After three decades of enchanting readers with the adventures of Lyra Belacqua, Philip Pullman is closing the final chapter on one of fantasy literature’s most beloved heroines. With the publication of The Rose Field—the third and concluding volume of The Book of Dust trilogy—Pullman signals the end of Lyra’s journey, a momentous event for fans who have grown up alongside the character since her debut in Northern Lights (1995). According to The Age, Pullman, now 79, has made it clear: “Yes, I’m done with that story. It’s a nice world to be in and I know my way around. But Lyra’s story is done, it’s come to an end.”
For those unacquainted with Pullman’s universe, Lyra’s tale is no ordinary coming-of-age saga. Originally introduced as a scrappy, fiercely independent child, Lyra’s world is one of parallel universes, philosophical quandaries, and a cosmic struggle against the authoritarian Magisterium. Over the years, Pullman’s His Dark Materials and The Book of Dust series have sold more than 49 million copies worldwide, cementing their place in literary history.
Pullman’s latest novel, published by Penguin on October 22, 2025, brings a sweeping conclusion to Lyra’s story. Yet, as The New York Times notes, the journey from wide-eyed innocence to the complexities of adulthood has not been easy for either the character or her readers. In The Book of Dust, Lyra is no longer the confident, wild child running across Oxford rooftops. Now a 20-year-old student at Oxford, she is depicted as lonely, depressed, and estranged from her daemon, Pantalaimon—her animal-shaped manifestation of soul and conscience.
This estrangement reached its nadir in the trilogy’s second installment, The Secret Commonwealth (2019), when Pan leaves Lyra, accusing her of having lost her imagination. The emotional depth of this split is palpable. As Lyra confides to Pan in a moment of despair, “Sometimes I think if I could kill myself without killing you, I might do it, I’m so unhappy.” For many readers, this was a wrenching turn, a far cry from the hopefulness that characterized Lyra’s earlier adventures.
Yet, The Rose Field is not simply a tale of loss. It’s also about rediscovery and self-acceptance. The final volume sees Lyra on a quest that is as much internal as it is external. As she travels across Central Asia, she begins to reclaim her joy in adventure and, crucially, her sense of self. Pullman’s signature device—the daemon—remains central to this journey. The book explores not just the fantastical bond between human and daemon, but its metaphorical resonance: the struggle to reconcile different parts of oneself, to heal after trauma, and to grow into one’s identity.
For Pullman, these themes are deeply rooted in his own philosophical interests. In an interview with The Age, he reflects, “Matter is an extraordinary thing – much stranger than we think. My head is made entirely of matter; you can cut it apart and drill holes in it, but you’ll find nothing but matter. You won’t find a soul or a wispy thing that flies out the window when you die. Yet I’m conscious… Where does this consciousness come from?” Pullman’s answer, both scientific and mystical, is the concept of Dust—a mysterious particle that represents consciousness, curiosity, and love.
This fascination with consciousness, and the philosophical debates it sparks, is woven throughout The Rose Field. Pullman admits, “It’s a philosophical issue – what is consciousness, how do we become conscious and what does it mean? I feel I might not have explained it [in The Rose Field] as fully as needed. But then Lyra and Pan are still working it out. Scientists and philosophers don’t stop talking just because they’ve made a discovery.”
Despite the complexity of these ideas, Pullman’s work remains accessible, in part because he never wrote for a single audience. As he told The Age, “If His Dark Materials had been published as an adult book – which it could have been – it would have gone straight onto the shelves labelled ‘fantasy’. And that means no ordinary adult reader would have touched it. People know what they like and they won’t try anything different.” Children, he argues, are “literary omnivores,” willing to tackle big questions about faith, authority, and growing up.
Indeed, the generational impact of Lyra’s story is profound. As one reviewer in The New York Times shared, the books were so meaningful that he and his wife named their daughter Lyra. “To name a real child after a fictional character is an act of hope,” he writes, noting how the original trilogy inspired qualities of bravery, imagination, and disregard for authority. Yet, as the new trilogy unfolded with darker, more adult themes, the journey mirrored the reviewer’s own experience watching his daughter grow up—fearless at first, then questioning, and finally seeking her place in the world.
Pullman’s own life has also shaped his storytelling. Born in 1946, he spent his childhood moving from airbase to airbase as the son of an RAF pilot. His father’s death in Kenya in 1954—initially believed to be in combat, later revealed as a training accident—left a lasting mark. Pullman’s affinity for storytelling was fostered by his grandfather, a Church of England rector, and by an inspiring English teacher who introduced him to Paradise Lost. These influences echo in his work, which often inverts religious narratives and critiques institutional authority.
The author’s willingness to tackle contentious issues has occasionally drawn controversy. In 2022, Pullman resigned as president of the Society of Authors after publicly supporting writer Kate Clanchy, whose memoir was accused of using “racial tropes.” Reflecting on the episode, Pullman told The Age, “I thought she [Clanchy] was being unfairly criticised and came to her defence on Twitter. I was roundly abused and I felt I should resign as president because there was a lot of stirring going on and they [the society] didn’t defend me in the way I felt they should.”
Despite such setbacks, Pullman remains undaunted. He continues to speak his mind, insisting, “I’ve always felt that what is derogatorily called political correctness is just another term for being polite. I have always tried to be polite and I have never felt vulnerable to the accusation of being rude, or thoughtless, or offensive.”
With Lyra’s story now complete, Pullman is turning to new projects, including a memoir titled Before I Forget. While he hints at possible future tales for characters like Will Parry and Abdel Ionides, for now, the world must bid farewell to Lyra and Pan. Yet, as The Rose Field demonstrates, the power of narrative—and the journey to self-understanding—endures, both on the page and in the lives of readers who have walked beside Lyra for thirty years.
