Tings are falling apart in the last installment of The Book of Dust, the second of Philip Pullman's masterful trilogies set in a universe that seems, now more than ever, as a energized and slanted version of our own. Institutions are crumbling, or reorganizing themselves along novel and disquieting lines. An invisible force "is ruining the air and the seasons"; concurrently, "wealth is decaying, and no one knows why". Power is shifting from authorities, and pooling in the halls of theocrats, the vaults of conglomerates, the hands of mobs. "Some force is at work, stealthily, imperceptibly", says businessman a merchant figure, keeping a observant eye on the ancient paths from his seat in an city cafe. "Aspects we thought were firm and strong are deteriorating and failing."
Key Puzzle and Lyra's Journey
Just what that force might be, and ways to oppose it, is the inquiry that propels this final volume, which resumes where the previous book concluded. This is, according to many, the author's concluding foray into the intricately constructed, endlessly enchanting realm he first unveiled in the distant past, with the publication of Northern Lights. It's a realm whose landscape aligns with that of this world, but whose past diverges and shifts with ours; where the people look and think and act like us, but are accompanied by external spirits, essences in beast form; where the skies are filled with witches and mythical beasts, but below, vehicles are taken and beverages is consumed, and mature academics carry Harrods shopping bags. Our heroine, whom we first introduced to as a 12-year-old in the first trilogy, and then saw again as a toddler in La Belle Sauvage, the prequel with which the author began the series, is now a young woman: still recognisably the sharp and determined heroine of the previous installments, but more mature, melancholic, warier, less sure. This circumscription is heightened by her split from her animal guide, Pantalaimon – but it was also, ironically, the trigger which led him to leave her in the first place.
Interwoven Plots
Pan's decision to leave in search of that innocent part of her which she seems to have lost (an aspect which he epitomises as her "imagination"), and her mission to reconnect with him, were the catalysts of the prior book, which followed the protagonist undertake a wandering voyage across Europe and into the Caucasus, meeting with wonder and peril on the way. But from the beginning, underlying forces were in action, and malevolent elements at work. The religious council – the faith's governing authority, and the author's brilliantly sinister representation of austere, procedural malice – is under new leadership, and asserting its power. Lyra's uncle – Lyra's uncle, who holds responsible her for his family member's death – has manoeuvred himself into the role of president of the church's High Council, and is intent on using his fresh authority to extend the church's control. A key character, who saved baby Lyra to safety along a flooded river as an child in the prequel, is now an academic with a secondary role in intelligence work: he is dispatched to Geneva to learn more about Delamare's intentions. And behind all of this is the puzzle surrounding the scarce and valuable botanical extract which appears somehow to be the origin of a societal and economic disturbance spreading out from the region. The oil is viewed by various factions as a tradeable product, by different parties as a research-based or mystical wonder, and by further factions – the zealous "mountain dwellers" – as a source of malevolence; an insult that must be destroyed. The question of its origins, its significance, and if it should be eliminated or preserved is escalating in importance.
Similar to the original trilogy, our protagonist's actions, and her destiny, are shown to be inseparably linked with the future of the realm
In The Secret Commonwealth, these narratives ran broadly in parallel. In the conclusion, they come together. Like the first trilogy, the protagonist's choices and her destiny are shown to be deeply linked with the destiny of the world. Her individual mission to reconnect with her soul and recover her imagination becomes the central conflict in a wider conflict with an controlling system which, as such authorities always have, is striving to stifle autonomy of reason, creativity and culture: all the inner, defiant ways in which humans can be independent.
Atmospheric Fissures and Moral Battles
The novel starts with the discovery of a collection of unusual openings in the makeup of the planet's air: windows that appear to lead to alternate realities. One such window appears to be the origin of the much debated mystical extract. The authority, with Delamare at its head, classifies these openings as a threat to the religion's beliefs and endeavors to destroy them. As the heroine begins to move from strict reason and back to feeling, yet, her belief that these locations must be protected – that their meaning and their value is mysteriously crucial – strengthens. "Dust, or the substance, or the creativity, or the botanical realm, or no matter what we call it," she says, "we require it." The scene for a philosophical conflict between purity and experience is prepared.
Story Tempo and Personal Evolution
At 640 pages, The Rose Field|this volume|the
