Tings are falling apart in the concluding book of The Book of Dust, the next of Philip Pullman's magisterial trilogies set in a universe that appears, now more than ever, as a charged and skewed version of our own. Organizations are crumbling, or reassembling themselves along novel and troubling lines. An hidden force "is ruining the air and the seasons"; concurrently, "money's going bad, and no one knows why". Authority is flowing away from governments, and gathering in the chambers of theocrats, the treasuries of business empires, the grasp of rioters. "An element is at work, stealthily, gradually", says merchant a merchant figure, keeping a observant eye on the trade routes from his post in an city cafe. "Things we thought were firm and durable are weakening and failing."
Key Puzzle and Lyra's Journey
Just what that element might be, and ways to oppose it, is the inquiry that drives this final volume, which resumes where The Secret Commonwealth left off. This is, by all accounts, Pullman's last excursion into the carefully crafted, endlessly enchanting universe he first introduced in the distant past, with the launch of Northern Lights. It's a world whose terrain maps on to that of our world, but whose history veers and changes with ours; where the people look and think and act like us, but are paired by animal souls, souls in animal form; where the heavens are populated with sorceresses and legendary creatures, but beneath those skies, buses are taken and beverages is drunk, and middle-aged professors carry Harrods shopping bags. The protagonist, whom we first introduced to as a 12-year-old in the His Dark Materials trilogy, and then revisited as a baby in the prequel, the origin story with which Pullman began this trilogy, is now a mature individual: still recognisably the spiky and persistent heroine of the previous installments, but more mature, melancholic, more careful, less certain. This circumscription is heightened by her separation from her animal guide, Pan – but it was also, ironically, the catalyst which led him to leave her in the first place.
Interwoven Plots
His choice to depart in pursuit of that youthful part of Lyra which she appears to have shed (an trait which he epitomises as her "vision"), and her journey to reconnect with him, were the catalysts of its predecessor, which followed the protagonist undertake a adventurous trek across Europe and into the Caucasus, encountering with marvel and danger on the way. But from the start, profound shifts were in motion, and sinister powers at work. The church authority – the church's controlling power, and Pullman's brilliantly sinister representation of rigid, administrative wickedness – is under new leadership, and asserting its power. Marcel Delamare – the heroine's family member, who holds responsible her for his sister's death – has worked himself into the position of head of the church's ruling assembly, and is set on using his recently acquired authority to extend the church's control. Malcolm Polstead, who rescued baby Lyra to safety along a overflowing river as an young boy in La Belle Sauvage, is now an Oxford don with a secondary role in spycraft: he is assigned to Geneva to discover more about the antagonist's aims. And beneath all of this is the enigma surrounding the uncommon and precious essential oil which seems somehow to be the cause of a societal and economic upheaval emanating out from that area. The extract is viewed by various factions as a tradeable good, by others as a research-based or mystical wonder, and by yet others – the fanatical "mountain dwellers" – as a source of darkness; an insult that must be eradicated. The dilemma of its origins, what it stands for, and if it should be destroyed or protected is escalating in importance.
Like the original trilogy, Lyra's actions, and her fate, are shown to be inextricably entwined with the destiny of the realm
In The Secret Commonwealth, these plots ran broadly in parallel. In this final book, they converge. As in the first trilogy, Lyra's choices and her destiny are unveiled to be inseparably entwined with the future of the universe. Her personal mission to reunite with her daemon and rediscover her creativity becomes the primary conflict in a larger war with an oppressive regime which, as such regimes typically do, is striving to suppress freedom of thinking, creativity and art: all the inner, defiant ways in which people can be liberated.
Cosmic Openings and Philosophical Struggles
The novel opens with the unveiling of a set of unusual openings in the fabric of the Earth's air: windows that appear to give on to different dimensions. A particular window manifests to be the point of the fiercely disputed botanical substance. The authority, with its leader at its leadership, labels these openings as a threat to the church's orthodoxy and aims to destroy them. As our protagonist begins to shift from strict rationalism and revert to instinct, however, her certainty that these places must be defended – that their significance and what they provide is somehow essential – increases. "Cosmic particles, or the extract, or the vision, or the botanical realm, or whatever we label it," she says, "we need it." The stage for a philosophical tussle between purity and knowledge is prepared.
Story Tempo and Personal Evolution
At 640 pages, The Rose Field|this volume|the
