When Hanya Yanagihara published A Little Life in 2015, she caused a literary earthquake. The book dealt with depression, trauma, and pain in a very explicit way, making it one of the most controversial texts of the past decade. It was the saddest book I ever read and triggered emotions I didn’t even know I had.
But this story is not about A Little Life.
This story is about Yanagihara’s follow-up novel, To Paradise, which received far less attention and merit than A Little Life. Which is a shame because, in my opinion, To Paradise is the better novel.
To be clear: To Paradise is not A Little Life 2.0. The two books have very different styles and stories, and that’s a good thing. Although To Paradise also deals with many difficult issues (loneliness, illness, loss), it’s less sensational, less shocking, and less in-your-face than A Little Life. Instead, it’s beautifully subtle. The reading experience doesn’t feel like one big emotional knockout punch and more like a series of nudges — hard and soft — that make you stop, think, and reflect.
It took me over a year to finish To Paradise, but when I turned the last page, I lay down on the floor, stared at the ceiling, and kept thinking about the characters, the underlying ideas, the chilling world that had crept under my skin.
Below are the five big ideas that have been spinning inside my head ever since. To me, these ideas are what make To Paradise one of the boldest, most ambitious, and most intellectually challenging books I ever read. A masterpiece.
Note: I’ll re-narrate a few scenes from the book, but you won’t find any hard spoilers below. If you haven’t read To Paradise, my hope is that these ideas can act as breadcrumbs to guide your path through the perplexing stories. And if you’ve already read the novel, I hope these ideas can encourage you to see it from a fresh perspective and spark a discussion.
1. Beyond Meaning: Why ‘To Paradise’ Is Inexplicable
Whenever people asked me to describe what this humungous book was about, I was at a loss for words.
“Uhm, so within this book,” I would try to explain, “there are three books, and each of them takes place in an alternate version of America…”
Visible confusion ensued.
“Ah yes, and most of the characters are called David or Charles even though they’re not really related — well, I think! Also, most of the characters are gay, and the stories are set in New York and Hawai’i, and it’s kind of like Cloud Atlas and — ”
My point is, trying to explain this book, let alone pitch it, is nearly impossible.
This is why, for now, I simply want to focus on two key characteristics that make To Paradise so bold and unlike any other book I ever read.
Three timelines, three alternate realities
To Paradise is divided into three books with separate timelines—1893, 1993, and 2093—each portraying an alternate version of America.
- Book I (Washington Square, 1893): In a world where homosexuality is destigmatized but marriages are still arranged, a young man needs to choose. Does he want to follow an exciting yet uncertain promise of love? Or does he want to stay in his secure yet alienating environment of wealth, family, and legacy?
- Book II (Washington Square and Big Island, 1993): Against the backdrop of the AIDS epidemic, a Hawaiian man who lives with his much older husband is confronted with death, the nostalgia of his homeland, and memories of his troubled father.
- Book III (Washington Square, 2093): During an era of deadly plagues and extreme heat, a totalitarian state has emerged in New York City. In this dystopia, a lonely woman, bereaved of her grandfather, is trying to find belonging. As her story unfolds, we also learn more about her grandfather, who used to be a key figure in the creation of the totalitarian state.
It’s worth pointing out (it took me a long time to realize) that these are three self-contained realities. They behave to each other like parallel universes. This implies, for instance, that the characters aren’t related across these universes. Nonetheless, they all might share common points in history, e.g., the founding of the United States of America.
Repetitions, repetitions, repetitions
The other striking characteristic is that the same themes, names, and locations repeat throughout To Paradise’s three books. Names like Charles, David, and Edward resurface in all stories. Additionally, all three books are set around Washington Square, New York City, and have strong ties to Hawai’i. And plot-wise, every story is about the elusive promise of reaching or creating a seemingly better world — hence the title.
Now, I admit that all this can seem confusing — especially the thing about the names. As one person says on Goodreads:
The fact that the main characters share names was rather confusing as I tried to forget all the associations I had invariably carried over from Book I. I am not sure if Yanagihara intended this as some kind of connective tissue, but I really do not think it works.
I can relate. While reading, I was constantly flipping back pages, trying to discover links, asking myself, “What the hell does it all mean?!”, “How are these stories connected?”, and, “Am I missing something obvious here?!”
I felt like Charlie from It’s Always Sunny in Philadelphia when he’s trying to “uncover” all the strange things at his company.
So, is there a deeper meaning behind all this connective tissue between the three books?
How is it all connected?
