HE LOOKS NICE ENOUGH Philip Pullman, author of the bestselling His Dark Materials series, is considered by some to be Britain's "most dangerous" writer.
A short essay about Philip Pullman, his books and his idea.
On the wall behind the desk in his cluttered study, Philip Pullman has tacked up an article by political commentator Peter Hitchens, clipped from the conservative English newspaper The Mail on Sunday. The piece is about him, and its headline is glaring: "This is the most dangerous author in Britain," it reads. Pullman doesn't mind the reputation a bit. "It's a great compliment to me, isn't it?" he says, speaking from his home in Oxford. "It's a good thing to put on the back cover of the next paperback, I suppose."
Hitchens' claim may sound a bit hyperbolic—especially considering that it refers to a writer of children's literature—but there are readers out there, particularly religious ones, who would agree. The books that have earned Pullman the distinction are three titles in a series he calls His Dark Materials, and they tell the story of a girl and boy who conspire to do away with the Kingdom of Heaven. (The trilogy's awkward name is taken from the epic Pullman is attempting to retell, John Milton's Paradise Lost.) And although The Golden Compass, The Subtle Knife and The Amber Spyglass have many elements of classic fantasy fiction—talking animals, magical devices and orphaned children—they also feature gay angels and a god who rages in helpless senility, his dictatorship crumbling around him. According to a review in The Catholic Herald, a British weekly, the His Dark Materials trilogy is "worthy of the bonfire."
But it's not just the content of Pullman's books that makes the religious right nervous—it's also their popularity: Worldwide, more than 4 million copies have been sold to both adults and children. Mainstream book critics have also embraced Pullman's work, and, what's more, the production company in charge of the Lord of the Rings movies is currently working on film adaptations.
As you might assume, Pullman's own religious faith—if it can be called such—is unconventional. An agnostic, he dreams of something he calls the "Republic of Heaven," a state of being defined by the following tenets: Heaven, as he imagines it, exists on earth, and only on earth; humans are responsible for all the world's good and evil; and they must act without fear of damnation or promise of eternal reward.
"I'm for open-mindedness and tolerance," Pullman explains. "I'm against any form of fanaticism, fundamentalism or zealotry, and this certainty of 'We have the truth.' The truth is far too large and complex. Nobody has the truth."
That includes Pullman himself, of course—and he knows it. As excitable and passionate as he is about his ideas, the fifty-six-year-old author comes across as anything but a zealot. Congenial and quick to laugh, he spends less time these days plotting revolution than fixing up the house he just moved into and doting on his new grandson, Freddie, who was born at the end of July. "He's not quite old enough to read yet," says Pullman happily. "But we're working on it." vHe's also working on a new book, which he describes as "a kind of fairy tale." Sounds harmless, but, then again, there are plenty of fairy tales that are dark and, well, suggestive.
— Anna Weinberg
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