German Ghost Border

I’ve just seen another map shared by the Twitter account, @onlmaps, which I felt compelled to discuss on here.  You can see it at this link.

As anyone who is familiar with maps of Europe between 1945 and 1989 can testify, this divide is almost exactly along the border between the former Federal Republic of Germany (West Germany) and the communist, Soviet-puppet German Democratic Republic (East Germany).  Less than 30% of the population of former East Germany is religious, compared to an average of 60%-90% in former West Germany.  The reason for this seems fairly clear: after 12 years of Nazi rule, West Germany allowed its citizens to continue worshiping freely, whereas East Germany’s government advocated an atheist, secular agenda.  According to Wikipedia, one way it did this was by organising secular coming-of-age ceremonies to replace the Catholic equivalent, and largely discouraging church attendance in general.  As with the Polish Ghost Border, I find it incredible how long-gone borders between countries can continue to have a social and economic impact upon the territory they divided.

The main reason this divide surprised me is that I had always assumed that the Soviet-Communist governments had largely failed in bringing religious observance down.  But I’ve done some research into the former Eastern-bloc countries and the results seem to be mixed:

Country: (proportion of people who do not believe in a God)

Estonia: 71%
Ukraine: 63%
Belarus: 41%
Russia: 38%
Latvia: 21%
Czech Republic: 34%
Slovakia: 13%
Lithuania: 10%
Bulgaria: 9%
Poland: 5%
Romania: 0.2%

So actually, incredibly mixed.  Some area were successful, such as Estonia, Ukraine and Belarus.  These three countries were formerly part of the Soviet Union, yet Lithuania, also in the Soviet Union, still sees high religious observance.  Meanwhile, Poland and Romania have incredibly low rates of non-religion; I can only presume that their Cold War governments did not push an agenda of atheism.

For comparison, here’s the rates of some Western European countries:

The Netherlands: 51%
Sweden: 34%
France: 31%
Norway: 29%
Scotland: 28%*
Belgium: 27%
England and Wales: 25%
Spain: 25%
Denmark: 24%
Luxembourg: 22%
Finland: 21%
Switzerland: 20%
Italy: 15%
Portugal: 7%
Ireland: 6%

So actually, the cases of East Germany, Estonia and Ukraine aside, the Soviet-Communist governments of the Eastern Bloc don’t seem to have had that significant impact in reducing religious observance compared to the natural decline we’ve witnessed in the West.  Perhaps my original assumption was correct, and that East Germany’s government was the exception.

*This is from the 2001 census, as the results of the 2011 census for Scotland don’t seem to have been published yet.  I imagine it will be at least 30% now, considering that England and Wales lept from 15% to 25% between 2001 and 2011.  If Scotland had a similar jump, we might even see 38% of Scots claiming no religion.  It’s curious that Scotland is less religious than the rest of the UK.

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The Value of Science Fiction

By Hill – Giuseppe Gerbino (Self-published work by Hill) [GFDL (http://www.gnu.org/copyleft/fdl.html) or CC-BY-SA-3.0 (http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/)%5D, via Wikimedia Commons

Science fiction is often given a bad name.  It can have connotations of strange people in jumpsuits or bizarre prosthetics, sprouting technobabble, involved with stories which have no relation to the modern world.  Yet, I believe that science fiction offers an opportunity to look at our world from a different and new perspective.  Your Great Gatsbys or Macbeths may give a deep commentary on the world we live in and human nature, yet they’re inevitably constrained by being stuck within that which they seek to criticise.  Science fiction can remove itself and look down on these issues, which makes it a unique platform for expressing such comments.

