Things are falling apart in the concluding book of The Book of Dust, the next of the author's masterful trilogies set in a universe that manifests, here more than ever, as a intense and skewed version of our own. Establishments are failing, or reorganizing themselves along unfamiliar and troubling lines. An hidden force "is ruining the air and the seasons"; concurrently, "wealth is decaying, and no one knows why". Control is flowing away from states, and gathering in the chambers of theocrats, the coffers of business empires, the grasp of crowds. "Some force is at work, very quietly, gradually", says merchant a trader character, keeping a vigilant eye on the ancient paths from his place in an Aleppo cafe. "Elements we thought were secure and durable are weakening and failing."
Key Puzzle and Her Quest
Exactly what that something might be, and methods to fight it, is the mystery that drives the concluding book, which picks up where the previous book ended. This is, according to many, the author's concluding foray into the elaborately built, deeply captivating universe he first unveiled in the distant past, with the publication of His Dark Materials. It's a world whose terrain maps on to that of the real world, but whose past tacks and jibes with ours; where the people look and think and behave like us, but are accompanied by external spirits, essences in animal form; where the air are teeming with sorceresses and gryphons, but underneath, transports are taken and tea is consumed, and middle-aged scholars carry fancy shopping bags. Lyra, whom we first introduced to as a child in the original trilogy, and then met once more as a baby in La Belle Sauvage, the introductory book with which the author began the series, is now a young woman: still recognisably the sharp and determined protagonist of the earlier books, but aged, sadder, more careful, less sure. This restraint is heightened by her division from her animal guide, Pantalaimon – but it was also, unexpectedly, the catalyst which caused him to abandon her in the first place.
Merging Narratives
Pan's decision to depart in quest of that youthful part of the heroine which she may have forgotten (an quality which he symbolizes as her "creativity"), and her quest to rejoin with him, were the incitements of The Secret Commonwealth, which followed Lyra undertake a adventurous journey across the continent and into the Caucasus, meeting with wonder and danger on the way. But from the beginning, underlying forces were in motion, and malevolent elements at work. The religious council – the religious governing authority, and Pullman's deliciously chilling embodiment of austere, procedural malice – is under fresh command, and showing its strength. The antagonist – Lyra's uncle, who blames her for his family member's death – has worked himself into the role of head of the Magisterium's High Council, and is intent on using his fresh authority to broaden the institution's dominium. Another protagonist, who saved baby Lyra to security along a overflowing Thames as an young boy in the first book, is now an Oxford don with a sideline in intelligence work: he is assigned to Geneva to find out more about his intentions. And beneath all of this is the puzzle surrounding the uncommon and precious botanical extract which seems mysteriously to be the origin of a social and financial crisis rippling out from Central Asia. The extract is regarded by some as a tradeable product, by different parties as a scientific or mystical miracle, and by further factions – the fanatical "highland figures" – as a source of darkness; an affront that must be eradicated. The issue of its source, what it stands for, and if it should be removed or protected is becoming urgent.
Like the original trilogy, Lyra's deeds, and her future, are shown to be deeply linked with the destiny of the world
In its predecessor, these narratives ran largely in parallel. In the conclusion, they merge. Similar to the original series, Lyra's choices and her path are revealed to be inseparably linked with the future of the world. Her individual mission to rejoin with her daemon and recover her creativity becomes the primary struggle in a wider conflict with an authoritarian system which, as such authorities always have, is attempting to suppress freedom of thinking, originality and culture: all the inner, defiant ways in which individuals can be free.
Dimensional Rifts and Philosophical Struggles
The story begins with the discovery of a set of curious openings in the makeup of the world's sky: gateways that seem to lead to different dimensions. One such portal manifests to be the point of the highly contested rose oil. The church, with its leader at its helm, classifies these portals as a challenge to the institution's doctrine and aims to eliminate them. As our protagonist begins to shift from strict reason and revert to feeling, yet, her conviction that these places must be protected – that what they stand for and what they offer is somehow crucial – strengthens. "Cosmic particles, or the extract, or the imagination, or the field of roses, or whatever we call it," she says, "we need it." The setting for a Blakean struggle between naivety and experience is established.
Story Tempo and Protagonist Growth
At a substantial length, The Rose Field|this volume|the
