Things are unraveling in the final volume of The Book of Dust, the second of Philip Pullman's magisterial trilogies set in a universe that manifests, here more than ever, as a charged and skewed version of our own. Establishments are failing, or reassembling themselves along novel and disturbing lines. An unseen force "is wrecking the air and the seasons"; simultaneously, "money's going bad, and no one knows why". Power is flowing away from states, and gathering in the chambers of theocrats, the treasuries of business empires, the grasp of mobs. "Some force is at work, stealthily, gradually", says merchant a merchant figure, keeping a watchful eye on the ancient paths from his seat in an city cafe. "Aspects we thought were secure and durable are weakening and failing."
Key Puzzle and Lyra's Journey
Precisely what that element might be, and methods to fight it, is the inquiry that drives the concluding book, which continues where the previous book concluded. This is, reportedly, Pullman's final venture into the carefully crafted, deeply captivating universe he first revealed 30 years ago, with the launch of Northern Lights. It's a domain whose geography maps on to that of the real world, but whose past veers and changes with ours; where the individuals appear and reason and behave like us, but are joined by external spirits, souls in beast form; where the air are filled with witches and mythical beasts, but below, transports are taken and tea is drunk, and mature academics carry luxury shopping bags. Lyra, whom we first introduced to as a young girl in the first trilogy, and then saw again as a toddler in the prequel, the prequel with which Pullman began this trilogy, is now a adult: still clearly the spiky and persistent heroine of the prior volumes, but aged, more sorrowful, more careful, more doubtful. This circumscription is heightened by her division from her animal guide, her daemon – but it was also, paradoxically, the cause which caused him to abandon her in the first place.
Converging Storylines
Pan's decision to go off in pursuit of that youthful part of her which she seems to have lost (an trait which he represents as her "imagination"), and her journey to rejoin with him, were the incitements of the prior book, which chronicled Lyra undertake a adventurous journey across the continent and into the mountain region, facing with marvel and risk on the way. But from the outset, deeper currents were in play, and malevolent elements at work. The Magisterium – the faith's governing authority, and Pullman's brilliantly sinister incarnation of austere, administrative malice – is under recent guidance, and asserting its power. The antagonist – Lyra's uncle, who faults her for his sister's death – has worked himself into the position of head of the authority's High Council, and is set on using his newfound power to expand the institution's dominium. Malcolm Polstead, who rescued baby Lyra to safety along a swollen Thames as an 11-year-old in La Belle Sauvage, is now an Oxford don with a sideline in intelligence work: he is sent to Geneva to find out more about the antagonist's plans. And behind all of this is the mystery surrounding the rare and precious rose oil which appears somehow to be the source of a societal and financial crisis rippling out from the region. The oil is seen by some as a marketable commodity, by alternate groups as a empirical or mystical wonder, and by yet others – the zealous "highland figures" – as a wellspring of malevolence; an challenge that must be destroyed. The dilemma of where it comes from, its meaning, and whether it should be destroyed or protected is becoming urgent.
Similar to the original trilogy, our protagonist's actions, and her future, are shown to be inseparably connected with the fate of the universe
In The Secret Commonwealth, these narratives ran mostly in side by side. In the conclusion, they merge. Similar to His Dark Materials, Lyra's choices and her path are shown to be inseparably woven with the destiny of the world. Her private quest to rejoin with her companion and recover her creativity becomes the key battleground in a wider battle with an oppressive regime which, as such authorities often attempt, is striving to stifle autonomy of thinking, innovation and expression: all the personal, rebellious ways in which people can be independent.
Dimensional Rifts and Moral Battles
The book starts with the finding of a set of curious openings in the fabric of the planet's atmosphere: gateways that look to open into alternate realities. One such opening seems to be the point of the fiercely disputed mystical extract. The Magisterium, with the antagonist at its head, classifies these portals as a problem to the church's orthodoxy and endeavors to destroy them. As the heroine begins to turn away from strict logic and return to feeling, however, her belief that these sites must be defended – that their meaning and their value is mysteriously vital – strengthens. "Cosmic particles, or rose oil, or the creativity, or the Rose Field, or whatever we label it," she says, "we need it." The setting for a philosophical struggle between purity and experience is established.
Narrative Pacing and Personal Evolution
At 640 pages, The Rose Field|this volume|the
