PURE COLOUR

A woman considers living, loving, the Earth, and art.

Any attempt to summarize Heti’s luminous new novel will inevitably leave it sounding faded and flat. There is a woman named Mira; for a while, she works in a lamp store. Mira’s father dies. Mira loves a woman named Annie. In addition to these more prosaic details, there is the fact that life in this book—existence as a whole, in fact—is a draft. It is God’s first draft. “On good days,” Heti writes, “we acknowledged that God had done pretty well: he had given us life, and had filled in most of the blanks of existence, except for the blank in the heart.” As in her earlier works, Heti’s focus is not only on the world of her own story, but on the very possibilities of the novel as a form. Again and again, she stretches those possibilities until they grow as taut as a wire. After Mira’s father dies, his consciousness—and hers, too—ends up in a leaf. Best not to ask about the mechanics of this move. In the leaf, they “talk” to one another about art and death and time, in long paragraphs that don’t differentiate between speakers. “Don’t think that in death you go far from the earth,” someone says; “you remain down here with everything—the part of you that loved, which is the most important part.” But at the same time that she is contending with large, abstract questions, Heti is a master of the tiniest, most granular detail. Her prose can be both sweeping and particular. On one page, Mira and her father think of time as a billion-year expanse; on another, she and Annie buy a box of chocolates. The book is as exquisitely crafted as those sweets must have been.

Heti’s latest is that rarest of novels—as alien as a moon rock and every bit as wondrous.