Genre Fiction
![Miranda Cowley Heller - [object Object] author](https://res.cloudinary.com/readsomnia/image/upload/authors/a_B092GBX87B.jpg)
The Paper Palace: A Novel
REESE'S BOOK CLUB PICK
LONGLISTED FOR THE 2022 WOMEN'S PRIZE FOR FICTION
INSTANT #1 NEW YORK TIMES BESTSELLER
THE PAPER PALACE IS:
"Filled with secrets, love, lies and a summer beach house. What more could you ask?"-Parade
"A deeply emotional love story…the unraveling of secrets, lies and a very complex love triangle." -Reese Witherspoon (Reese's Book Club July '21 Pick)
"Nail-biting." -Town & Country
"A magnificent page-turner." -Cynthia D'Aprix Sweeney, New York Times bestselling author
"[An] irresistible placement of a complicated family in a bewitching place." -The New York Times
A story of summer, secrets, love, and lies: in the course of a singular day on Cape Cod, one woman must make a life-changing decision that has been brewing for decades.
"This house, this place, knows all my secrets."
It is a perfect August morning, and Elle, a fifty-year-old happily married mother of three, awakens at "The Paper Palace"-the family summer place which she has visited every summer of her life. But this morning is different: last night Elle and her oldest friend Jonas crept out the back door into the darkness and had sex with each other for the first time, all while their spouses chatted away inside. Now, over the next twenty-four hours, Elle will have to decide between the life she has made with her genuinely beloved husband, Peter, and the life she always imagined she would have had with her childhood love, Jonas, if a tragic event hadn't forever changed the course of their lives. As Heller colors in the experiences that have led Elle to this day, we arrive at her ultimate decision with all its complexity. Tender yet devastating, The Paper Palace considers the tensions between desire and dignity, the legacies of abuse, and the crimes and misdemeanors of families.
LONGLISTED FOR THE 2022 WOMEN'S PRIZE FOR FICTION
INSTANT #1 NEW YORK TIMES BESTSELLER
THE PAPER PALACE IS:
"Filled with secrets, love, lies and a summer beach house. What more could you ask?"-Parade
"A deeply emotional love story…the unraveling of secrets, lies and a very complex love triangle." -Reese Witherspoon (Reese's Book Club July '21 Pick)
"Nail-biting." -Town & Country
"A magnificent page-turner." -Cynthia D'Aprix Sweeney, New York Times bestselling author
"[An] irresistible placement of a complicated family in a bewitching place." -The New York Times
A story of summer, secrets, love, and lies: in the course of a singular day on Cape Cod, one woman must make a life-changing decision that has been brewing for decades.
"This house, this place, knows all my secrets."
It is a perfect August morning, and Elle, a fifty-year-old happily married mother of three, awakens at "The Paper Palace"-the family summer place which she has visited every summer of her life. But this morning is different: last night Elle and her oldest friend Jonas crept out the back door into the darkness and had sex with each other for the first time, all while their spouses chatted away inside. Now, over the next twenty-four hours, Elle will have to decide between the life she has made with her genuinely beloved husband, Peter, and the life she always imagined she would have had with her childhood love, Jonas, if a tragic event hadn't forever changed the course of their lives. As Heller colors in the experiences that have led Elle to this day, we arrive at her ultimate decision with all its complexity. Tender yet devastating, The Paper Palace considers the tensions between desire and dignity, the legacies of abuse, and the crimes and misdemeanors of families.
Editorial Reviews
Praise for The Paper Palace:
"Beguiling."-Vogue, "The Best Books to Read This Summer"
"Nail-biting." -Town & Country
"This one's filled with secrets, love, lies and a summer beach house. What more could you ask?-"Parade, "Best Beach Reads"
"The gorgeous scenery of Back Woods (a stand-in for Wellfleet, Mass.) provides an atmospheric backdrop to Elle's ruminations and revelatory flashbacks."-Los Angeles Times, "10 best books for your summer beach reading"
"Ensconced in her family's rustic compound on Cape Cod for an annual summer trip, Elle Bishop is at a crossroads, forced to choose between the two great loves of her life. Should she run off with the longtime bestie she's secretly been in love with since they endured a ghastly childhood trauma together? Or stay with her cherished husband, a dashing Brit who's the father of her kids?" -People
"Doubly blessed when it comes to descriptive powers, Heller is as good on nature as she is on interiors."-The New York Times
"An assured debut. A sultry tale of Waspish New England that captures the spirit of Updike and Cheever."-The Times (London)
"Tightly woven and immediate, The Paper Palace takes us deep into a vivid summer landscape, a family, and a private, longstanding love story, and holds us there from start to finish." -Meg Wolitzer, New York Times bestselling author of The Interestings and The Female Persuasion
"The Paper Palace turned out t...
