Tings are collapsing in the final volume of The Book of Dust, the next of Philip Pullman's masterful trilogies set in a universe that manifests, now more than ever, as a energized and slanted version of our own. Organizations are weakening, or reassembling themselves along unfamiliar and disquieting lines. An unseen force "is ruining the air and the seasons"; at the same time, "money's going bad, and no one knows why". Power is flowing away from states, and accumulating in the offices of theocrats, the vaults of corporations, the grasp of mobs. "Some force is at work, stealthily, very subtly", says businessman a merchant figure, keeping a watchful eye on the ancient paths from his place in an city cafe. "Aspects we thought were firm and durable are weakening and collapsing."
The Central Mystery and Her Quest
Exactly what that element might be, and methods to fight it, is the question that drives this final volume, which continues where The Secret Commonwealth concluded. This is, reportedly, the author's last excursion into the intricately constructed, endlessly enchanting universe he first revealed three decades past, with the release of the first trilogy. It's a domain whose geography maps on to that of our world, but whose chronicles diverges and shifts with ours; where the people appear and reason and act like us, but are accompanied by external spirits, essences in beast form; where the air are teeming with enchantresses and mythical beasts, but underneath, transports are ridden and beverages is drunk, and mature academics carry fancy shopping bags. Our heroine, whom we first encountered as a young girl in the His Dark Materials trilogy, and then met once more as a baby in the first volume, the introductory book with which the author began The Book of Dust, is now a adult: still distinctly the sharp and persistent main character of the prior volumes, but more mature, sadder, more cautious, less certain. This limitation is intensified by her division from her animal guide, Pantalaimon – but it was also, ironically, the cause which caused him to abandon her in the first place.
Merging Narratives
His choice to go off in quest of that childlike part of her which she appears to have shed (an quality which he represents as her "vision"), and her journey to reunite with him, were the incitements of its predecessor, which followed Lyra undertake a picaresque trek across the continent and into the Caucasus, facing with marvel and risk on the way. But from the outset, underlying forces were in play, and darker forces at work. The Magisterium – the faith's governing authority, and Pullman's deliciously chilling embodiment of rigid, bureaucratic evil – is under new leadership, and showing its strength. The antagonist – our protagonist's family member, who holds responsible her for his sister's death – has worked himself into the office of leader of the Magisterium's High Council, and is determined on using his recently acquired authority to extend the institution's control. A key character, who rescued young the heroine to refuge along a overflowing Thames as an child in the prequel, is now an Oxford don with a additional duty in espionage: he is assigned to a key location to learn more about his plans. And behind all of this is the mystery surrounding the uncommon and costly essential oil which seems mysteriously to be the origin of a societal and financial crisis spreading out from the region. The extract is seen by certain groups as a commercial good, by alternate groups as a scientific or mystical miracle, and by others still – the extremist "highland figures" – as a source of malevolence; an affront that must be eradicated. The question of where it comes from, its meaning, and if it should be destroyed or preserved is becoming urgent.
As in the first series, the heroine's deeds, and her fate, are shown to be inextricably connected with the future of the universe
In the previous volume, these narratives ran largely in tandem. In the conclusion, they come together. As in His Dark Materials, her choices and her destiny are revealed to be inseparably entwined with the future of the universe. Her private quest to reconnect with her soul and regain her imagination becomes the central battleground in a broader war with an controlling government which, as such regimes always have, is attempting to stifle freedom of thinking, originality and art: all the inner, rebellious ways in which humans can be free.
Dimensional Rifts and Ideological Conflicts
The novel opens with the unveiling of a set of unusual openings in the makeup of the world's sky: gateways that look to give on to other worlds. An example of a window appears to be the origin of the highly contested rose oil. The Magisterium, with its leader at its helm, designates these portals as a challenge to the church's doctrine and endeavors to destroy them. As Lyra begins to move from strict reason and revert to instinct, nevertheless, her conviction that these locations must be preserved – that their significance and their value is in some way vital – increases. "The substance, or the substance, or the vision, or the botanical realm, or whatever we name it," she says, "it is necessary." The stage for a poetic tussle between purity and experience is set.
Plot Rhythm and Character Development
At a substantial length, The Rose Field|this volume|the
