Things are falling apart in the concluding book of The Book of Dust, the second of the author's magisterial trilogies set in a universe that appears, in this volume especially, as a energized and slanted version of our own. Establishments are crumbling, or reorganizing themselves along novel and disquieting lines. An unseen force "is wrecking the air and the seasons"; concurrently, "currency is failing, and no one knows why". Control is flowing away from states, and pooling in the offices of theocrats, the vaults of corporations, the grasp of mobs. "Some force is at work, silently, imperceptibly", says businessman a trader character, keeping a observant eye on the trade routes from his seat in an city cafe. "Aspects we thought were stable and solid are deteriorating and collapsing."
The Central Mystery and The Protagonist's Path
Just what that element might be, and methods to fight it, is the mystery that propels this final volume, which resumes where the previous book ended. This is, reportedly, the author's last foray into the elaborately built, deeply captivating realm he first revealed 30 years ago, with the launch of His Dark Materials. It's a world whose geography corresponds to that of this world, but whose past tacks and jibes with ours; where the people appear and reason and behave like us, but are paired by daemons, beings in creature form; where the air are teeming with enchantresses and legendary creatures, but underneath, buses are caught and drinks is drunk, and older 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 Pullman began the series, is now a adult: still distinctly the prickly and tenacious protagonist of the prior volumes, but aged, more sorrowful, more careful, more doubtful. This restraint is intensified by her separation from her soul companion, Pantalaimon – but it was also, unexpectedly, the catalyst which led him to leave her in the first place.
Merging Narratives
His choice to go off in search of that innocent part of her which she seems to have lost (an quality which he symbolizes as her "imagination"), and her mission to reconnect with him, were the incitements of its predecessor, which followed Lyra undertake a adventurous journey across Europe and into the Caucasus, meeting with amazement and danger on the way. But from the beginning, underlying forces were in play, and darker forces at work. The Magisterium – the church's ruling body, and Pullman's masterfully eerie embodiment of strict, procedural evil – is under recent guidance, and showing its strength. The antagonist – Lyra's uncle, who holds responsible her for his family member's death – has worked himself into the position of head of the church's High Council, and is set on using his newfound power to extend the institution's dominium. A key character, who rescued young Lyra to refuge along a flooded Thames as an child in the prequel, is now an academic with a secondary role in espionage: he is sent to the city to find out more about his plans. And beneath all of this is the puzzle surrounding the rare and costly rose oil which manifests mysteriously to be the origin of a social and economic crisis emanating out from the region. The substance is viewed by certain groups as a marketable good, by others as a research-based or mystical phenomenon, and by yet others – the zealous "highland figures" – as a source of malevolence; an challenge that must be obliterated. The issue of where it comes from, its significance, and whether it should be removed or preserved is coming rapidly to the fore.
Like the original trilogy, our protagonist's decisions, and her destiny, are shown to be inextricably entwined with the future of the world
In its predecessor, these narratives ran largely in parallel. In this final book, they converge. Similar to the original series, her choices and her path are unveiled to be deeply linked with the destiny of the world. Her personal quest to rejoin with her companion and regain her creativity becomes the primary battleground in a broader conflict with an controlling regime which, as these systems always have, is seeking to suppress autonomy of thinking, innovation and expression: all the inner, rebellious ways in which individuals can be free.
Atmospheric Fissures and Philosophical Struggles
The book opens with the finding of a series of strange cracks in the makeup of the world's sky: windows that seem to give on to other worlds. An example of a opening manifests to be the point of the highly contested botanical substance. The church, with its leader at its leadership, labels these windows as a threat to the church's orthodoxy and endeavors to eradicate them. As our protagonist begins to move from strict reason and back to intuition, nevertheless, her conviction that these sites must be protected – that their significance and what they offer is in some way vital – strengthens. "Cosmic particles, or rose oil, or the creativity, or the Rose Field, or no matter what we label it," she says, "we require it." The scene for a poetic tussle between naivety and maturity is prepared.
Story Tempo and Protagonist Growth
At 640 pages, The Rose Field|this volume|the
