::reading my own posts::
How the hell did I become the Pullman apologist? 
I’m supposed to be the Lewis fan, damn it! :smack:
So HOW did she preternaturally persuade them that they were able to fly, except as a plot device to take out the witches in the air? My own feeling is that he just wrote himself into a corner with the Spectres by having them feeding off adult souls, but powerless against children - another clue to the nature of Dust, with some great images of them beginning to cluster hungrily around those on the cusp of adolescence, on the border of Innocence and Experience - but then he found he’d made them too powerful, and had to fudge his way through how his other adult characters could make it past them.
{reads own posts too} And I’m supposed to be the Pullman fan, dammit!
Case, I think you and I may have fallen into one of those Star-Trekky personality transfer devices; clearly there was a short in it, as we each only got a portion of the other’s world view. I’ll see about reversing the process.
I think I was unclear, Case. I mean that I can see granting a rationale for Mrs. Coulter having such a supernatural ability. The General Oblation Board is obviously on the Authority’s side, and she’s the prime mover behind it; I can see angels under Metatron’s command assisting her, or granting her a grace, just as Mary Malone was assisted in her travels, and just as Lyra was granted a grace. But if that was the case it needed to be made more clear, because otherwise the plot hole is immense.
Another thing that bothers me is the notion that Lyra is given grace to read the alethiometer by the rebel angels, whom we are clearly meant to see as forces for good. Isn’t that a very Christian notion? Why, in a functionally atheistic universe, are notions of grace and self-sacrifice suddenly apropos, as they are at the end of The Amber Spyglass?
(Whew! I’m back to Pullman nitpicking. I feel much better now. How 'bout you, Case?
Well, I think that Pullman’s notion of angels is rather problematic: on one hand Lord Asriel’s rebellion is all about seizing the fire, as Blake put it: defying a supernatural authority to take control of one’s own fate. Sticking it to the Man. Yet he doesn’t deny that these angels, a spiritually higher order of sentient beings do exist, and do interfere with human affairs - supposedly to the good, by aiding Asriel and the rebels, but it does introduce a certain tension.
There’s also the rather tricky current of determinism that runs through the book: Lyra, it seems, is destined to bring an end to death, become a new Eve, destroy God. The notion of prophecy sits rather uncomfortably in this book, since it rather negates the primacy of free will that the rebels are supposedly fighting for. Will, it seems, is destined to hold the subtle knife. Mary Malone is apparently destined to aid Lyra: indeed, she’s bluntly told to drop everything and walk out of her life by an angel.
Asriel is supposedly fighting the Power, yet he can only succeed by the - well, let’s not mince words - divine intervention of the same power; Lyra is only saved from Father Gomez by an angel’s deus ex machina intervention. This seems to run counter to Pullman’s professed atheism, when humans can only break free of their shackles with the aid of a higher power: there is, it seems, a divinity that shapes their ends, rough-hew them how they will. Perhaps there’s less difference between Aslan and Dust than Pullman would like to believe, when he has to resort to some familiar religious tropes to resolve his story.
Nope, Skald, it’s not helping: the more I pull at this thing, the more it keeps unravelling.
More thoughts: I think that among Pullman’s most successful characters are Lee Scoresby and Iorek Byrnison, because they’re both untouched by angels and untainted by prophecies or destiny. Both are initially conflicted - Lee by not understanding what the hell’s going on, Iorek by not wishing to become less ursine by becoming involved in human affairs - but both come through, Lee in particular, by simply choosing to do what they see as right, no matter what the cost. That’s why Lee’s sacrifice is so resonant, I think: he’s there of his own free will to aid Lyra, even though he’s confused by the big picture. Sadly, this sacrifice - a powerful and moving scene - is rather diminished by his meretricious resurrection as a fighting ghost.
Try taking wm–'s advice above. Or treat it the way I treat Peter Jackson’s LOTR movies: pretend Pullman was killed in a tragic yodeling accident moments after completing the second installment, and finish the story in your own head.
Especially Iorek. The single best scene in any of the three books is Iorek versus Iofur Raknison. Partly because it’s long before PP lost control of his narrative, and because it’s most in keeping with his best theme of self-determination. Iorek defeats his objectively more powerful opponent because Iorek KNOWS HIMSELF. Being equally cognizant of his limitations and his strengths allows him to control the former while best exploiting the latter, and he does not look for any external supernatural agent to be his guide.
