Pure Colour

by Sheila Heti

Perhaps God shouldn’t conceive of creation as an artwork, the next time around; then he will do a better job with the qualities of fairness and intimacy in our living. But is that even possible—for an artist to shape their impulse into a form which is not, in the end, an art form?

Yet in the midst of all this, one could still see, on one’s bookshelf, books that were hundreds—even thousands!—of years old, that were relevant today. Yet none of the books which were twenty years old were the least bit relevant anymore.

Perhaps the fact that it was the least expensive one was the reason she had made it her favourite. There is no point in loving something that is not a bit within reach.

Everyone had their own little life, which touched the lives of other people only at parties. Between the parties, there was no interaction with most.

Seeing Annie for the first time, something in Mira recognized her. It was like their relationship already existed. It wasn’t this way with most other people.

With a few people in one’s life, too much happens emotionally—more than even makes sense to happen, given how little has actually occurred. Such people are deeply igniting in a way that others are not. This igniting always happens in the very first instant and it never goes away. No stupidities can destroy the igniting, so even if those two people never meet again, a connection always remains. Mira felt this way about Annie. It wasn’t that Mira had met her in some previous life. It was that she was meeting her in this one—and isn’t that rare! Why is it so hard to meet in this life?

In life, there are no sure signs of whether a woman is the one you are supposed to stay away from, or the one you’re supposed to love.

The days of the present often mimic the past, like a duckling following its mother—and who has ever been able to persuade the babyish present not to follow the mother duck of the past?

Just because it’s love, does that mean you have to like it?

My basic premise is that in life, you live forever, because as soon as you die, you don’t realize you’re dead, so you’re kind of always alive, so the thing is, you shouldn’t worry about yourself. The only ones to worry about are the people you leave behind who might have needed you. Right, like if you have little children or something. But otherwise? I mean, a hundred and fifty thousand people die in the world every day. That’s a huge number, and life goes on. It’s not a big tragedy, so it’s not worth worrying about.

No, it’s not sad for things to be useful in their time, art included.

The child’s whole life can feel like a betrayal. But life is not a betrayal of life.

People complained of being tired, exhaustion, not realizing that this was put in them so they wouldn’t do as many things.

It was a reminder of what a human self was, and what a human life was: not a beautiful glass lamp just this side of being broken, or a lovely gold ring with a single dent in it. But a battered old seashell, formed over millions of years, made to endure.