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 appears, in this volume especially, as a energized and skewed version of our own. Establishments are crumbling, or reassembling themselves along novel and disturbing lines. An invisible force "is wrecking the air and the seasons"; simultaneously, "money's going bad, and no one knows why". Control is flowing away from authorities, and accumulating in the offices of religious leaders, the coffers of conglomerates, the control of mobs. "Some force is at work, silently, very subtly", says businessman a merchant figure, keeping a vigilant eye on the trade routes from his place in an Aleppo cafe. "Things we thought were secure and solid are weakening and failing."
Core Enigma and Lyra's Journey
Precisely what that something might be, and methods to fight it, is the inquiry that animates this final volume, which continues where the previous book concluded. This is, by all accounts, Pullman's final venture into the intricately constructed, deeply captivating realm he first introduced three decades past, with the launch of the first trilogy. It's a realm whose terrain corresponds to that of our world, but whose history tacks and jibes with ours; where the humans appear and reason and behave like us, but are paired by animal souls, beings in animal form; where the skies are teeming with enchantresses and legendary creatures, but beneath those skies, transports are caught and beverages is consumed, and older professors carry Harrods shopping bags. The protagonist, whom we first introduced to as a young girl in the first trilogy, and then met once more as a baby in the first volume, the prequel with which Pullman began this trilogy, is now a adult: still clearly the spiky and persistent protagonist of the previous installments, but older, melancholic, more cautious, less certain. This circumscription is amplified by her split from her soul companion, Pantalaimon – but it was also, paradoxically, the catalyst which led him to leave her in the first place.
Merging Narratives
Pan's decision to leave in search of that childlike part of her which she seems to have lost (an trait which he epitomises as her "creativity"), and her mission to reconnect with him, were the catalysts of its predecessor, which chronicled the protagonist undertake a picaresque voyage across the continent and into the Caucasus, meeting with amazement and peril on the way. But from the beginning, deeper currents were in motion, and darker forces at work. The religious council – the church's governing authority, and Pullman's brilliantly sinister embodiment of austere, administrative evil – is under fresh command, and showing its strength. Lyra's uncle – our protagonist's family member, who faults her for his family member's death – has worked himself into the office of head of the authority's governing body, and is determined on using his recently acquired power to extend the religion's dominium. Another protagonist, who rescued baby Lyra to refuge along a overflowing Thames as an child in the first book, is now an university scholar with a sideline in intelligence work: he is assigned to a key location to find out more about the antagonist's plans. And beneath all of this is the enigma surrounding the scarce and valuable rose oil which manifests somehow to be the source of a social and economic disturbance spreading out from Central Asia. The extract is viewed by various factions as a marketable product, by others as a scientific or esoteric wonder, and by others still – the fanatical "mountain dwellers" – as a source of malevolence; an challenge that must be obliterated. The issue of where it comes from, its significance, and if it should be destroyed or protected is becoming urgent.
Similar to the first series, the heroine's decisions, and her destiny, are demonstrated to be deeply connected with the destiny of the universe
In its predecessor, these plots ran largely in tandem. In the conclusion, they converge. Similar to the first trilogy, her actions and her fate are revealed to be inseparably linked with the destiny of the universe. Her personal quest to reconnect with her daemon and recover her creativity becomes the central conflict in a broader war with an controlling regime which, as such regimes typically do, is attempting to suppress autonomy of thinking, creativity and art: all the inner, defiant ways in which humans can be independent.
Atmospheric Fissures and Philosophical Struggles
The novel begins with the unveiling of a set of curious fissures in the structure of the Earth's sky: windows that seem to give on to different dimensions. An example of a window seems to be the source of the fiercely disputed rose oil. The Magisterium, with the antagonist at its head, labels these openings as a problem to the religion's doctrine and sets out to destroy them. As our protagonist begins to shift from strict rationalism and return to feeling, yet, her certainty that these sites must be defended – that their meaning and what they offer is in some way vital – grows. "Dust, or the substance, or the creativity, or the Rose Field, or whatever we call it," she says, "we need it." The stage for a poetic tussle between innocence and experience is established.
Plot Rhythm and Protagonist Growth
At a substantial length, The Rose Field|this volume|the
