Remarkably Bright Creatures Quotes

Humans. For the most part, you are dull and blundering. But occasionally, you can be remarkably bright creatures.

Why can humans not use their millions of words to simply tell one another what they desire?

Secrets are everywhere. Some humans are crammed full of them. How do they not explode? It seems to be a hallmark of the human species: abysmal communication skills.

Tova has always felt more than a bit of empathy for the sharks, with their never-ending laps around the tank. She understands what it means to never be able to stop moving, lest you find yourself unable to breathe.

Smart cookie. I am smart, but I am not a snack object dispensed from a packaged food machine. What a preposterous thing to say.

As a general rule, I like holes. A hole at the top of my tank gives me freedom. But I do not like the hole in her heart. She only has one, not three, like me. Tova’s heart. I will do everything I can to help her fill it.

Some trees aren’t meant to sprout tender new branches, but to stand stoically on the forest floor, silently decaying.

What do you think I’m trying to do? Not my fault I was dealt a shitty hand.” “No, the deal is never anyone’s fault. But you control the way you play.

Humans are the only species who subvert truth for their own entertainment. They call them jokes. Sometimes puns.

Day 1,361 of My Captiv- Oh, Let Us Cut the Shit, Shall We? We Have a Ring to Retrieve.

Humans… For the most part you are dull and blundering. But occasionally you can be remarkably bright creatures.

You can't fix someone who is determined to stay broken.

Conscience does make cowards of us all.

Tell me again about the intelligence of humans. They cannot even manage to comprehend predictable meteorological events.

Tova knew there was a bottom to those depths of despair. Once your soul was soaked through with grief, any more simply ran off, overflowed, the way maple syrup on Saturday morning pancakes always cascaded onto the table whenever Erik was allowed to pour it on himself.

It seems to be a hallmark of the human species: abysmal communication skills. Not that any other species are much better, mind you, but even a herring can tell which way the school it belongs to is turning and follow accordingly. Why can humans not use their millions of words to simply tell one another what they desire?

The Knit-Wits have been her friends for years, and sometimes she still feels as if she’s a mistaken jigsaw piece who found her way into the wrong puzzle.

She understands what it means to never be able to stop moving, lest you find yourself unable to breathe.

We must say goodbye, friend. But I’m glad Terry saved you, because you saved me.

My death is imminent. But I am not dead yet.

Ah, to be a human, for whom bliss can be achieved by mere ignorance! Here, in the kingdom of animals, ignorance is dangerous. The poor herring dropped into the tank lacks any awareness of the shark lurking below. Ask the herring whether what he doesn’t know can hurt him.

All of these things had been stored away for her to pass along someday, relics to be carried up the branches of the family tree. But the family tree stopped growing long ago, its canopy thinned and frayed, not a single sap springing from the old rotting trunk. Some trees aren't meant to sprout tender new branches, but to stand stoically on the forest floor, silently decaying.

sometimes she still feels as if she’s a mistaken jigsaw piece who found her way into the wrong puzzle.

The parents will grow old atop this mountain of a family they’ve built, and even if parts of it crumble, from time to time, there will be enough left to support them.

But I do not like the hole in her heart. She only has one, not three, like me.

Tova wonders sometimes if it’s better that way, to have one’s tragedies clustered together, to make good use of the existing rawness. Get it over with in one shot. Tova knew there was a bottom to those depths of despair. Once your soul was soaked though with grief, any more simply ran off, overflowed, the way maple syrup on Saturday-morning pancakes always cascaded onto the table whenever Erik was allowed to pour it himself.

My neurons number half a billion, and they are distributed among my eight arms. On occasion, I have wondered whether I might have more intelligence in a single tentacle than a human does in its entire skull.

But I have grown to enjoy the bucket. With the bucket comes a sensation of total nothingness, which, in most ways, is more pleasant than the everything-ness.

But I do not like the hole in her heart. She only has one, not three, like me. Tova’s heart. I will do everything I can to help her fill it.

How did you, like, go on?” He looks down at her and swallows hard. “I mean, he was here one day and gone the next. How do you recover from something like that?” Tova hesitates. “You don’t recover. Not all the way. But you do move on. You have to.

The sea, too, is very good at keeping secrets.

These women have always worn motherhood big and loud on their chests, but Tova keeps hers inside, sunk deep in her guts like an old bullet. Private.

Two devices for which I do not know the human word. I suppose they are . . . plugs? Humans stick them in the orifices of their youngest children to quiet them.

Young humans would fail abysmally in the sea.

How does it feel, you ask? It is comfortable. It is home. I am lucky. I am grateful

But I have knowledge. To the extent happiness is possible for a creature like me, it lies in knowledge.

But then, so much about her life never turned out how she intended.

Marcellus was, in fact, an exceptional octopus.

Humans are the only species who subvert truth for their own entertainment.

The beginning of Mary Ann’s ending, the first sentence of her last chapter. Unable to continue living on her own. Reverted to childlike dependence.

If I had a clam for every time I heard someone call them [wolf eels] hideous or ugly, I would be a very plump octopus indeed.

For a moment, I considered this option. Nothing was something. What might lie on the other side of life?

