The Rose Field by Philip Pullman review: 'absorbing and transporting'

We left Lyra and her dæmon Pantalaimon estranged from each other, with Pan seeking where Lyra’s imagination has gone and Lyra seeking the source of the mysterious rose oil that can give visionary insight into the dust that permeates the universe(s). The Magisterium, now almost solely controlled by Marcel Delamare, is not only planning a full scale land war to destroy the origin of the roses but is declaring that imagination itself is a sin, and covertly waging a terrorist campaign against “thin places”, the windows and doors between different worlds. There is more world building, including “the oghâb-gorgs of the Tien Shan”, monstrous cannibalistic carrion birds, a secluded sorcerer, and most significantly gryphons. The gryphons are part of a constellation of linked ideas, as these half eagle, half lion creatures have an overwhelming desire for gold.

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Then there is a new character, Mustafa Bey, whose trading links and commercial “empire” will be essential in Lyra’s journey; and who might be on the verge of creating a viable paper currency. If the original trilogy, His Dark Materials, was Pullman’s argument against God, The Book of Dust is where he takes on Mammon. As the plot unfurls, one alchemical proposition is hinted at as being of supreme importance - the alkahest, or universal solvent, which, as Lyra rightly realises, would dissolve any container in which you tried to keep it. Again, no spoilers, but Karl Marx did refer to something whereby “all that is solid melts into air”.

Pullman excels at set pieces – particularly battle scenes and moments of utter shudder. The slicing of dæmon from human in the first trilogy was awful enough, but now we have dæmons that don’t evaporate at death, but remain as corpses, humans being tortured and used as bait, and a vision of a world of total apathy that equals his afterlife beforehand. His gift for eccentric characters is perhaps even stronger: Abdel Ionides, who might be Rashid Xenakis, who is a vagrant and maybe was a professor, is a superb creation, especially since the reader is never wholly sure which side he is on.

Olivier Bonneville from the previous books is fleshed out here in heart-wrenching fashion. To create a character who is dangerous, pitiable, loathsome and wounded in equal measure is remarkable. Likewise, the narrative arc concerning Lyra and love is properly mature: her first love, Will, is in an unbreachable different universe, so can she actually allow herself love with another? Again, no spoilers, but there is an undercurrent of Humbert Humbert and Lolita which might mean this is actually not children’s literature at all anymore. In a similar fashion, there is a mordant commentary on things in “our” universe, and how slyly and silently fascism can establish itself. Let’s just say the word “prorogation” occurs. Among the various factions are fundamentalists in the wilderness, who might be compared to the Taliban or the Naxalites. There are silencings and stitch-ups, smear campaigns and back room deals. As Dorothy Gale once said, “Toto, I have a feeling we're not in Kansas anymore”.

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In some ways, the problem with The Rose Field is rather reminiscent of the Star Wars sequels. X turns out to be related to Y and that means A had a relationship with B and C is therefore the lost partner of V and suchlike. As a narrative strategy it is fair enough, but it does make questions about universal ethics into family disputes. There is an odd reference to one character – Mrs Coulter’s mother, apparently still alive and bitter – which almost seems like a hook for a future book. Always useful to have another villain in the background.

His Dark Materials was in some ways a homage to Milton (or Milton as read by Blake): The Book of Dust ends with a quote from Edmund Spenser, and it seems appropriate to move to the more exotic, generous spirited and unusual Spenser. Spenser has more flamboyant creations and more open-heartedness, and it chimes with Pullman’s oddly forgiving book. The final reconciliation and parting is certainly not what I expected, but has a graciousness that is greatly different from the triumphalism of His Dark Materials. It is, overall, a far more melancholy series.

There is a problem with such series. I was reminded of CS Lewis and The Last Battle, a soured Narnia, with tickings-off and nasty sectarianism. Pullman does not end on such a crashing note, but he does end on a falling one. It limps rather than strides to the future. But there are still gaps in the universe, and perhaps they might be stretched and breached in the future. After all, Lyra is still young.

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