Things are falling apart in the final volume of The Book of Dust, the next of the author's grand trilogies set in a realm that appears, here more than ever, as a charged and tilted version of our own. Institutions are failing, or reorganizing themselves along unfamiliar and disquieting lines. An unseen force "is wrecking the air and the seasons"; at the same time, "currency is failing, and no one knows why". Control is flowing away from authorities, and gathering in the halls of religious leaders, the coffers of conglomerates, the control of mobs. "An element is at work, stealthily, imperceptibly", says merchant a merchant figure, keeping a observant eye on the trade routes from his place in an Aleppo cafe. "Aspects we thought were secure and solid are weakening and collapsing."
Core Enigma and Her Quest
Exactly what that element might be, and ways to oppose it, is the inquiry that drives this final volume, which picks up where its predecessor ended. This is, by all accounts, the author's last foray into the carefully crafted, infinitely beguiling world he first introduced three decades past, with the publication of Northern Lights. It's a domain whose geography corresponds to that of the real world, but whose history diverges and shifts with ours; where the individuals appear and reason and act like us, but are accompanied by external spirits, beings in beast form; where the skies are teeming with sorceresses and legendary creatures, but beneath those skies, buses are caught and beverages is drunk, and older professors carry luxury shopping bags. The protagonist, whom we first encountered as a 12-year-old in the His Dark Materials trilogy, and then revisited as a infant in La Belle Sauvage, the prequel with which the author began The Book of Dust, is now a adult: still clearly the prickly and tenacious protagonist of the previous installments, but more mature, more sorrowful, more cautious, less sure. This limitation is intensified by her division from her animal guide, Pantalaimon – but it was also, unexpectedly, the trigger which caused him to abandon her in the first place.
Merging Narratives
Pan's decision to go off in search of that youthful part of her which she may have forgotten (an aspect which he epitomises as her "creativity"), and her mission to reunite with him, were the incitements of the prior book, which chronicled the protagonist undertake a adventurous journey across the continent and into the mountain region, meeting with marvel and peril on the way. But from the outset, deeper currents were in play, and darker forces at work. The church authority – the church's governing authority, and the author's brilliantly sinister incarnation of strict, bureaucratic malice – is under new leadership, and showing its strength. The antagonist – the heroine's uncle, who faults her for his sister's death – has worked himself into the position of leader of the church's ruling assembly, and is determined on using his recently acquired influence to broaden the church's control. Another protagonist, who saved baby Lyra to safety along a overflowing river as an child in the first book, is now an academic with a additional duty in intelligence work: he is assigned to a key location to find out more about his intentions. And underlying all of this is the enigma surrounding the rare and costly botanical extract which appears mysteriously to be the source of a societal and financial disturbance spreading out from the region. The oil is viewed by certain groups as a marketable product, by others as a empirical or spiritual phenomenon, and by yet others – the zealous "men from the mountains" – as a source of malevolence; an affront that must be destroyed. The issue of its origins, what it stands for, and if it should be eliminated or preserved is becoming urgent.
Similar to the original trilogy, Lyra's actions, and her destiny, are shown to be inseparably entwined with the destiny of the universe
In its predecessor, these storylines ran broadly in tandem. In this final book, they merge. As in the original series, Lyra's actions and her destiny are revealed to be deeply woven with the fate of the universe. Her personal quest to rejoin with her daemon and recover her creativity becomes the key conflict in a larger conflict with an authoritarian government which, as these systems always have, is attempting to quell independence of thinking, innovation and expression: all the inner, defiant ways in which people can be free.
Cosmic Openings and Moral Battles
The book begins with the unveiling of a set of strange fissures in the makeup of the Earth's sky: windows that look to lead to other worlds. A particular window manifests to be the origin of the highly contested botanical substance. The authority, with the antagonist at its leadership, classifies these portals as a challenge to the church's orthodoxy and endeavors to eliminate them. As our protagonist begins to turn away from rigid logic and revert to instinct, yet, her conviction that these locations must be protected – that their significance and what they offer is mysteriously crucial – strengthens. "The substance, or the substance, or the imagination, or the field of roses, or whatever we label it," she says, "we need it." The setting for a Blakean conflict between purity and experience is established.
Narrative Pacing and Personal Evolution
At 640 pages, The Rose Field|this volume|the
