death – has worked himself into the office of president of the authority's High Council, and is determined on using his recently acquired power to expand the church's control. Malcolm Polstead, who carried infant the heroine to security along a overflowing river as an child in the first book, is now an Oxford don with a sideline in spycraft: he is dispatched to the city to learn more about Delamare's intentions. And underlying all of this is the mystery surrounding the scarce and valuable rose oil which manifests mysteriously to be the origin of a societal and financial crisis spreading out from the region. The oil is regarded by various factions as a marketable commodity, by alternate groups as a empirical or esoteric miracle, and by further factions – the extremist "mountain dwellers" – as a origin of darkness; an challenge that must be obliterated. The dilemma of where it comes from, what it stands for, and whether it should be destroyed or preserved is escalating in importance.
Like the original trilogy, Lyra's decisions, and her future, are revealed to be inseparably entwined with the fate of the world
In its predecessor, these narratives ran broadly in tandem. In the conclusion, they converge. Like the first trilogy, Lyra's actions and her destiny are unveiled to be inextricably woven with the destiny of the realm. Her individual mission to reunite with her companion and rediscover her creativity becomes the central battleground in a larger conflict with an oppressive system which, as such regimes typically do, is attempting to suppress freedom of reason, originality and culture: all the internal, rebellious ways in which people can be liberated.
Cosmic Openings and Philosophical Struggles
The book opens with the unveiling of a set of unusual openings in the makeup of the planet's atmosphere: windows that look to lead to different dimensions. A particular portal seems to be the origin of the much debated botanical substance. The authority, with the antagonist at its head, designates these openings as a challenge to the church's beliefs and endeavors to eradicate them. As our protagonist begins to move from inflexible reason and revert to intuition, yet, her belief that these places must be defended – that their significance and what they provide is somehow crucial – increases. "Dust, or rose oil, or the imagination, or the botanical realm, or no matter what we label it," she says, "it is necessary." The scene for a philosophical tussle between naivety and maturity is established.
Narrative Pacing and Personal Evolution
At 640 pages, The Rose Field|this volume|the