"Beguiling."-Vogue, "The Best Books to Read This Summer"
"Nail-biting." -Town & Country
"This one's filled with secrets, love, lies and a summer beach house. What more could you ask?-"Parade, "Best Beach Reads"
"The gorgeous scenery of Back Woods (a stand-in for Wellfleet, Mass.) provides an atmospheric backdrop to Elle's ruminations and revelatory flashbacks."-Los Angeles Times, "10 best books for your summer beach reading"
"Ensconced in her family's rustic compound on Cape Cod for an annual summer trip, Elle Bishop is at a crossroads, forced to choose between the two great loves of her life. Should she run off with the longtime bestie she's secretly been in love with since they endured a ghastly childhood trauma together? Or stay with her cherished husband, a dashing Brit who's the father of her kids?" -People
"Doubly blessed when it comes to descriptive powers, Heller is as good on nature as she is on interiors."-The New York Times
"An assured debut. A sultry tale of Waspish New England that captures the spirit of Updike and Cheever."-The Times (London)
"Tightly woven and immediate, The Paper Palace takes us deep into a vivid summer landscape, a family, and a private, longstanding love story, and holds us there from start to finish." -Meg Wolitzer, New York Times bestselling author of The Interestings and The Female Persuasion
"The Paper Palace turned out t...
Readers Top Reviews
Marwood
I do not often feel compelled to write a review, but in this case I do, having read a few reviews here that seem to misunderstand this novel completely. There is no doubt as to the meaning of the end of the book, there are no two ways of interpretation, and you do not need to re-read the beginning to make it any clearer (although once I read the last page, I wanted to start again, as I did not want it to end). The plot does jump, but never in a way that makes you wonder where you are. Each time jump is meticulously crafted to shed light on what happens in the future or has occured in the past (usually explained in the chapter following). It is a memoir, a love story, a murder - this book has it all, and the writing is so crystal clear if not downright poetic, you feel you are in the narrators head, understanding every move (whether you agree with her actions or not). It is beautiful, unputdownable, a future classic of American realism.
GemmaGemmaLoz Woo
📖: Every summer Elle and her family stay at their cabin in the woods in Cape Cod. After developing a childhood friendship with a boy named Jonas, the strong feelings between the pair never develop romantically. Elle, now in her 50s, enters into a summer fling with her first love, jeopardising her family unit and making her question her marriage. 💭: Initially I thought this book would solely focus on Elle's inner turmoil, the choice between her devoted husband and the man she has loved since she was a child; which didn't appeal to me. The very short snappy sentences irritated me and the constant switching of timelines and numerous characters confused me a little and I found it hard to get into. That was until I got passed the first section and into the secrets of Elle's past. This book is not lighthearted as I first thought. The topics are disturbing, the characters are unlikeable and the ending unclear.
Fly Me to the Moo
The sense of place is beautifully written, Cape Cod, the ponds, the wildlife, nature... but it's not enough to make this book a good read. Too many characters, too much flitting back & forth in time (every section like this lasted a couple of pages that was all then you're back in another time). Then one long chunk that oddly went on too long to set up the great awfulness that has caused all the trouble in this book. No one was worth caring about not even the main character (despite everything that happened to her), apart from the older sister Anna who is refreshingly herself, and Jonas who doesn't get nearly enough space in the book and was the reason I thought I'd love this book. He's kept far too much in the background, I suppose like a siren call but really the author squandered what might have been a USP for this book. The husband Peter was nauseatingly a stereotype of Hugh Grant - an American's idea of what a posh Brit is like - and actually rude & dismissive. Why stay married to this man? The sex scenes were well described. The ending was a terrible zero. I get that it was supposed to be mysterious & ambivalent it just felt like an under-cooked roast chicken. A very episodic read, emotionally & intellectually unsatisfying it was a jumble of good ideas badly executed. And then there's all the gushing blurbs from authors who are clearly pals - this author is well connected. Not worth the money, could have been so much better.
