The Secret Commonwealth (The Book of Dust, #2)

by Philip Pullman

The Hyperchorasmians, by a German philosopher called Gottfried Brande, was a novel that was having an extraordinary vogue among clever young people all over Europe and beyond. It was a publishing phenomenon: nine hundred pages long, with an unpronounceable title (at least until Lyra had learned to pronounce the ch as a k), an uncompromising sternness of style, and nothing that could remotely pass for a love interest, it had sold in the millions and influenced the thinking of an entire generation. It told the story of a young man who set out to kill God, and succeeded. But the unusual thing about it, the quality that had set it apart from anything else Lyra had ever read, was that in the world Brande described, human beings had no dæmons. They were totally alone.

Reminds me a little about the man in the high castle. A book within a book where reality is completely different

Since they started reading The Hypercolonics or whatever it’s called they’ve become arrogant and unpleasant in all kinds of ways. Ignoring their dæmons, as if they didn’t exist. And I can see it in you too. A sort of absolutism—’

‘Talbot? Simon Talbot? Make your bloody mind up, Pan. There couldn’t be two more different thinkers. Complete opposites. According to Talbot there’s no truth at all. Brande—’ ‘You didn’t see that chapter in The Constant Deceiver?’ ‘What chapter?’ ‘The one I had to suffer you reading through last week. Evidently you didn’t take it in, though I had to. The one where he pretends that dæmons are merely – what is it? – psychological projections with no independent reality. That one. All argued very prettily, charming, elegant prose, witty, full of brilliant paradoxes. You know the one I mean.’ ‘But you haven’t got any independent reality. You know that. If I died—’ ‘Neither have you, you stupid cow. If I died, so would you. Touché.’

‘It’s not just a position you’re taking up. You half believe those people, that German philosopher and the other man. That’s what it is. You’re clever enough on top, but underneath you’re so bloody naïve that you half believe their lies are true.’

she said. ‘But what I believe, or half believe, or don’t believe, isn’t really anyone else’s business. Making windows into people’s souls—’ ‘But I’m not anyone else! I am you!’

‘You’re making yourself forget,’ he said,

‘You’re forgetting everything important. And you’re trying to believe things that’ll kill us.’

‘If philosophy says I don’t exist, then yes, philosophy is contemptible. I do exist. All of us, we dæmons, and other things too – other entities your philosophers would say – we exist. Trying to believe nonsense will kill us.’

At first she learned to read it intuitively, as if it was the most natural thing in the world; but before very long she lost the power to do that, and she was left unable to see all the connections and similarities that had once been so clear beneath the symbols on the dial. The loss of that power was painful. It was a consolation, though a poor thin one, to know that by diligent study she’d be able to regain some of the ability to read it; but she’d always need the books in which generations of scholars had set down their discoveries about the symbols and the links between them.

what Will was like now in that unreachable world of his. So the new style of alethiometric technique had come as a welcome distraction. It had spread by rumour, no one knew from whom or from where; but there were stories about dramatic advances in understanding, of a revolution in theory, of sensational feats of readership where the books were simply redundant, superfluous. And Lyra privately began to experiment.

‘What are you doing?’ he said. His tone was hostile. ‘I’m going to try the new method again.’ ‘Why? Last time it made you sick.’ ‘I’m exploring. Trying things out.’ ‘I don’t like the new method, Lyra.’ ‘But why?’ ‘Because when you do it you look as if you’re lost. I can’t tell where you are. And I don’t think you know where you are. You need more imagination.’ ‘What?’ ‘If you had more imagination it would be better. But—’ ‘What are you saying? You’re saying I haven’t got any imagination?’ ‘You’re trying to live without it, that’s what I’m saying. It’s those books again. One of them saying it doesn’t exist, the other saying it doesn’t matter anyway.’ ‘No, no …’ ‘Well, if you don’t want my opinion, don’t ask me about it.’ ‘But I didn’t …’ She didn’t know what to say. She felt powerfully upset. He was just looking at her expressionlessly. ‘What should I do?’ she said. She meant about us. But in response he said, ‘Well, you have to be able to imagine. But in your case, that’s not easy, is it?’ ‘I don’t … I really have no … Pan, I just don’t know what you’re talking about. It’s as if we’re speaking different languages. It doesn’t connect with …’

‘What’s the secret commonwealth?’ ‘The world of the fairies, and the ghosts, and the jacky lanterns.’

Delamare had an older sister to whom he was devoted. She was a prominent force in the Magisterium –

scandal

she had a child by another man.

Reason had brought her to this state. She had exalted reason over every other faculty. The result had been – was now – the deepest unhappiness she had ever felt. But we shouldn’t believe things because it makes us happy to, she thought. We should believe things because they’re true, and if that makes us unhappy that’s very unfortunate, but it’s not the fault of reason. How do we see that things are true? They make sense.

Had reason ever created a poem, or a symphony, or a painting? If rationality can’t see things like the secret commonwealth, it’s because rationality’s vision is limited. The secret commonwealth is there. We can’t see it with rationality any more than we can weigh something with a microscope: it’s the wrong sort of instrument. We need to imagine as well as measure …

If he ever saw Lyra again he would run towards her, and he imagined her bending to greet him, arms wide, and they’d both swear eternal love and promise never to part again, and it would all go back to the way it used to be. At the same time, he knew it wouldn’t, but he had to hold on to something in the dark nights, and imagination was all he had.

If you had to put a fiver on it, what would you say this strike force was being set up to do?’ ‘To invade Central Asia. There’s talk of a source of valuable chemicals or minerals or something in a desert in the middle of some howling wilderness, and it’s a matter of strategic importance for the Magisterium not to let anyone else get at it before they do. There’s a very strong commercial interest as well. Pharmaceuticals, mainly. It’s all a bit blurred, to tell you the truth.

took out the battered copy of Jahan and Rukhsana from Hassall’s rucksack, in an attempt to take his mind off the pain in his hip. The poem told the story of two lovers and their attempts to defeat Rukhsana’s uncle, the sorcerer Kourash, and gain possession of a garden where precious roses grew. It was highly episodic; the story had many turns and byways, and brought in every kind of fabulous creature and outlandish situation.

‘What do you want?’ he said. Ionides said, ‘I want you to leave her alive for now. There is a great treasure, and she is the only one who can get it. Kill her now and you’ll never have it and, more importantly, neither will I.’ ‘What treasure? What are you talking about?’ ‘You don’t know?’ ‘Again: what are you talking about? Where is this treasure? You don’t mean her dæmon?’ ‘Of course not. The treasure is three thousand miles to the east and, as I said, no one can get it but her.’ ‘And you want her to get it so you can have it?’