Here are some attempts at interpreting the connections between the three books:
- The shared names serve as character archetypes. For instance, David usually represents change and uncertainty, Charles represents stability and control, and Edward represents danger and mystery.
- While the characters across the books aren’t related, it could be possible that the same-named characters are reincarnations of each other, all trying to do their best in the world they are propelled to live in. It goes to show how vastly a person’s values and moral compass can change depending on their surroundings, circumstances, and place in history.
- The recurring places serve as anchors. The most prominent place, Washington Square, changes drastically throughout the book, but there’s this one house that almost all main characters call home at some point. A place can wear many costumes. Sure, right now, it looks this way, but it could’ve taken so many other roles, looks, and purposes. This also applies to America on a larger level. Any place has the potential to witness good and evil, cruelty and kindness.
I could list many more interpretations (we’ll get to one more at the end). But at some point, it started to occur to me that trying to solve these puzzles or condemning them as “not working” might miss the point entirely.
Because what if there’s no solution? What if the point is precisely that we’re always trying to find meaning even though there might be no deeper meaning? What if there is no right answer?
It’s kind of a meta-lesson from reading the book: you think you’ll finally figure it out in the end — and maybe you think you found the solution — but ultimately, there is no objective truth. Meaning is always loosely constructed.
Just like the different versions of the characters and America show that there is never “one truth” about a person or a place, there’s not one truth about the book itself.
And, as we’ll see next, there’s certainly not one truth about the idea of paradise.
2. Dioramas and the Illusion of Paradise
The problem, though, with trying to be the ideal anything is that eventually the definition changes, and you realize that what you’d been pursuing all along was not a single truth but a set of expectations determined by context. You leave that context, and you leave behind those expectations, too, and then you’re nothing once again.
Hanya Yanagihara, To Paradise
Despite the book’s title, To Paradise, we never see any kind of paradise in these stories. Instead, the three worlds are utterly imperfect, and we don’t really get to a point of peace and harmony. Even if a character claims they’ve found paradise (I’m looking at you, Edward), this claim remains an empty promise.
More generally speaking, the title of a book promises what we’ll find inside the book. That’s the title’s job. Yet, Yanagihara elegantly plays with this promise and never shows or describes what paradise actually looks like. Instead, she demonstrates by example that the concept of paradise is an illusion. In fact, all three books culminate in people reaching out, going away, or leaving everything behind in hopes of a better world. In each book, the final words are a regress to the main title. All books end with the words “to paradise.”
In this sense, To Paradise radically subverts expectations. There’s always the promise of a better world, a paradise, and yet, we never see the characters reach whatever paradise they long for. If anything, all three books leave us with far more questions than answers about the characters and the worlds they live in.
Of course, you could argue that these are “open ends.” It’s up to the reader to decide the fate of the characters, and in many people’s heads, they might actually reach paradise. But I think this misses the deeper message of the book. Which is that the idea of a paradise will always remain elusive, always out of reach.
The point is, we’ll never know what paradise looks like.
Take the third book. In it, the character (his name is Charles, of course) shows what happens when a good-willed, moral person tries to shape the world for the better — and fails. Charles tries to save people from plagues by architecting quarantine camps and other “protective” measures. And yet, while doing so, he subtly creates an authoritarian state that eventually becomes the cause of his own downfall.
So, does this mean we should stop trying to create a better world? If nothing matters in the end and our well-meant actions do more harm than good (without us knowing), should we simply give up?
Well, that’s again the wrong question.
It’s not that we should or shouldn’t try. The inescapable truth that To Paradise explores is that we can’t help but try. We’re perpetually doomed (and blessed) to crave a better world. And yet, this “better world” will never be a paradise per se. For one, this is because the goalposts always shift, so the definition of paradise constantly changes. Another reason is that paradise — a place superior to your previous place — excludes other people by definition. And how could a place of exclusion be a paradise?
In other words, the term “paradise” contradicts itself. It’s a self-perpetuating cycle of longing and disappointment, just like the themes, names, and places repeating themselves within To Paradise.
Another way to understand the elusive nature of paradise is by the metaphor of a diorama. In Book II, there’s this thought that perfectly conveys this notion:
I had the strange sense that I was looking inside a diorama, at a scene of happiness I could witness but never enter.
Dioramas — they’re these beautifully modeled spaces where anything is possible, where everything is forever peaceful and exactly how its creator imagined it to be. And yet, any diorama remains this closed-off space from the real world. We can only witness it but not enter.
It’s not that we absolutely shouldn’t try to recreate the diorama in the real world. But I suppose it helps to remember that once we transform any fantasy into reality, it must obey the laws of human nature, and human nature is fundamentally flawed and messy. Thus, any reality that humans create will also be flawed and messy.