This post has been prompted by reading Iain Banks’ Consider Phlebas, which I’ll focus on – although much of this will apply to other science fiction work.  Consider Phlebas covers a wide array of themes and idea.  The most immediately apparent is war; the book is set during a galactic war between two groups: The Indirans and the Culture.  We see a form of total war, seemingly without boundaries, as entire planets are destroyed and races wiped out.  This is the logical extension of human warfare.  During the 19th and 20th centuries we ‘advanced’ from a form of war involving large armies, where the result would usually be decided on the battlefield, to a situation where factions would try to win at whatever the cost.  Wars became more a matter of crippling the enemy’s economy rather than routing their armies which, through aerial bombings and the use of submarines, had a direct impact on the civilian population.  This developed into the utilisation of mass destruction, whether through nuclear weapons, chemical or biological, to achieve a victory.  In Consider Phlebas, Banks pursues this to its logical conclusion.  The destruction of planets is a terrifying concept, but largely because you can imagine it would actually happen if people had the capability to do such a thing.

This commentary is less subtle in places; the final act of the story is set on a proscribed ‘Planet of the Dead’, in this case a preserved world which perished during a nuclear war.  The characters journey through underground bunkers, the only remnants of a civilisation which destroyed itself.  They could easily be burrowing into the bowls of the Earth at some distant time in the future*.

The Indirans and the Culture are fighting almost purely on ideological grounds.  The Indirans are a religiously devout, warmongering race, while the Culture have developed a secular, anarchist, planned consumerist economy which seeks to extend its influence across the galaxy.  Conflicts between ideologies is another fascinating aspect of human nature we’ve seen develop in the 20th century, which Banks captures in his novel.  There’s a brilliant line where the protagonist Horza, fighting on the side of the Indirans, describes a seemingly innocuous bit of technology as “the real representative of the Culture on this planet.”  This line resonates with anyone who has ever drunk a bottle of coke or eaten in a Macdonalds.  Imperialism by commercialism against imperialism by military force are ideas which have conflicted in human history, which Banks shines new light on by portraying in a new scenario.  I found myself siding with the Culture, which is a testament to the realistic civilisation Banks forced considering the story is narrated from a viewpoint biased against them.

There’s another small, easily missed mention to ideologies I quite enjoyed.  After a raid on what they expected would be an unarmed temple was repelled, the crew of the Clear Air Turbulence discover that it was situated on the border between two warring states, one Socialist and one highly religious.  No other details are given, but I love the possibilities for stories that creates.

Technology is another area where science fiction thrives.  The image I chose for this is an artistic rendering of the Culture’s Orbitals which, as you can see, is a remarkable idea.  They serve as artificial worlds for people to reside on, equipped with terrain, climates, ecosystems, etc.  They look utterly bizarre and totally artificial, yet I could imagine how they would actually work.  I’d question the economic viability of such structures when there’s a multitude of planets to terraform and explore, but that’s another issue.  Perhaps the best technological prediction in the book is that of drones, fully sentient machines who are considered individuals – to destroy a drone is tantamount to murder in the Culture’s eyes.  This is explored wonderfully in Consider Phlebas.  My favourite instance was the drone Jase, which develops an infatuation on Fal ‘Ngeestra.  This is never developed, but just the small reference to Jase taking a sound recording every time Fal laughs tells us so much about the depth of these drones’ personalities.

It’s no secret that technological predictions, above all else, have made an impact in the real world.  The main example I can think of is Arthur C. Clarke pretty much inventing the idea of geostationary satellites, a good decade or so before they became reality.  You can see more here.  Today, ideas like space elevators, which have so far been imagined only in science fiction, are perfectly plausible.

These are just a few examples of how science fiction can be immensely relevant to our modern world.  This is why the genre, along with fantasy, has always existed in some form and I expect always will.  There’s never an end to the things it can give insights into, forcing us to see things in ways we might not expect or be prepared for.

*In the epilogue Banks reveals that the events take place in our past, yet the simlarity remains.

 

American Gods (Review)

Contains spoilers.

