Tings are unraveling in the last installment of The Book of Dust, the second of Philip Pullman's magisterial trilogies set in a world that seems, here more than ever, as a intense and tilted version of our own. Establishments are crumbling, or reassembling themselves along novel and troubling lines. An hidden force "is ruining the air and the seasons"; concurrently, "wealth is decaying, and no one knows why". Authority is flowing away from governments, and pooling in the halls of religious leaders, the coffers of corporations, the control of rioters. "An element is at work, silently, very subtly", says businessman a merchant figure, keeping a observant eye on the trade routes from his post in an city cafe. "Things we thought were stable and solid are faltering and collapsing."
The Central Mystery and Her Quest
Exactly what that element might be, and methods to fight it, is the inquiry that drives the concluding book, which resumes where its predecessor ended. This is, by all accounts, the author's final excursion into the carefully crafted, endlessly enchanting world he first revealed in the distant past, with the release of the first trilogy. It's a domain whose terrain aligns with 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 paired by external spirits, beings in beast form; where the skies are filled with enchantresses and legendary creatures, but beneath those skies, vehicles are ridden and drinks is consumed, and middle-aged academics carry fancy shopping bags. Lyra, whom we first introduced to as a 12-year-old in the His Dark Materials trilogy, and then revisited as a toddler in the first volume, the prequel with which Pullman began this trilogy, is now a young woman: still clearly the prickly and persistent main character of the previous installments, but more mature, sadder, more careful, more doubtful. This circumscription is intensified by her separation from her animal guide, Pantalaimon – but it was also, ironically, the cause which led him to leave her in the first place.
Interwoven Plots
His choice to go off in pursuit of that innocent part of her which she seems to have lost (an trait which he epitomises as her "imagination"), and her journey to reconnect with him, were the incitements of the prior book, which saw Lyra undertake a adventurous voyage across the continent and into the mountain region, meeting with wonder and danger on the way. But from the outset, deeper currents were in action, and malevolent elements at work. The church authority – the religious controlling power, and Pullman's deliciously chilling incarnation of strict, procedural evil – is under new leadership, and asserting its power. Lyra's uncle – the heroine's uncle, who blames her for his family member's death – has manoeuvred himself into the role of head of the church's ruling assembly, and is set on using his fresh influence to broaden the institution's dominium. Malcolm Polstead, who rescued infant Lyra to refuge along a swollen Thames as an child in the prequel, is now an academic with a additional duty in intelligence work: he is assigned to Geneva to learn more about his intentions. And behind all of this is the mystery surrounding the uncommon and costly rose oil which appears somehow to be the origin of a societal and financial upheaval emanating out from the region. The oil is viewed by certain groups as a marketable product, by different parties as a empirical or esoteric wonder, and by yet others – the fanatical "mountain dwellers" – as a origin of evil; an affront that must be obliterated. The issue of its origins, its meaning, and whether it should be eliminated or safeguarded is coming rapidly to the fore.
Similar to the first series, Lyra's actions, and her fate, are shown to be inseparably entwined with the fate of the realm
In its predecessor, these narratives ran largely in parallel. In the conclusion, they converge. Similar to the original series, Lyra's movements and her path are unveiled to be deeply linked with the destiny of the universe. Her private quest to reunite with her companion and rediscover her imagination becomes the central battleground in a wider conflict with an oppressive regime which, as such regimes typically do, is striving to quell freedom of thought, creativity and art: all the internal, rebellious ways in which humans can be independent.
Cosmic Openings and Moral Battles
The book starts with the finding of a set of unusual cracks in the makeup of the world's atmosphere: portals that seem to open into alternate realities. An example of a portal seems to be the point of the highly contested rose oil. The authority, with the antagonist at its helm, labels these openings as a problem to the religion's beliefs and endeavors to destroy them. As our protagonist begins to shift from rigid rationalism and revert to intuition, however, her conviction that these places must be preserved – that their meaning and what they offer is mysteriously vital – increases. "Cosmic particles, or rose oil, or the imagination, or the Rose Field, or no matter what we call it," she says, "we require it." The scene for a Blakean tussle between naivety and maturity is set.
Story Tempo and Character Development
At over six hundred pages, The Rose Field|this volume|the
