Discovering Philip Pullman's His Dark Materials trilogy, as a child, was for me a moment of genuine wonder and awe. Not since CS Lewis had a writer shaped such a complete, immersive and – frankly – adult world for a child reader. I devoured the books, hooked on the adventures of awkward tomboy Lyra Belacqua but also on the huge, complex and disturbing themes of ambition, religion and human folly that drove her story.
As an adult, finding my way back to Christianity, the books began to trouble me, though. As I tried and often failed to understand the world around me, it was the very things that Pullman warns us against – faith, order, structure – that offered me most sustenance and made the most sense. I fell out of love with his creation, even to the point of denouncing it as clever but ultimately dangerous propaganda.
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