 

Neil Gaiman is one of those authors who I’ve somehow managed to become a fan of without having read a single book he’s written.  I first became aware of his existence upon watching the Doctor Who episode, The Doctor’s Wife, which despite its name turned out to be one of the best episodes I’d ever seen.  Soon afterwards I watched the film adaptation of Coraline, which also proved to be a very well-written story.  I’ve enjoy reading his insightful Tweets on his Twitter account for over a year now, and so I decided it was high time I came into direct contact with one of his books face to face.  American Gods (2001) has sat on my shelf for a while since I spontaneously bought it in a bookshop,  making it the obvious candidate to be my first foray into his work.  I had high expectations which, I suppose, were never going to be met.

The first thing I noticed was that the characters were well developed and instantly engaging.  Shadow, the protagonist, is a very likeable and unassuming character who undergoes real development throughout the novel.  Beginning as a broken, lifeless ex-convict, through the events of the story he rediscovers his soul and manages to move on to a newfound sense of life.  This progression felt convincing for the most party, although I don’t entirely understand the effect the Passion on the Tree had upon him.  It took death to discover and partly resurrect his father to metaphorically bring himself to life?  Sounds very Biblical!  I imagine it would become clearer upon a second reading.  I did enjoy the Tree sections however, even if they did lose some credibility by the fact that Shadow, seemingly inexplicably, volunteered to be tied to it for nine days.  Again, would probably require a second reading.

The other characters which particularly impressed me were the more minor ones, such as Sam Crowe, whose attitude was enjoyable to read, and the majority of the residents of Lakeside – their diversity creating a village which felt very full of life.  I also liked Laura’s character, though her unexplained state of being undead irritated me slightly (which applies to most of the business to do with coins, in fact), though it was described to gory satisfaction.  It was an interesting decision to make most of the Gods decrepit, unhealthy, corrupt old men and women, but one which perfectly makes clear the idea of these Gods being ancient and abandoned.  I think Gaiman may have overstated this point, though – I tired of the drugs, crude dialogue and general sense of “disgusting adultness” which pervaded the novel very quickly.  Wednesday was an interesting character, characterised well enough so that when he is revealed to be the villain of the novel, sacrificing the other Gods for his own gain, it’s a surprising plot twist without being an unbelievable action for the character to take.  The contrast to the ‘new’ Gods is well established: the new Gods are chic, technological and efficient, wielding a deadly charisma – precisely as you’d expect modern Gods to be.

The principle of the Gods is probably the best crafted idea in the novel.  Having physical manifestations, personified figures of these mythical beings is genius.  Gaiman’s research is clear, with each character based on a ‘real’ God.  It’s fascinating to examine the idea of immigrants to America bringing their Gods with them, effectively replicating them (as the original stays in the homeland).  The Gods feed on faith and sacrifice, becoming weak and withered when these dry up.  In this way, Gaiman has achieved the extraordinary feat of making the human condition appear desirable in comparison to Gods.  The Gods in America are particularly weakened, because, for some mystical reason, although America is a good place for humans Gods do not survive well there.  Which is a fine idea, although doesn’t ring true.  The USA is one of the most religious developed countries in the world -often fanatically so.  Which, in turn, makes me wonder about the lack of the Christian God? Or Jesus?  What about Allah?  None of the ‘Big’ Gods make a presence, which is quite a major omission, if you think about it.  This blog post discusses the omission well.

 

Another criticism I have is that the novel simply drags on for too long.  I read “The Author’s Preferred Version,” with several thousand words added in which weren’t included in the original publication.  Considering at least 50% of the novel is spent travelling around the US on a ‘road trip’, advancing the plot or very little as they do so, I would really have preferred the edited down version.  This kind of story isn’t necessarily bad – for example, The Road achieves it marvelously – but American Gods lacks the substance to make it engaging, despite how well written it is.

I really wanted to like American Gods, which is why it’s paining me to criticise it so much.  Have I been to harsh?  Not given it a chance?  Certainly, there’s much to enjoy and it did pick up towards the end, but on the whole, I was a bit disappointed.

