Sheila Heti’s slender, folkloric novel Pure Colour contains multitudes. It’s a love story, a lament. And it’s a philosophical enquiry into rupture: radical alteration caused by the death of a father, and a dying iteration of life on earth.
She had thought that when someone died, it would be like they went into a different room. She had not known that life itself transformed itself into a different room, and trapped you in it without them.