Iorek is the sort of hero that Pullman meant Asriel to be.
I’m ambivalent about Lee, though. I just didn’t see why he suddenly fell in love with Lyra; it was not well developed.
Not to mention the fact that Will’s father forgets his promise to haunt him. :rolleyes:
Plus, who needs the angel? Will was RIGHT THERE!!
You can’t tell me Will wouldn’t have figured out a way to defeat Father Gomez. The portrayal of Will as a 12-year-old badass was completely effective. Father Gomez vs. Will ends with Gomez eating his gun.
Other way round: Lee makes John Parry swear a solemn oath on whatever made Parry turn down the witch’s love - his wife - and threatens to pursue him through the afterlife if he breaks his word. Next time we see them, they’re best mates fighting side by side as ghosts with the oath and the threat apparently forgotten.
Lee taking a shine to Lyra didn’t really bug me: I always figured that he saw her as a kindred free spirit, wandering through life with no ties, but too young to face her trials without help.
And yeah, if Will could face down Iorek Byrnison by slicing his helmet into pieces, the last thing Father Gomez Father Gomez should have seen was his rifle in tiny pieces, just before Will cut his head off. Divine intervention, especially by that loser angel Balthamos, should have been the last thing he required.
Agreed. I think I actually put down the book so I could stand up, yell “Yes!”, and pump my fist a few times.
Though I didn’t COMPLETELY believe that Will could face down Iorek Byrnison. Yes, he had the knife. On the other hand, Iorek was IOREK. But I choose to read that scene as Iorek being sufficiently impressed by Will’s courage and balls – and rational enough to decide that Will’s proposed course of action was the best choice anyway – that he decided to let Will win, or rather seem to win.
That lack of self-determinism doesn’t just happen on a macro level, it’s established on the micro level as well. There you are at 13, your daemon becomes a dog and for the rest of your life, you’re a servant. No ifs, ands, or buts - you’re stuck for the rest of your life. Similarly, if you’re a fish - you’re trapped. You can’t break free of this set course neither your self or your society will let you. He set up this world where people have no ability to change or grow after puberty…you can’t determine your own course unless you start really darned early.
Ah, now I see why I enjoyed the series so much more than many of you folks: You think too much! You ponder over all the little details instead of just going with the flow and having a good time.
I think you’ve all runined HDM for me. I’ll never be able to read it again without worrying about all the little (and big) flaws and faults you people have been pointing out. Thanks a lot!
The only way to be happy, people, is to be more shallow. 
I’m not convinced that’s an entirely valid criticism. It seems to me that you’re thinking of the daemon as a separate entity from the person, but that’s an illusion: Pantalaimon and Lyra are different aspects of the same person. The daemons’ settling into a single form to me is a real acknowledgement of the fact that each choice we make shuts off a multitude of options, and that not every person is equally well-suited to every option anyway. Put the time and energy necessary to become a ballerina, and you won’t be able to become a surgeon. Desire to become a great pianist all you want, but if your genes give you stubby fingers and tone-deafness, it’s not going to happen. Free will isn’t omnipotence: it’s the ability to make MORAL choices. Even God is constrained (in my view) by every choice She makes, and by the simple rules of logic; God cannot make an invisible pink unicorn, because no object can be simultaneously invisible and pink.
I think you’re mostly joking here (correct me if I’m wrong), but that’s not the case. I DID enjoy HDM, particularly the first two volumes. But one mark of truly great literature to me is that re-readings make it better. Take, for instance, The Secret History, by Donna Tartt; I think it gets better on rereading, in that you see subtleties that you missed on the first reading. I think Tartt had a firmer editor than Pullman–either at her publisher, or in her own head. As all the Pullman fans disappointed in The Amber Spyglass] keep saying, what the book really needed was an extra year or two in the composition and redaction.
::downcast:: Sorry about that. I am teleporting you a slice of lemon cheesecase in penitence.
Me too! But I wanted to add that the second-best scene in all the books was Iorek’s reforging of the subtle knife. It’s hard to say why; it’s just that it seemed so real.