Final rating: 6.5/10

Cloud Atlas [Film] (Review)

Contains spoilers.

“An exploration of how the actions of individual lives impact one another in the past, present and future, as one soul is shaped from a killer into a hero, and an act of kindness ripples across centuries to inspire a revolution.”

Where to begin?  I honestly don’t know how to review this film – I suspect, much like the book was claimed to be “unfilmable”, this unfilmable film is “unreviewable.”  But I’ll take a stab at it anyway.  I first stumbled across the film when I happened to watch the trailer, and instantly fell in love.  I felt inspired and awe-struck by the trailer alone, and I knew that this is a film I had to see.  I hoped it would not let me down.  The original novel was written by David Mitchell, an author whose work I know of shamefully little.  The film is directed by the Wachowski Siblings – whose most famous work, The Matrix, I’ve recently had an ambivalent encounter with – and Tom Tkywer.  At nearly 3 hours long, this film is not for the faint-hearted.

Within the first five minutes we witness the old, scarred Zachry speaking in a strange, futuristic dialect, journalist Luisa Ray travelling to a nuclear power plant to uncover a conspiracy, Timothy Cavendish writing on his typewriter, Robert Frobisher loading a pistol into his mouth, Adam Ewing seeking out Dr. Henry Goose, and the final interview of the clone Sonmi-451.  The film doesn’t get any easier than that.

Cloud Atlas can be described as 6 separate stories woven together, although the more you watch the more it comes to resemble one story with 6 differing facets:

  1. 1849:  On the South Pacific Ocean, after visiting a slave plantation on the Chatham Islands, Adam Ewing (Jim Sturgess) helps a self-freed slave stowaway, Autua (David Gyasi), while his doctor, Henry Goose (Tom Hanks), slowly poisons him to steal his possessions.  Upon arriving home, he joins an abolitionist movement.
  2. 1936: Robert Frobisher (Ben Whishaw), inspired by Ewing’s journal, helps musician Vivyan Ayrs (Jim Broadbent) with his compositions, culminating in the composition of the Cloud Atlas Sextet.  During this time he writes letters to his lover, Rufus Sixsmith (James D’Arcy).
  3. 1973: Journalist Luisa Rey (Halle Berry) meets an older Sixsmith, who now works as nuclear physicist.  After Sixsmith’s death, she works with Isaac Sachs (Tom Hanks) and Joe Napier (Keith David) to uncover the conspiracy to allow the nuclear reactors to fail.  She is driven by the need not to repeat the mistakes of Frobisher, whose letters she reads.
  4. 2012: Publisher Timothy Cavendish (Jim Broadbent), fleeing from gangsters to whom he owes money, is tricked into a militant nursing home by his brother, Denholme (James D’Arcy).  He then escapes.  His work as a publisher continues when he receives a manuscript based on Rey’s life, and also writes about his own story.
  5. 2144: In the dystopian city of Neo-Seoul, South Korea, the clone Sonmi-451 (Doona Bae) is rescued from servitude by Hae-Joo Chang (Jim Sturgess) and enters a resistance movement.  A film based on Cavendish’s adventure helps to cement her beliefs.  However the rebellion fails and Sonmi-451 is executed.
  6. 2321: In a post-apocalyptic world, Zachry (Tom Hanks) lives in a primitive society.  Plagued by cannibals from another tribe, the people look towards their Goddess, Sonmi, for guidance.  When the technologically advanced Meronym (Halle Berry) arrives, Zachry takes her to Sonmi’s temple, but they return to find his tribe has been wiped out.

I truly admire the way in which the action cuts between characters and the six time periods with such ease, finding links to tie certain sections of the stories together.  For example, one moment Autua is balancing across the ship’s yard avoiding gunshots, and then the film cuts to Sonmi and Hae-Joo running across a walkway between buildings over the city, avoiding lasershots.  Both Luisa and Timothy are chased by Hugo Weaving’s characters in a sequence from different stories edited together.  When Sonmi discovers the grim fate of every clone, Zachry simultaneously discovers that his village has been massacred.  When Adam and his wife Tilda decide to join the abolitionist movement, Tilda’s father’s speech, in which he claims the movement is destined to end in failure, is interspersed with shots of Sonmi’s execution.

