Tings are unraveling in the concluding book of The Book of Dust, the next of Philip Pullman's grand trilogies set in a world that manifests, here more than ever, as a energized and skewed version of our own. Establishments are weakening, or restructuring themselves along unfamiliar and troubling lines. An invisible force "is destroying the air and the seasons"; at the same time, "currency is failing, and no one knows why". Control is flowing away from states, and accumulating in the chambers of theocrats, the treasuries of conglomerates, the control of rioters. "An element is at work, very quietly, imperceptibly", says businessman a merchant figure, keeping a watchful eye on the trade routes from his post in an Aleppo cafe. "Aspects we thought were firm and strong are faltering and giving way."
Core Enigma and Lyra's Journey
Exactly what that element might be, and how to counteract it, is the inquiry that propels this final volume, which resumes where its predecessor concluded. This is, reportedly, the author's concluding excursion into the carefully crafted, deeply captivating world he first revealed in the distant past, with the release of His Dark Materials. It's a world whose terrain maps on to that of our world, but whose past veers and changes with ours; where the individuals appear and think and act like us, but are joined by animal souls, essences in beast form; where the skies are populated with witches and mythical beasts, but below, transports are taken and tea is drunk, and middle-aged professors carry fancy shopping bags. Lyra, 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 young woman: still clearly the spiky and persistent main character of the previous installments, but older, more sorrowful, more careful, less certain. This restraint is amplified by her separation from her daemon, Pan – but it was also, ironically, the catalyst which caused him to abandon her in the first place.
Converging Storylines
The daemon's resolve to depart in pursuit of that childlike part of the heroine which she may have forgotten (an trait which he represents as her "imagination"), and her mission to reconnect with him, were the incitements of the prior book, which saw Lyra undertake a adventurous journey across the continent and into the mountain region, facing with marvel and peril on the way. But from the beginning, underlying forces were in play, and sinister powers at work. The church authority – the religious controlling power, and Pullman's deliciously chilling representation of strict, administrative malice – is under recent guidance, and asserting its power. The antagonist – the heroine's relative, who holds responsible her for his sister's death – has positioned himself into the position of president of the Magisterium's ruling assembly, and is intent on using his newfound power to broaden the religion's rule. Malcolm Polstead, who carried baby the heroine to refuge along a overflowing river as an young boy in the prequel, is now an Oxford don with a sideline in spycraft: he is assigned to the city to discover more about the antagonist's intentions. And behind all of this is the enigma surrounding the uncommon and costly rose oil which seems mysteriously to be the cause of a social and economic crisis rippling out from Central Asia. The extract is viewed by some as a marketable commodity, by different parties as a empirical or spiritual miracle, and by yet others – the extremist "highland figures" – as a origin of evil; an challenge that must be obliterated. The question of its origins, what it stands for, and whether it should be eliminated or preserved is escalating in importance.
Similar to the first series, our protagonist's actions, and her destiny, are shown to be inseparably connected with the destiny of the world
In the previous volume, these narratives ran largely in tandem. In the conclusion, they come together. Like His Dark Materials, Lyra's actions and her destiny are shown to be inextricably woven with the destiny of the universe. Her personal quest to reunite with her daemon and regain her vision becomes the primary conflict in a broader battle with an authoritarian regime which, as these systems often attempt, is seeking to stifle independence of reason, creativity and art: all the inner, resistant ways in which individuals can be free.
Cosmic Openings and Philosophical Struggles
The story starts with the finding of a collection of unusual cracks in the fabric of the planet's air: gateways that look to lead to different dimensions. A particular portal appears to be the point of the highly contested rose oil. The authority, with Delamare at its leadership, classifies these windows as a challenge to the church's orthodoxy and endeavors to eliminate them. As our protagonist begins to move from inflexible rationalism and revert to instinct, yet, her conviction that these places must be protected – that what they stand for and what they provide is mysteriously essential – strengthens. "The substance, or rose oil, or the creativity, or the botanical realm, or whatever we label it," she says, "it is necessary." The stage for a Blakean struggle between naivety and knowledge is established.
Plot Rhythm and Protagonist Growth
At 640 pages, The Rose Field|this volume|the
