Things are collapsing in the final volume of The Book of Dust, the second of Philip Pullman's magisterial trilogies set in a universe that manifests, now more than ever, as a charged and tilted version of our own. Institutions are crumbling, or reorganizing themselves along novel and troubling lines. An unseen force "is ruining the air and the seasons"; simultaneously, "currency is failing, and no one knows why". Power is shifting from states, and gathering in the offices of theocrats, the vaults of corporations, the grasp of rioters. "Something is at work, silently, gradually", says trader a merchant figure, keeping a watchful eye on the ancient paths from his place in an Aleppo cafe. "Aspects we thought were secure and strong are faltering and collapsing."
Key Puzzle and Lyra's Journey
Precisely what that element might be, and methods to fight it, is the inquiry that propels this final volume, which continues where its predecessor left off. This is, according to many, the author's last venture into the elaborately built, endlessly enchanting universe he first revealed in the distant past, with the publication of the first trilogy. It's a domain whose terrain maps on to that of this world, but whose past tacks and jibes with ours; where the humans appear and think and act like us, but are joined by animal souls, souls in beast form; where the air are populated with witches and gryphons, but underneath, transports are ridden and tea is sipped, and mature scholars carry fancy shopping bags. The protagonist, whom we first introduced to as a 12-year-old in the original trilogy, and then revisited as a toddler in the prequel, the introductory book with which Pullman began this trilogy, is now a young woman: still clearly the sharp and persistent main character of the previous installments, but older, sadder, more careful, less sure. This limitation is amplified by her division from her animal guide, her daemon – but it was also, unexpectedly, the trigger which caused him to abandon her in the first place.
Merging Narratives
His choice to depart in search of that childlike part of the heroine which she seems to have lost (an trait which he symbolizes as her "imagination"), and her journey to reunite with him, were the incitements of The Secret Commonwealth, which followed Lyra undertake a adventurous voyage across Europe and into the Caucasus, facing with wonder and danger on the way. But from the outset, underlying forces were in play, and sinister powers at work. The Magisterium – the religious ruling body, and the author's deliciously chilling representation of austere, procedural evil – is under recent guidance, and flexing its muscles. Marcel Delamare – the heroine's family member, who faults her for his sister's death – has positioned himself into the office of president of the Magisterium's High Council, and is intent on using his recently acquired influence to expand the church's control. Another protagonist, who carried infant the heroine to refuge along a flooded river as an 11-year-old in the prequel, is now an university scholar with a additional duty in intelligence work: he is dispatched to the city to find out more about Delamare's aims. And beneath all of this is the enigma surrounding the uncommon and precious botanical extract which seems in some way to be the cause of a societal and economic upheaval spreading out from the region. The extract is seen by some as a tradeable product, by different parties as a scientific or esoteric miracle, and by others still – the zealous "highland figures" – as a source of evil; an insult that must be eradicated. The issue of its source, its meaning, and whether it should be destroyed or protected is becoming urgent.
Similar to the first series, the heroine's deeds, and her destiny, are revealed to be deeply entwined with the fate of the world
In the previous volume, these plots ran broadly in side by side. In this final book, they merge. Like the first trilogy, her movements and her path are unveiled to be inextricably linked with the destiny of the world. Her personal mission to rejoin with her soul and recover her creativity becomes the central battleground in a larger war with an authoritarian system which, as such authorities typically do, is striving to suppress freedom of thought, originality and culture: all the internal, resistant ways in which people can be liberated.
Cosmic Openings and Philosophical Struggles
The book opens with the discovery of a set of strange openings in the structure of the world's atmosphere: portals that look to open into other worlds. One such window seems to be the point of the much debated rose oil. The authority, with its leader at its leadership, designates these openings as a challenge to the church's orthodoxy and aims to eradicate them. As our protagonist begins to shift from rigid logic and return to instinct, however, her belief that these places must be preserved – that their significance and what they offer is mysteriously vital – increases. "Cosmic particles, or the extract, or the vision, or the Rose Field, or whatever we label it," she says, "we require it." The setting for a poetic struggle between innocence and knowledge is established.
Story Tempo and Protagonist Growth
At 640 pages, The Rose Field|this volume|the