As I described in the summary, events in one story directly impact another.  As well-crafted as these initial connections are, the further you delve into the story you discover the subtler hints.  The comet birthmark is one, although I believe, in the novel, this is supposed to indicate one character living again and again in different lives, which the film chose to change and do by actor – leaving the birthmark rather redundant.  My favourites are the small connections, such as Vivyan’s house eventually becoming the care home Timothy (both played by Broadbent) is confined within.  While Nurse Noakes threatens to make Timothy eat soap, the clones in Neo-Seoul are fed a substance called soap, which it’s later revealed is protein recycled from former clones.  There is also, arguably, a development of the soul for each character: Hanks’ characters begin as scheming, selfish souls but develop into humble heroes.  Broadbent’s follow a similar pattern.  Meanwhile, Berry’s start off as persecuted characters – first as a Moriori slave and then a Jew in the 1930s – but develops into an independent journalist until finally becoming the most powerful character in the period as Meronym.  I say arguably because I don’t think these were Mitchell’s original intentions, and is merely an interpretation.  But, of course, the nature of Cloud Atlas leaves it open to so many interpretations.

Paradoxically, it is these connections between characters and times which was one of my favourite and least favourite aspects of the film.  I thoroughly enjoyed watching the links come together, but I felt it could have gone further with them.  At the film’s end I was left wondering what the overall point and message had been.  This isn’t necessarily a flaw.  Maybe, being so used to linear plots, I feel as there needs to be an overarching idea where the film could work perfectly well without one.

One part of the film done absolutely perfectly was the acting, make-up and costumes which  successfully disguised the actors in their repetitions across the 6 stories.  Half of the characters I didn’t realise were played by recurring actors until afterwards, such as Jim Sturgess as Hae-Joo Chang and Halle Berry as Jocasta Ayrs.  It is a crime that none of the actors were even nominated for an Oscar.  I was particularly  impressed when actors played a character of a different gender and race to their own – particularly Hae-Joo and Hugo Weaving as Nurse Noakes (which is perhaps one of the funniest things I have ever seen in a film).  While these changes were never 100% convincing, I don’t think they were supposed to be – the audience is supposed to understand that this is the same person in a different life.  I cannot praise this aspect of the film highly enough.

Another thing I loved about the film – something which probably hasn’t been mentioned by critics much – is the dialogue.  Quite simply, it all felt so real.  This is down to both the writing and the acting.  When characters spoke to each other, I believed they were having a spontaneous conversation rather than performing in a well-rehearsed scene.  Compare the dialogue here to the forced conversations in Shetland – for instance – and there’s really no contest.  Best of all, I was stunned to discover that, in the post-apocalyptic world, I was not being dense by misunderstanding the characters but they were actually speaking in a futuristic dialect.  Dialects and languages are complex things which evolve staggeringly quickly when isolated from the rest of the world, but to artificially create one is beyond impressive; it’s utter genius.  It appears to be an extension of Southern US dialects, where certain beats of speech are given further emphasis and twangs.  Artificial idioms and figures-of-speech are thrown in, making the dialect even more realistic.  Read these excerpts:

  • “Yоur аugurіn’ соmе truе, Αbbеѕѕ. Βrоkе brіdgе, јuѕt lіkе yоu ѕаy. Μеrоnym were thеrе, yibberin’ hеr аbout trekіn’ uр Μаunа Ѕоl. Why does this Ρrеѕсіеnt wоmаn соmе сurѕіn’ and twіѕtіn’ up my lіfе?”
  • “Fееlіn’ I оwnin’ yоu a real соwtow, fоr іnvаdіn’ yоur hоuѕе wіth nо ѕаyѕо. Τruе ѕоrryѕоmе… Ѕо, yоu mіndіn’ а ѕtrаngеr querin’ аbоut yоur troddin’?”

