Things are unraveling in the concluding book of The Book of Dust, the second of Philip Pullman's grand trilogies set in a realm that seems, now more than ever, as a energized and slanted version of our own. Establishments are weakening, or reassembling themselves along new and disturbing lines. An hidden force "is destroying the air and the seasons"; at the same time, "currency is failing, and no one knows why". Authority is flowing away from states, and gathering in the halls of theocrats, the coffers of business empires, the control of crowds. "Something is at work, very quietly, imperceptibly", says merchant a merchant figure, keeping a observant eye on the ancient paths from his place in an city cafe. "Things we thought were firm and strong are weakening and failing."
Core Enigma and Lyra's Journey
Just what that force might be, and how to counteract it, is the mystery that animates The Rose Field, which resumes where the previous book left off. This is, by all accounts, the author's concluding venture into the carefully crafted, deeply captivating realm he first unveiled three decades past, with the launch of Northern Lights. It's a world whose terrain corresponds to that of our world, but whose history tacks and jibes with ours; where the humans appear and reason and act like us, but are accompanied by daemons, souls in animal form; where the air are filled with enchantresses and legendary creatures, but underneath, buses are taken and drinks is consumed, and middle-aged scholars carry luxury shopping bags. Our heroine, whom we first met as a child in the first trilogy, and then met once more as a infant in the first volume, the prequel with which the author began this trilogy, is now a adult: still distinctly the spiky and determined protagonist of the previous installments, but older, more sorrowful, warier, less sure. This circumscription is amplified by her division from her daemon, Pantalaimon – but it was also, paradoxically, the cause which made him desert her in the first place.
Interwoven Plots
His choice to depart in pursuit of that youthful part of Lyra which she appears to have shed (an trait which he represents as her "vision"), and her quest to reconnect with him, were the driving forces of its predecessor, which followed the protagonist undertake a picaresque voyage across Europe and into the Caucasus, meeting with amazement and danger on the way. But from the outset, deeper currents were in action, and darker forces at work. The Magisterium – the religious governing authority, and the author's brilliantly sinister embodiment of rigid, procedural wickedness – is under recent guidance, and asserting its power. Lyra's uncle – our protagonist's family member, who holds responsible her for his sister's death – has manoeuvred himself into the role of head of the church's ruling assembly, and is determined on using his fresh authority to expand the institution's rule. Malcolm Polstead, who rescued baby Lyra to refuge along a overflowing river as an child in La Belle Sauvage, is now an academic with a additional duty in intelligence work: he is assigned to a key location to find out more about the antagonist's aims. And underlying all of this is the enigma surrounding the scarce and precious botanical extract which manifests mysteriously to be the source of a societal and financial disturbance emanating out from Central Asia. The extract is seen by certain groups as a tradeable commodity, by alternate groups as a empirical or esoteric wonder, and by yet others – the zealous "men from the mountains" – as a origin of evil; an insult that must be obliterated. The question of where it comes from, its significance, and if it should be destroyed or safeguarded is becoming urgent.
Similar to the first series, Lyra's decisions, and her fate, are demonstrated to be inseparably connected with the destiny of the universe
In its predecessor, these plots ran largely in parallel. In the conclusion, they come together. As in the original series, her choices and her path are shown to be deeply linked with the destiny of the world. Her personal quest to rejoin with her soul and regain her creativity becomes the central struggle in a wider war with an controlling regime which, as these systems always have, is striving to quell autonomy of thinking, creativity and art: all the internal, resistant ways in which humans can be independent.
Atmospheric Fissures and Moral Battles
The book opens with the discovery of a series of curious fissures in the structure of the Earth's air: gateways that appear to lead to other worlds. A particular portal manifests to be the point of the much debated botanical substance. The Magisterium, with Delamare at its leadership, designates these portals as a threat to the church's orthodoxy and sets out to eliminate them. As our protagonist begins to move from strict rationalism and back to intuition, nevertheless, her belief that these sites must be protected – that what they stand for and what they provide is somehow essential – grows. "The substance, or rose oil, or the vision, or the botanical realm, or whatever we call it," she says, "we need it." The scene for a Blakean conflict between naivety and maturity is established.
Story Tempo and Protagonist Growth
At a substantial length, The Rose Field|this volume|the
