Quotation Study: Pure Color, Sheila Heti
On pure color...
This is not necessarily a review. I just love analysing and unpacking quotes and individual words within them. However, as a general rule if I underline lots of quotes it’s usually a highly rated book!
These are studies of quotes within certain novels—either unpacking larger themes or simply exploring how each quote makes me feel on its own. I like applying quotes to my life; I want to relate to them and put meaning to feelings I’ve never known how to describe. So, welcome to Quotation Studies.
There will be no rhyme or reason here. Just pure thoughts sprawled out onto a page. It’s just me enjoying each word as a former literature student who misses unpacking language!
This week it’s Sheila Heti’s Pure Color. Heti is an author I adore, someone who has a way with words that elevates life’s more complex ideas. Heti even earned a place in my MA dissertation!
“Now the earth is heating up in advance of its destruction by God, who has decided that the first draft of existence contained too many flaws.”
The novel is filled with quotes like this—references to the earth and our lives as a “first draft”, meditations on degradation, and the inevitability of destruction. It screams mortality but, at the same time, holds a profound appreciation for the temporariness we are so lucky to experience.
I am agnostic, with a Catholic partner. Despite my atheist upbringing, God—or the idea of God—has become part of my daily life. Philosophy classes in university introduced me to existential questions about deities, and for a while, I found myself encompassed by the concept of a higher power. But never had I considered global warming and the destruction of the earth as an intentional act by God. “Heating up in advance” frames the issue differently, as if the warming is merely a prologue—the start, not the end, as we’ve come to think of it.
It’s a striking notion. We burn things we don’t like. Perhaps God is lighting a slow fire to burn us for our faults. As tragic and perhaps not very omnibenevolent as this interpretation might seem, I find it oddly comforting. It suggests that there is a plan—that the world isn’t heating up chaotically, as a byproduct of atomic collisions or human mismanagement. Heti’s writing captures how religion, in many ways, doesn’t have to be destructive; it can provide solace. There’s a comforting juxtaposition here that I kept returning to.
“Are you sad to be living in the first draft — shoddily made, rushed, exuberant, malformed? No, you are proud to be strong enough to be living here now, one of God’s expendable soldiers in the first draft of the world.”
I love this idea of the world as a first draft. It implies permission to make mistakes. We are meant to be imperfect. Heti’s use of dashes is refreshing, enhancing the sporadic nature of thought and the way ideas often tumble into one another. There is irony here, no doubt, even a sense of saltiness—“expendable soldiers” is a charged phrase. But it makes sense. Heti’s writing has provided me with clarity in ways my philosophy degree never did.
“It’s true that the world was failing at its one task — of remaining a world. Pieces were breaking off.”
Here, the blame shifts to the world itself. It’s not just humanity’s fault for our fumes and plastic straws. The earth is inherently flawed, not strong enough to withstand the heat. The first draft was imperfect, naturally decaying like all rough sketches do. You wouldn’t write one draft of an essay and submit it. You edit, remove typos, and, heartbreakingly, cut the beautiful 200 words that put you over the limit. This framing softens the guilt and invites a broader perspective on environmental decay—it’s not just a human failing, but an inevitable part of creation.
“Seasons had become postmodern.”
This one stopped me in my tracks. Postmodernism, with its emphasis on fragmentation and disruption of traditional structures, seems the perfect metaphor for climate change. The seasons’ usual rhythm of spring, summer, autumn, and winter has been disrupted. Nothing follows its expected course anymore. Climate change has rendered the once-reliable calendar of nature into a chaotic and unpredictable landscape—a “postmodern” mess. This line captures a kind of existential unease about the earth’s changes with an ode to literary trends.
“But being unlikeable wasn’t the reason she was alone. She was alone so she could hear herself thinking. She was alone so she could hear herself living.”
This line draws me in, making me reflect on my own internal world. I’ve always been alone in this way—no matter how many people surround me, I’m always caught up in my own thoughts. And honestly, I like it that way. Solitude is where I find my calm. It’s where I reconnect with myself. This resonates deeply with my INFJ-T (Advocate) personality: the introspective, deeply thoughtful type.
I don’t feel the urge to make friends or socialise much. Instead, I’d rather sit with a book during lunch than engage in small talk. I crave time to collect my thoughts, to map out my day and reflect on what comes next. It’s essential to me to hear each moment of my life clearly—to stay present enough to plan my conversations and actions. My own space, my own quiet, allows me to do that.
“‘It seemed that rage was what we were made of.’”
Rage is an undercurrent I can’t seem to escape lately. It’s everywhere—unavoidable. I yearn for calm, yet it feels increasingly out of reach. Work frustrates me. The renting situation pushes me to the edge. Driving through traffic? It only adds to my frustration. And even my Substack, something I love, sometimes leaves me feeling angry. I’m surrounded by capitalism, privilege, and the sheer unfairness of it all. In a world that feels so out of balance, I long for something good to happen—just one thing. But nothing does.
I wonder if the rage comes from the feeling of incompatibility, like no one can truly hear me or understand what I’m thinking. It’s a silent prayer that goes unanswered. I want to work from home a couple of days a week, not sit in traffic for hours. I want the dream flat that seems forever out of reach, while others—people who aren’t facing the challenges I am—get handed the very things I want. My life feels complicated, and I’m overwhelmed with this rage that has nowhere to go. When I read that line, I felt heard. Just heard.
“‘For art is not made for living bodies — it is made for the cold, eternal soul.’”
In the last few months, I’ve returned to literary fiction, particularly dystopian and darker works. Pure Color and Our Wives Under the Sea have been soul-deepening reads. These books don’t just pass the time; they fill the emptiness within me. They resonate with the sadness and darkness I’ve felt, offering not just solace but a way to process the complexity of life. A light romance might entertain me for a moment, but it doesn’t satisfy the deeper hunger I have. These darker, more intricate novels speak to my inner turmoil and, often, leave me with more questions than answers. But in that, I find some comfort—they provide a sense of meaning in the chaos.
“‘Those who would not make as many fixes are not given as much fatigue.’”
Exhaustion is something I’ve mentioned many times, but this line really captures the essence of it. It speaks to the privilege of time—the luxury of having time for rest, for self-care, for leisure. Time, for many, is something that’s just handed to them, and it feels like an unattainable gift to me. I work 9–5, commute for nearly two hours a day, barely make enough to cover the rent, and handle the household chores because my partner works even longer hours. I spend my evenings writing, pushing through exhaustion.
Time is precious, a privilege I don’t often have. And in that sense, I feel a deep rage toward those who take it for granted. Reading Hetti’s work was like someone finally seeing the struggles I face. It was validation. It made me feel, for once, heard.
Pure Color is a book that has stayed with me, not just for its narrative but for its language—its way of framing complex, existential thoughts in words that linger. Sheila Heti’s work is not merely a novel but an exploration, a meditation on imperfection, destruction, and the fragile beauty of existence.