Stephanie DanskyF
I was fortunate to receive an advanced reader copy of The Paper Palace, and I am unreservedly captivated. I’ve read this book over and over and each time it fills me with so much passion. I’ve laughed, cried, raged... Miranda Cowley Heller writes so profoundly, crafting such unique, relatable, and significant characters. The Paper Palace pulls you from your own experiences and immerses you into a story of love, pain, regret, and circumstance. I cannot recommend this book enough.
ninaStephanie Dan
The paper palace is a literary masterpiece. A haunting, lyrical, profoundly beautiful and insightful novel. I could not put it down.
Short Excerpt Teaser
1
Today. August 1, the Back Woods.
6:30 a.m.
Things come from nowhere. The mind is empty and then, inside the frame, a pear. Perfect, green, the stem atilt, a single leaf. It sits in a white ironstone bowl, nestled among the limes, in the center of a weathered picnic table, on an old screen porch, at the edge of a pond, deep in the woods, beside the sea. Next to the bowl is a brass candlestick covered in drips of cold wax and the ingrained dust of a long winter left on an open shelf. Half-eaten plates of pasta, an unfolded linen napkin, dregs of claret in a wine bottle, a breadboard, handmade, rough-hewn, the bread torn not sliced. A mildewed book of poetry lies open on the table. "To a Skylark," soaring into the blue-painful, thrilling-replays in my mind as I stare at the still life of last night's dinner. "The world should listen then, as I am listening now." He read it so beautifully. "For Anna." And we all sat there, spellbound, remembering her. I could look at him and nothing else for eternity and be happy. I could listen to him, my eyes closed, feel his breath and his words wash over me, time and time and time again. It is all I want.
Beyond the edge of the table, the light dims as it passes through the screens before brightening over the dappled trees, the pure blue of the pond, the deep-black shadows of the tupelos at the water's edge where the reach of the sun falters this early in the day. I ponder a quarter-inch of thick, stale espresso in a dirty cup and consider drinking it. The air is raw. I shiver under the faded lavender bathrobe-my mother's-that I put on every summer when we return to the camp. It smells of her, and of dormancy tinged with mouse droppings. This is my favorite hour in the Back Woods. Early morning on the pond before anyone else is awake. The sunlight clear, flinty, the water bracing, the whippoorwills finally quiet.
Outside the porch door, on the small wooden deck, sand has built up between the slats-it needs to be swept. A broom leans against the screen, indenting it, but I ignore it and head down the little path that leads to our beach. Behind me, the door hinges shriek in resistance.
I drop my bathrobe to the ground and stand naked at the water's edge. On the far side of the pond, beyond the break of pine and shrub oak, the ocean is furious, roaring. It must be carrying a storm in its belly from somewhere out at sea. But here, at the edge of the pond, the air is honey-still. I wait, watch, listen . . . the chirping, buzzing of tiny insects, a wind that stirs the trees too gently. Then I wade in up to my knees and dive headlong into the freezing water. I swim out into the deep, past the water lilies, pushed forward by exhilaration, freedom, and an adrenaline rush of nameless panic. I have a shadow-fear of snapping turtles coming up from the depths to bite my heavy breasts. Or perhaps they will be drawn by the smell of sex as I open and close my legs. I'm suddenly overwhelmed by the need to get back to the safety of the shallows, where I can see the sandy bottom. I wish I were braver. But I also love the fear, the catch of breath in my throat, my thrumming heartbeat as I step out of the water.
I wring as much as I can from my long hair, grab a threadbare towel from the clothesline my mother has strung between two scraggly pines, lie down on the warm sand. An electric-blue dragonfly lands on my nipple and perches there before moving on. An ant crawls over the Saharan dunes my body has just created in its path.
Last night I finally fucked him. After all these years of imagining it, never knowing if he still wanted me. And then the moment I knew it would happen: all the wine, Jonas's beautiful voice in ode, my husband Peter lying on the sofa in a grappa haze, my three children asleep in their cabin, my mother already at the sink washing dishes in her bright yellow rubber gloves, ignoring her dinner guests. Our eyes lingered one beat too long. I got up from the noisy table, took my underpants off in the pantry, and hid them behind the breadbox. Then I went out the back door into the night. I waited in the shadows, listening to the sounds of plate, water, glass, silver clunking together beneath the suds. Waited. Hoped. And then he was there, pushing me up against the wall of the house, reaching under my dress. "I love you," he whispered. I gasped as he shoved himself into me. And I thought: now there is no turning back. No more regrets for what I haven't done. Now only regrets for what I have done. I love him, I hate myself; I...
