Tings are falling apart in the concluding book of The Book of Dust, the next of Philip Pullman's masterful trilogies set in a realm that manifests, here more than ever, as a intense and skewed version of our own. Organizations are crumbling, or restructuring themselves along new and disquieting lines. An hidden force "is wrecking the air and the seasons"; simultaneously, "wealth is decaying, and no one knows why". Authority is draining from authorities, and pooling in the chambers of religious leaders, the treasuries of corporations, the control of rioters. "Something is at work, very quietly, imperceptibly", says merchant a trader character, keeping a observant eye on the ancient paths from his post in an Aleppo cafe. "Elements we thought were firm and durable are faltering and failing."
Core Enigma and The Protagonist's Path
Just what that force might be, and methods to fight it, is the inquiry that propels this final volume, which continues where the previous book ended. This is, according to many, the author's final venture into the carefully crafted, infinitely beguiling world he first introduced in the distant past, with the publication of His Dark Materials. It's a realm whose landscape maps on to that of our world, but whose history veers and changes with ours; where the humans look and reason and act like us, but are accompanied by daemons, essences in beast form; where the air are filled with sorceresses and gryphons, but underneath, transports are ridden and beverages is sipped, and older scholars carry fancy shopping bags. The protagonist, whom we first met as a young girl in the His Dark Materials trilogy, and then met once more as a baby in the first volume, the origin story with which the author began the series, is now a adult: still recognisably the prickly and determined main character of the previous installments, but more mature, sadder, warier, less sure. This limitation is intensified by her division from her daemon, Pan – but it was also, ironically, the trigger which caused him to abandon her in the first place.
Converging Storylines
His choice to leave in pursuit of that youthful part of Lyra which she appears to have shed (an aspect which he symbolizes as her "vision"), and her mission to reconnect with him, were the catalysts of its predecessor, which followed Lyra undertake a wandering trek across Europe and into the mountain region, facing with marvel and peril on the way. But from the outset, underlying forces were in action, and sinister powers at work. The church authority – the religious ruling body, and the author's masterfully eerie embodiment of rigid, administrative malice – is under fresh command, and showing its strength. The antagonist – our protagonist's relative, who faults her for his sister's death – has positioned himself into the office of president of the authority's High Council, and is determined on using his newfound authority to expand the church's control. Another protagonist, who carried infant the heroine to refuge along a swollen Thames as an child in La Belle Sauvage, is now an Oxford don with a sideline in spycraft: he is dispatched to a key location to find out more about his plans. And underlying all of this is the puzzle surrounding the scarce and valuable botanical extract which appears mysteriously to be the cause of a social and economic upheaval emanating out from the region. The extract is viewed by various factions as a tradeable product, by alternate groups as a scientific or esoteric phenomenon, and by further factions – the extremist "highland figures" – as a origin of evil; an insult that must be obliterated. The dilemma of where it comes from, its meaning, and whether it should be eliminated or safeguarded is becoming urgent.
Like the original trilogy, our protagonist's deeds, and her future, are demonstrated to be deeply linked with the fate of the universe
In its predecessor, these narratives ran broadly in parallel. In the conclusion, they converge. As in the original series, her actions and her path are shown to be deeply woven with the fate of the world. Her individual journey to rejoin with her soul and regain her creativity becomes the primary battleground in a broader battle with an oppressive government which, as these systems often attempt, is attempting to stifle independence of thought, creativity and culture: all the inner, defiant ways in which people can be independent.
Atmospheric Fissures and Philosophical Struggles
The novel starts with the unveiling of a collection of unusual fissures in the fabric of the planet's atmosphere: windows that appear to open into alternate realities. One such opening appears to be the source of the fiercely disputed rose oil. The church, with Delamare at its leadership, classifies these portals as a threat to the religion's orthodoxy and endeavors to eradicate them. As our protagonist begins to turn away from inflexible logic and revert to instinct, nevertheless, her certainty that these locations must be defended – that what they stand for and what they provide is in some way vital – increases. "Dust, or rose oil, or the creativity, or the field of roses, or no matter what we label it," she says, "we require it." The scene for a philosophical conflict between naivety and knowledge is established.
Narrative Pacing and Character Development
At a substantial length, The Rose Field|this volume|the
