Tings are falling apart in the last installment of The Book of Dust, the next of Philip Pullman's magisterial trilogies set in a universe that manifests, here more than ever, as a intense and skewed version of our own. Establishments are weakening, or reorganizing themselves along novel and troubling lines. An unseen force "is ruining the air and the seasons"; simultaneously, "wealth is decaying, and no one knows why". Authority is flowing away from states, and accumulating in the offices of religious leaders, the treasuries of corporations, the control of crowds. "Some force is at work, very quietly, very subtly", says merchant a merchant figure, keeping a observant eye on the Silk Roads from his post in an city cafe. "Elements we thought were secure and solid are weakening and giving way."
The Central Mystery and Her Quest
Precisely what that something might be, and how to counteract it, is the inquiry that propels this final volume, which picks up where its predecessor left off. This is, reportedly, the author's final excursion into the elaborately built, deeply captivating universe he first unveiled three decades past, with the launch of the first trilogy. It's a realm whose geography aligns with that of this world, but whose past tacks and jibes with ours; where the people look and think and act like us, but are joined by external spirits, beings in beast form; where the heavens are populated with enchantresses and mythical beasts, but beneath those skies, buses are taken and beverages is drunk, and mature academics carry luxury shopping bags. The protagonist, whom we first met as a 12-year-old in the original trilogy, and then saw again as a toddler in La Belle Sauvage, the introductory book with which Pullman began this trilogy, is now a mature individual: still recognisably the prickly and determined protagonist of the prior volumes, but more mature, sadder, more careful, less certain. This circumscription is amplified by her split from her soul companion, Pantalaimon – but it was also, ironically, the catalyst which led him to leave her in the first place.
Interwoven Plots
His choice to go off in search of that youthful part of her which she may have forgotten (an trait which he symbolizes as her "creativity"), and her mission to reconnect with him, were the incitements of its predecessor, which chronicled Lyra undertake a adventurous journey across the continent and into the mountain region, facing with amazement and peril on the way. But from the outset, deeper currents were in action, and sinister powers at work. The Magisterium – the faith's governing authority, and Pullman's masterfully eerie representation of austere, procedural wickedness – is under fresh command, and flexing its muscles. Lyra's uncle – our protagonist's relative, who holds responsible her for his family member's death – has positioned himself into the office of head of the Magisterium's ruling assembly, and is set on using his fresh power to broaden the religion's control. Malcolm Polstead, who carried young Lyra to safety along a overflowing river as an young boy in the first book, is now an academic with a secondary role in intelligence work: he is dispatched to Geneva to learn more about Delamare's plans. And underlying all of this is the mystery surrounding the uncommon and costly botanical extract which seems somehow to be the origin of a societal and financial upheaval rippling out from the region. The substance is regarded by various factions as a marketable commodity, by others as a research-based or spiritual phenomenon, and by further factions – the fanatical "men from the mountains" – as a source of darkness; an insult that must be eradicated. The question of where it comes from, its meaning, and if it should be destroyed or protected is becoming urgent.
Like His Dark Materials, the heroine's decisions, and her destiny, are revealed to be inextricably entwined with the future of the universe
In the previous volume, these narratives ran mostly in parallel. In the conclusion, they converge. Like His Dark Materials, her actions and her fate are revealed to be deeply entwined with the fate of the world. Her individual journey to reunite with her daemon and recover her vision becomes the central conflict in a broader war with an controlling system which, as such authorities always have, is attempting to stifle freedom of reason, creativity and art: all the personal, defiant ways in which humans can be independent.
Cosmic Openings and Ideological Conflicts
The story opens with the unveiling of a set of curious openings in the makeup of the world's atmosphere: portals that look to give on to alternate realities. One such window appears to be the origin of the fiercely disputed botanical substance. The authority, with Delamare at its head, labels these openings as a problem to the church's orthodoxy and aims to destroy them. As the heroine begins to turn away from inflexible reason and revert to feeling, nevertheless, her certainty that these locations must be defended – that their meaning and what they offer is in some way vital – strengthens. "Dust, or the extract, or the creativity, or the botanical realm, or no matter what we call it," she says, "we need it." The scene for a Blakean conflict between innocence and experience is established.
Narrative Pacing and Protagonist Growth
At 640 pages, The Rose Field|this volume|the