So, trying to create a paradise on Earth is not just an illusion. It’s also dangerous because it builds on the notion that everything and everyone will be perfectly fine, always. Which is, alas, impossible.
All this talk about paradise is just a long-winded way to say that there’s nothing wrong with wanting a better world, imagining a better world — as long as we don’t mistake this better world, this paradise, for the ultimate solution for all our problems.
Perhaps a better way of imagining paradise is to ask “What if?” questions.
3. What If? — A Force That Can’t Be Created or Destroyed
“Does this look like a dystopia to you?”
Hanya Yanagihara, To Paradise
The answer, implicit in the man’s question, was that a dystopia doesn’t look like anything; indeed, that it can look like anywhere else.
In the days after finishing To Paradise, I tried researching Yanagihara’s and other people’s thoughts on the book. But instead, I randomly stumbled upon a German book trailer (yep, I guess books have trailers nowadays).
In the trailer, the book was marketed in a very different way than what I’d seen thus far. Namely, it fundamentally framed the book as an exploration of “What if?” questions.
It was a lightbulb moment for me. Once I started thinking about it, I noticed that “What if?” questions — big and small — are the book’s main seasoning. They’re peppered all over the pages.
Book I, for instance, explores the question, “What if homosexuality were completely destigmatized?” Would that eliminate other social injustices? Could universal love act as a springboard for overcoming other difficulties? The book’s answer is clearly No — racism and classism, for example, remain very prominent themes in Book I.
Again, I don’t think we need to split hairs whether or not this assumption is true. That’s not the point. The point, I think, is that even if things could’ve turned out vastly different, it’s tough to judge if that would’ve changed the world for the better.
One way to think about this is in terms of energy. Energy can’t be created or destroyed; it’s simply there, shapeshifting, transferring from one object to another. For example, it’s easy to assume that the world would’ve been a better place if one of the many attempts to assassinate Hitler had been successful. I want to believe this. Who doesn’t? But To Paradise challenges this assumption. Who knows where else the energy would’ve gone? In what other ways could all the hate and suffering have manifested themselves?
Ultimately, the world doesn’t automatically improve if we eliminate a bad event or person from its timeline.
This notion of indestructible energy also transfers to the characters’ personal stories and struggles. Should you have told that person you loved them even when they didn’t feel the same? Should you have sacrificed excitement for feeling alienated? Should you have harmed other people to protect your loved ones?
Looking back, there often seems to be a “right answer.” But history likes to take unexpected twists and turns. Statements like “I should’ve done this” or “I should’ve said that” can’t be deemed true or false. They’re empty. After all, how could you possibly know your regret is justified when there’s no way to view how the alternate timeline would’ve played out?
So, is there even a place for legitimate regret? And if so, what does it look like?
4. What Real Regret Looks Like
I’m scared because I know my last thoughts are going to be about how much time I wasted — how much life I wasted. I’m scared because I’m going to die not being proud of how I lived.
Hanya Yanagihara, To Paradise
In the second half of Book II, one of the many Davids remembers a day when he was in college, and it was snowing so heavily that classes were canceled. Instead of being responsible adults by catching up on their classes, writing papers, and studying for exams, most students did what students do: they had some fun. Many people went outside into the snow to go sledding, tobogganing, sliding down the hill next to the dorms.
David didn’t go. He stayed inside. But as his peers came back, he heard them cheerfully shouting outside of his dorm room.
“What have I done?” one person joked. “I had a Greek paper to write for tomorrow! I’m wasting my life!”
The rest of the group joined in the laughter. It would become the kind of day they would tell their grandkids about.
As David reflects on this day, he feels utterly devastated. Unlike his fellow students, he had actually wasted his life — not just on this day but also as long as he can remember. Why? Because he never chose to do anything. He always stayed passive. There was nothing he could regret not having done because he never acted out of self-efficacy.
“Not doing something,” he ponders, “is not the same as doing something. I had wasted my life…”
Others could joke about wasting their life because they were spending their time in another, perhaps more meaningful way. But David didn’t spend his time at all. If time was currency, he saved it all up and took it to his grave.
This memory becomes particularly striking when, later, David reflects:
The truth is that I had simply followed someone, and I had surrendered my own life to somebody else.
What does real regret look like? It looks like nothing, really. The strongest type of regret is when there are no choices to regret in the first place. The strongest type of regret is riddled with passivity.