It has a poetic effect – almost Shakespearean.  The irony being that if someone spoke like this today they would be lambasted for mutilating the English language with rotten colloquialisms.  I found the dialect a beauty to listen to, though I can appreciate that other viewers would become irritated at the difficulties of understanding the words.

There’s much more I could say about Cloud Atlas, but the review has to end at some point.  Perhaps in another life I will review it differently.  This is, without a doubt, one of the most imaginative, thought-provoking films I have ever seen.  Watching it is an experience.  I have the opportunity to go see it again in a cinema but I don’t think my brain could cope with watching it from start to finish, all in one go, again.  It simply isn’t big enough.  But what I will say is that I feelin’ this move-move is mighty good, and that’s a tru-tru.

Final Rating: 10/10

The Amber Spyglass: A Religion For Me

(Contains spoilers)

The His Dark Materials books by Philip Pullman are an incredible trilogy.  I first read them at the age of 13, and they were the catalyst for my final abandonment of my religious beliefs (which I shall discuss in a future blog post).  I’ve recently re-read the trilogy; my third reading of the books.  This post will largely focus on The Amber Spyglass and the alternative approach to religion which it presents.

The Amber Spyglass can be seen as an utter rejection of Christian values and beliefs.  This is obvious by the point Lord Asriel has founded the Republic of Heaven and is waging war against God, but should be obvious even before then by scathing comments towards the church and its hold over power.  However it is in subtle allegories that I feel Pullman creates parallels with religion most effectively, which sets him up to reject it and create a new set of beliefs which I would actually like to believe in if they weren’t fictional.

These allegories focus around the world of the Mulefa, which is never named but I believe may symbolise Eden.  This may seem a strange comparison considering the imperfections which exist (chiefly the Tualapi) and that, as Pullman explains, this world came to be out of evolution and natural processes, but that’s not the point.  A central theme which develops throughout the book is the need to build a metaphorical ‘Republic of Heaven’ in people’s own worlds, where they are, by living full lives and building stories and living in harmony with one another.  The world of the Mulefa is an example of this put into practice.  They are in harmony with nature, using the seed pods to elevate themselves to a position of dominance, given to them by their ability to travel over the lava-roads and, most importantly, through the seed oil which gives them consciousness.  In return their use of the seed pods crack them open and allow the seeds to germinate.  They live a rustic lifestyle, taking from the earth what they need and in turn giving to the earth what it needs.

The Mulefa are unique also in their harmony with one another.  Two Mulefa are never seen to argue, and everything they do is done in cooperation – such as tying nets which requires two to work concurrently on the same net and in gathering food.  There are very little politics in Mulefa society; councils exist and some Mulefa appear to have elevated positions, but every member of the society has a voice and will be listened to.

The Mulefa have their own creation story.  They believe the first Mulefa – a female, in contrast to Genesis’ Adam – discovered a seed pod and a serpent told her to put her foot through it to achieve knowledge.  This is very similar to the tale of Adam and Eve in Christianity, but where humanity see this as ‘The Fall’ and long to return to the bliss of ignorance, the Mulefa celebrate this event.  Christian doctrine goes that as a result of The Fall humanity became alienated both from God and from nature, yet the Mulefa have somehow kept the union unbroken – perhaps due to their different interpretation.  This adds to the idea that the Mulefa world is, allegorically, Eden.

It is somehow fitting then that, when Lyra and Will create an exit for the prisoners of the World of the Dead, the world their atoms are scattered into is Eden.  There is no Heaven nor eternal paradise, but in becoming one with nature conscious life can reach a form of contented harmony.  To reach this state one does not need to sacrifice their lives and freedom for a Deity – this would in fact keep them trapped forever in the World of the Dead.  People need to lives worth talking about, create stories, and strive for fulfilment.  These are healthy morals, in my view.