Today. August 1, the Back Woods.
6:30 a.m.
Things come from nowhere. The mind is empty and then, inside the frame, a pear. Perfect, green, the stem atilt, a single leaf. It sits in a white ironstone bowl, nestled among the limes, in the center of a weathered picnic table, on an old screen porch, at the edge of a pond, deep in the woods, beside the sea. Next to the bowl is a brass candlestick covered in drips of cold wax and the ingrained dust of a long winter left on an open shelf. Half-eaten plates of pasta, an unfolded linen napkin, dregs of claret in a wine bottle, a breadboard, handmade, rough-hewn, the bread torn not sliced. A mildewed book of poetry lies open on the table. "To a Skylark," soaring into the blue-painful, thrilling-replays in my mind as I stare at the still life of last night's dinner. "The world should listen then, as I am listening now." He read it so beautifully. "For Anna." And we all sat there, spellbound, remembering her. I could look at him and nothing else for eternity and be happy. I could listen to him, my eyes closed, feel his breath and his words wash over me, time and time and time again. It is all I want.
Beyond the edge of the table, the light dims as it passes through the screens before brightening over the dappled trees, the pure blue of the pond, the deep-black shadows of the tupelos at the water's edge where the reach of the sun falters this early in the day. I ponder a quarter-inch of thick, stale espresso in a dirty cup and consider drinking it. The air is raw. I shiver under the faded lavender bathrobe-my mother's-that I put on every summer when we return to the camp. It smells of her, and of dormancy tinged with mouse droppings. This is my favorite hour in the Back Woods. Early morning on the pond before anyone else is awake. The sunlight clear, flinty, the water bracing, the whippoorwills finally quiet.
Outside the porch door, on the small wooden deck, sand has built up between the slats-it needs to be swept. A broom leans against the screen, indenting it, but I ignore it and head down the little path that leads to our beach. Behind me, the door hinges shriek in resistance.
I drop my bathrobe to the ground and stand naked at the water's edge. On the far side of the pond, beyond the break of pine and shrub oak, the ocean is furious, roaring. It must be carrying a storm in its belly from somewhere out at sea. But here, at the edge of the pond, the air is honey-still. I wait, watch, listen . . . the chirping, buzzing of tiny insects, a wind that stirs the trees too gently. Then I wade in up to my knees and dive headlong into the freezing water. I swim out into the deep, past the water lilies, pushed forward by exhilaration, freedom, and an adrenaline rush of nameless panic. I have a shadow-fear of snapping turtles coming up from the depths to bite my heavy breasts. Or perhaps they will be drawn by the smell of sex as I open and close my legs. I'm suddenly overwhelmed by the need to get back to the safety of the shallows, where I can see the sandy bottom. I wish I were braver. But I also love the fear, the catch of breath in my throat, my thrumming heartbeat as I step out of the water.
I wring as much as I can from my long hair, grab a threadbare towel from the clothesline my mother has strung between two scraggly pines, lie down on the warm sand. An electric-blue dragonfly lands on my nipple and perches there before moving on. An ant crawls over the Saharan dunes my body has just created in its path.
Last night I finally fucked him. After all these years of imagining it, never knowing if he still wanted me. And then the moment I knew it would happen: all the wine, Jonas's beautiful voice in ode, my husband Peter lying on the sofa in a grappa haze, my three children asleep in their cabin, my mother already at the sink washing dishes in her bright yellow rubber gloves, ignoring her dinner guests. Our eyes lingered one beat too long. I got up from the noisy table, took my underpants off in the pantry, and hid them behind the breadbox. Then I went out the back door into the night. I waited in the shadows, listening to the sounds of plate, water, glass, silver clunking together beneath the suds. Waited. Hoped. And then he was there, pushing me up against the wall of the house, reaching under my dress. "I love you," he whispered. I gasped as he shoved himself into me. And I thought: now there is no turning back. No more regrets for what I haven't done. Now only regrets for what I have done. I love him, I hate myself; I...