I think I can reclaim my Pullman fan status here: the reason why people spend time analysing and criticising the books is that they’re so damn good that the flaws bug you. No-one is going to dissect the failings and inconsistencies of a David Eddings book in minute detail - you read one to kill a couple of evenings, then toss it aside. Good fun, disposable fantasy entertainment with no higher ambitions.
HDM, on the other hand, aspires to be a good deal more than an enjoyable escape; it deals with some serious ideas and themes, and pulls it off to perfection in some parts. Other parts just don’t work, and it’s worth analysing the shortcomings to try and figure out why: a closer reading can help you appreciate the good bits all the more, while wishing that he’d done this instead of that. The mark of good literature that it’s a worthwhile exercise criticising it in depth - the good and the bad - in order to read and appreciate it better, and really god literature provides you with sufficient meat to do so.
What Case Sensitive said. 'Cept more pretentiously, of course. Um…throw in a couple of remarks about patriarchy and deconstructionism and post-modernist thought. And an allusion to Georges Seurrat.
Now some random favourite moments…
The alluring glamour of Mrs Coulter’s flat in London, when she “rescues” Lyra from Jordan College and grooms her in her image as a little doll. Then we suddenly get to see her claws - and her evil monkey’s - when she tells Lyra that she will do as she’s told. Lyra, who won’t do as she’s told, buggers off.
That evil monkey again, when the cat that Will rescued damn near takes its face off. Boo-yah! In your face, evil monkey!
More evil monkey, when it moodily dismembers a bat. Twist - crack! I like that monkey; it’s so damn bad.
Mrs Coulter’s seduction and murder of Lord Boreal when the monkey, ahem, fondles his snake. Phwooar! Pretty ripe stuff for a “kids book”, yet nothing that would bring a blush to the cheek of maidenly modesty. How does he write a scene that’s so sexually charged, yet with no actual sex. Plus more monkey.
Iofur Raknison’s palace - all tawdry glitter, yet stinking and covered in bird-shit
and bits of dead walrus. Do you suppose that’s a metaphor for something? And, of course, Iofur’s Mrs Coulter “daemon” doll: really, he didn’t stand a chance. “Iron is bear metal. Gold is not.”
John Parry using his mad shaman skillz in bringing down the zeppelins - especially the bit with the birds.
Exactly.
I hope I’ve changed as a person since puberty. Perhaps I haven’t. But I think I have. So have many people I know.
The characters in HDM don’t change. The way we can tell that they don’t change is because the daemon doesn’t change anymore either… it’s static and set. They stop dead at 13. They can’t grow anymore, the way he describes them.
And not only do they not grow, they can’t fake it, because everyone around them can see instantly who they are. Here, say, theoretically, I’ve been shy, retiring, cowardly all my life. I wake up one morning and decide to change. I can go out and fake it (and eventually, I might not be faking it). At the very least, I can re-invent myself in other people’s eyes. There, everyone’s going to look at the field mouse next to me and instantly know that I’m lying. There’s no re-inventing yourself, even if you could (which you can’t) everyone has already figured out who you are by one glance at your familiar.
Totally.
All criticisms and regrets about the series that I may voice pertain to things that work to downgrade them to being merely superlatively great books to read and enjoy, instead of being THE definitive atheist philosophical & theological epic tome, assigned classic for high school students in 2518 alongside Milton, etc etc.
Mrs Coulter changed. But yeah, that’s a very valid criticism, I think - no adult characters do change - at least not convincingly - throughout the course of the book. I’m not sure how much others can read one’s character from the nature of one’s daemon, though - many seemingly unremarkable daemons seem to embody positive characteristics, such as the sailor’s tough, self-reliant gull, and presumably nobody would offer Lee Scoresby’s daemon a carrot.
I agree, though, that there is a lot of tension between Pullman’s notions of self-knowledge and self-determination, for instance in Will’s choice not to become a warrior: “I can’t choose my nature, but I can choose what I do.” This seems to be in conflict with earlier lines like, “…till they learn to be satisfied with what they are, they’re going to be fretful about it.”, which would seem to deny choice.
I find it interesting that this thread has changed my mind about something, but in an odd way.
I don’t really remember the details about the series, and I always assumed that I would reread the books someday. I’m a rereader.
But reading this thread fills me with anxiety, as if I’ve forgotten the details of the books on purpose and want not to be reminded. I think it a very worthy series and I would rather eat a worm than read it again.