Tings are falling apart in the concluding book of The Dust Trilogy, the second of Philip Pullman's magisterial trilogies set in a realm that manifests, here more than ever, as a intense and slanted version of our own. Institutions are crumbling, or restructuring themselves along novel and disquieting lines. An unseen force "is ruining the air and the seasons"; concurrently, "money's going bad, and no one knows why". Power is shifting from states, and gathering in the offices of theocrats, the coffers of corporations, the grasp of crowds. "Some force is at work, stealthily, gradually", says businessman Mustafa Bey, keeping a observant eye on the ancient paths from his seat in an city cafe. "Things we thought were secure and solid are weakening and giving way."
Key Puzzle and Her Quest
Exactly what that element might be, and methods to fight it, is the question that animates this final volume, which continues where The Secret Commonwealth concluded. This is, by all accounts, the author's last excursion into the intricately constructed, deeply captivating world he first revealed 30 years ago, with the release of the first trilogy. It's a domain whose landscape corresponds to that of our world, but whose history diverges and shifts with ours; where the individuals appear and think and act like us, but are joined by daemons, beings in creature form; where the skies are populated with witches and legendary creatures, but underneath, transports are ridden and beverages is consumed, and mature scholars carry luxury shopping bags. Lyra, whom we first encountered as a 12-year-old in the original trilogy, and then saw again as a baby in the prequel, the prequel with which Pullman began this trilogy, is now a adult: still recognisably the prickly and persistent main character of the prior volumes, but aged, melancholic, warier, more doubtful. This circumscription is heightened by her split from her soul companion, Pantalaimon – but it was also, paradoxically, the cause which led him to leave her in the first place.
Interwoven Plots
Pan's decision to depart in quest of that youthful part of the heroine which she may have forgotten (an trait which he symbolizes as her "vision"), and her quest to reunite with him, were the catalysts of the prior book, which saw the protagonist undertake a wandering voyage across Europe and into the mountain region, facing with wonder and peril on the way. But from the outset, profound shifts were in action, and darker forces at work. The Magisterium – the faith's ruling body, and Pullman's brilliantly sinister embodiment of rigid, bureaucratic malice – is under recent guidance, and flexing its muscles. Marcel Delamare – our protagonist's family member, who faults her for his family member's death – has manoeuvred himself into the role of head of the Magisterium's High Council, and is set on using his newfound authority to extend the institution's dominium. Malcolm Polstead, who rescued young Lyra to safety along a overflowing Thames as an 11-year-old in the prequel, is now an academic with a additional duty in espionage: he is sent to Geneva to learn more about his aims. And beneath all of this is the puzzle surrounding the uncommon and precious botanical extract which appears somehow to be the origin of a societal and financial disturbance emanating out from the region. The substance is regarded by various factions as a tradeable product, by different parties as a empirical or spiritual wonder, and by further factions – the extremist "men from the mountains" – as a origin of darkness; an affront that must be destroyed. The dilemma of its source, its significance, and whether it should be destroyed or protected is escalating in importance.
As in the first series, the heroine's decisions, and her fate, are demonstrated to be deeply linked with the future of the universe
In its predecessor, these storylines ran mostly in parallel. In the conclusion, they converge. As in the first trilogy, Lyra's actions and her destiny are revealed to be inextricably woven with the destiny of the realm. Her private journey to reconnect with her soul and regain her imagination becomes the key struggle in a wider war with an authoritarian system which, as such regimes often attempt, is attempting to quell freedom of reason, originality and art: all the internal, rebellious ways in which humans can be independent.
Dimensional Rifts and Moral Battles
The novel starts with the discovery of a series of strange fissures in the fabric of the Earth's air: gateways that look to open into other worlds. An example of a window appears to be the origin of the much debated rose oil. The authority, with its leader at its helm, classifies these windows as a problem to the church's beliefs and endeavors to eliminate them. As our protagonist begins to turn away from strict rationalism and revert to feeling, nevertheless, her conviction that these locations must be defended – that their meaning and what they provide is mysteriously crucial – strengthens. "Dust, or the extract, or the imagination, or the field of roses, or no matter what we name it," she says, "we require it." The stage for a philosophical conflict between purity and maturity is established.
Narrative Pacing and Character Development
At 640 pages, The Rose Field|this volume|the
