The notes I take when I read are usually long-winded, but the margins in my copies of Sheila Heti’s novels look like this: “!,” “!,” “wow,” “!”. Trills of self-recognition and the kind of wonder I feel when watching a sunset while I’m already in a good mood, not thinking about its everydayness. I like this about her work: it’s almost like it has no author; it’s just something that happened.
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