Another theme of the entire trilogy is opposition to authority.  The head angel is never referred to as God, but as ‘The Authority’, which shows the nature of his rule.  The fact that The Authority is a wizened, weak angel needing to be kept in a crystal case for safety, whose existence is scattered by the force of the wind, sums up the futility of his role.  All throughout the novel characters are encouraged to question authority, though this most often equates to challenging the church.  While this is most definitely a theme I would agree with, it does not seem to extend to other authorities.  When the angel Xaphania tells Will and Lyra that every window between worlds must be closed to stop Dust leaving the world, and the Subtle Knife destroyed, they blindly accept it.  They have reason to, until Xaphania tells them one window could be kept open, which would be used to allow the dead to continue flowing into ‘Eden’.  If one window can be afforded to be kept open, surely a second window would not be the end of Dust either?  Surely Lyra and Will are owed the opportunity to be together after everything they have done for the rebellion?  I love this book dearly, but this is a major flaw.  In accepting Xaphania’s words, Lyra and Will are rejecting Pullman’s message that all authority should be questioned.  Clearly, only ‘bad’ authority can be corrupt.

This brings me onto the role of Dust.  Dust is an elementary particle which has a symbiotic relationship with consciousness; one cannot exist without the other.  The Magisterium fears and hates Dust, believing that it is the cause of all sin.  It is my belief that Dust is meant to symbolise sin itself.  Christian belief states that as a result of The Fall, sin entered the world.  How this happened is not explained, but it is a very similar image to the Dust Mary Malone, Lord Asriel and others see flowing out of the world, out of the universe, into the Abyss.  But once again Christian belief is subverted.  Where Christians, like the Magisterium, fear and hate sin, the message of The Amber Spyglass is that Dust ought to be celebrated.  Dust brings conscious life to the Mulefa, due to keeping the seed-pod trees alive.  It does the same for humanity, and all life which is self aware.  Once more I agree with Pullman’s message that anything which brings greater knowledge to humanity, be it Dust, the Tree of Knowledge or science, is worth celebrating.

In Christian doctrine God is split into three parts of the Holy Trinity: God the Father, God the Son (Jesus Christ) and the Holy Spirit.  In the universe Pullman has created, life is also split into three parts: the body, the dæmon (soul) and the ghost.  Upon death the body and the soul, which are considered the most important aspects, dissipate and become one with the world, but The Authority keeps the ghost prisoner in the World of the Dead.  This is contrary to the Christian idea of life after death as being ‘salvation’.  Pullman takes the view that an eternal life, whether in bliss, suffering or neither, would not be desirable.  It is only through Lyra and Will’s actions that the ghosts are freed from this living death.

One final point I have on trilogy’s attitude towards Christianity is the lack of any criticism, or even reference to, Jesus Christ the Saviour.  References to the Magesterium aside, which is clearly based on the Catholic Church, the religion Pullman is criticising could easily also be Judaism.  I would imagine this is due to there being very little in Jesus’ philosophy to criticise, other than the acts done in his name.  Perhaps even, in Lyra’s world, Jesus never existed, or his doctrines never extended beyond cult status.  He is certainly a major omission, but most likely a deliberate one.

As I read The Amber Spyglass I thought this is a religion with such great messages, morals and stories that I actually wished it were true.  Dust, Mulefa, parallel worlds, death, authority… The book presents all these themes in ways I believe they should be treated.  And the ultimate theme, the idea of creating a Republic of Heaven where we are, ‘because there is no elsewhere,’ is a wonderful message.  Basically, don’t squander or waste you life because you only live once and the world is there for the taking.  The world is your oyster, if you like.  This is a positive message to take upon finishing the book, and my most significant reason for wishing that the beliefs of this fictional story are worshipped across the world in Christianity’s place.