Growing up, I always thought that impulsive, poor decisions are how people waste their lives. So I grew wary of them, overthinking my life without living it. I can think of several unexplored career choices, dozens of people who will never know I fancied them, and hundreds of unpublished ideas in my draft folder.
But not doing something is not the same as doing something. Am I wasting my life?
5. The One True Constant Across All Three Books
What he wouldn’t know until he was much older was that no one was ever free, that to know someone and to love them was to assume the task of remembering them, even if that person was still living. No one could escape that duty, and as you aged, you grew to crave that responsibility even as you sometimes resented it, that knowledge that your life was inextricable from another’s, that a person marked their existence in part by their association with you.
Hanya Yanagihara, To Paradise
Earlier, I mentioned a few attempts at interpreting the connective issue between the three books. There’s one more connection worth investigating. It took me a long time to realize — but once I did, it was as if scales fell from my eyes.
The one true constant across all three books is the movement between loneliness and connection. That’s the only force that remains throughout space, time, and alternate realities. No matter how the external world changes — be it through crisis, authoritarian rule, or liberation — what persists at the core of the human condition is the need for feeling connected, feeling loved.
With this in mind, it’s interesting to ponder that, as the books become increasingly dystopian, it also gets harder for the characters to form human connections. In fact, the case could be made that a lack of human connection is the very thing that causes a dystopia.
In Book III — by far the most dystopian part of To Paradise —there’s this point when the totalitarian regime considers monitoring people’s friendships. But then, they quickly realize that this would be their downfall because, without friends, people would panic.
It’s a tragic rationale — the idea to leave people the freedom of friendship so they don’t start revolting. But it’s also powerful because it shows that friendships can’t be prohibited — not even by an utterly totalitarian force. People will always need people, especially in the darkest times.
Charlie, the protagonist in Book III, remembers this series of events after she finally meets someone she clicks with:
I was so calm … because I had a friend. About a decade ago, the state had instituted a law that ordered people to register their friends’ names at their local center, but it had been quickly repealed. Even Grandfather had said it was a ridiculous notion. “I understand what they’re trying to do,” he had said, “but people are less idle, and therefore less troublesome, when they’re allowed to have friends.”
I would even claim that friendships can be the key to paradise — but not in the way you might think. Friendship, against modern intuition, needs to harbor humane conflicts and productive disagreements.
Conclusion: A Different Kind of Paradise
Shortly after finishing To Paradise, I revisited the work of Hannah Arendt — a Jewish, German-American philosopher who tried to find an explanation for the terror her people suffered during WWII. In essence, her finding was that one of the main origins of totalitarian movements is loneliness. That is, the feeling of not belonging anywhere.
Authoritarian ideologies can mobilize this sense of feeling left behind into an “us vs. them” movement. The result is one big mass of people whose only binding force is their shared contempt against a scapegoat (“They are the problem. They are making us miserable!”)
Thus, the perfect target for totalitarian rule, according to Arendt, is not the convinced Nazi or Communist. No — it’s a person for whom the distinction between fact and fiction, between true and false, no longer exists.
Yanagihara wonderfully touches on this notion in Book III:
Data, investigation, analysis, news, rumor: A dystopia flattens those terms into one. There is what the state says, and then there is everything else, and that everything else falls into one category: information.
In Book III, during the peak of an epidemic, a married couple encounters an old friend who asks them for help. The couple doesn’t even know what he wants or if he’s sick. They just know that they want to protect themselves. And so, in a knee-jerk reaction, they leave him on the street, barricading themselves into their mansion, denying him any chance to contact them again.
By doing this, they cast his death sentence, and they know it.
I think this scene is so representative of a dystopia because it shows what happens when people stop listening, lose their humanity, and fall prey to cynicism. Indeed, in all three books, conflict arises because protagonists cease to engage in discourse. They stop listening. And ultimately, this leads them to abandon the world they knew, often without good reason.
The paradox here is that clinging to a perfectly harmonious vision doesn’t pave the pathway to paradise but to hell. Conversely, the closest we ever got to any type of utopia or paradise has been through a rocky road of productive disagreement. Realistic paradises are founded on connection in disconnection, unity in plurality.
So perhaps one of the subtlest and most insightful ideas of To Paradise is that paradise doesn’t look like a perfect world — far from it. If paradise ever exists, it must be founded on open discourse, human flaws, and a diverse range of opinions that don’t always agree with each other.
The following final words will sound annoyingly idealistic after everything I’ve said, but here goes nothing: If the characters in To Paradise had begun to entertain this idea of productive dispute, listening to the people they disagreed with, they would’ve gotten one step closer to salvation, to humanity, to paradise.
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