When I choose to hear, I hear everything.

As I say, I rather pride myself on this little expertise and even today my veterinary colleagues have been known to remark: “Old Herriot may be limited in many respects but by God he can wrap a cat.” As

How delicate those wounds were back then, how little it took to nudge the scabs out of place and start the bleeding anew.

Now, Tova comes here to be alone with her thoughts, when she needs a break from being alone in her house. When even the television can’t punch through the unbearable quiet.

A pretty smile spreads over her face. “Honeybee hands.” “Honeybee what? “Honeybee hands. You know . . . busy. That’s what I used to say when Erik couldn’t keep his fingers still.

But young women don’t want bone china anymore. They’ve no use for old Swedish things. They have their own dinnerware, probably from Ikea. New Swedish things.

Kids need a little direction now and then,” Ethan says. “Then again, I suppose we all do.

his strange otherworldly body hangs in midair, his eye fixed to hers. Just as she’s about to be pulled down with him, he releases, and lands with a heavy splash in the night-black water.

Once your soul was soaked though with grief, any more simply ran off, overflowed, the way maple syrup on Saturday-morning pancakes always cascaded onto the table whenever Erik was allowed to pour it himself.

Last year, Terry threw a little “baby shower” for the entire staff, all eight of them, when the seahorses spawned. Mackenzie had stayed after her admissions shift to blow up balloons and paint a banner that read GIDDY-UP, LITTLE COWBOYS! Dr. Santiago, the veterinarian, had dropped by with a cake that read, in cursive icing: HIP-HIP-HOORAY FOR HIPPOCAMPUS BABIES!

Secrets are everywhere. Some humans are crammed full of them. How do they not explode? It seems to be a hallmark of the human species: abysmal communication skills. Not that any other species are much better, mind you, but even a herring can tell which way the school it belongs to is turning and follow accordingly. Why can humans not use their millions of words to simply tell one another what they desire?

He devoted a whole panel to the etymology of the term, its derivation from ancient Greek, its shared meaning with the scientific term for the seahorse genus, and its mythological connection to sea monsters. Maybe we all have sea monsters living in our brains,

By forty, her corn-silk hair was gray. By fifty, the lines on her face seemed etched in clay. Now she sometimes catches a glimpse of her profile reflected in a shop window, the way her shoulders have begun to stoop. She wonders how this body can possibly be hers.

But keeping busy is good. Cleaning is always good. It’s something to do.

What would a captive cephalopod know of joy?

Tova simply nods, because it brings her friend comfort and harms no one.

Entering someone’s home is always an intimate act.

I did trust her with my life, more than once. Just as I trusted her with my death. Humans. For the most part, you are dull and blundering. But occasionally, you can be remarkably bright creatures.

One might make a third list here, which would consist of things humans clamor for, but most intelligent life would consider entirely unfit for consumption. For example: every last offering in the vending machine in the lobby.

if there is one topic of conversation humans never exhaust, it is the status of their outdoor environment. And for as much as they discuss it, their incredulity is . . . well, incredible. That preposterous phrase: Can you believe this weather we’re having? How many times have I heard it? One thousand, nine hundred and ten, to be exact. One and a half times a day, on average. Tell me again about the intelligence of humans. They cannot even manage to comprehend predictable meteorological events.

All of these things had been stored away for her to pass along someday, relics to be carried up the branches of the family tree. But the family tree stopped growing long ago, its canopy thinned and frayed, not a single sap springing from the old rotting trunk. Some trees aren’t meant to sprout tender new branches, but to stand stoically on the forest floor, silently decaying.

It may not be bliss, if such a thing even exists, but with this knowledge, I have achieved something akin to contentment. Or, perhaps more accurately, a temporary abatement of misery. Ah, to be a human, for whom bliss can be achieved by mere ignorance!

CAMERON STILL CAN’T seem to wrap his head around the shape of the sea here. It’s like a monster with hundreds of long fingers is gripping the edge of the continent, tendrils of deep blue cutting channels through the dark green countryside in every unexpected way.

Tova wonders sometimes if it’s better that way, to have one’s tragedies clustered together, to make good use of the existing rawness. Get it over with in one shot. Tova knew there was a bottom to those depths of despair. Once your soul was soaked though with grief, any more simply ran off, overflowed,

Marcellus, it’s me.” The octopus shifts slightly out of its corner and peers at her, blinking its creepy eye. Who is this lady? And how did she get in here, anyway? She nods, encouraging. “It’s okay.” She holds out her hand, and to Cameron’s shock the creature extends one of its arms and winds it around her wrist. She repeats, “It’s okay. I’m going to help you down now, all right?” The octopus nods. Wait, no. It did not. Did it? He rubs his eyes. Are they pumping hallucinogens through the ductwork here?

But young women don’t want bone china anymore. They’ve no use for old Swedish things. They

money had been invested

STOPPED CARS ARE packed on the interstate like herring in a tin.

She understands what it means to never be able to stop moving,

Barbara has always been efficient about slicing away other people’s nonsense, a quality Tova can’t help but admire.

But life isn’t some cheesy Hollywood script.

People and their opinions generally suck,

I’m sorry,” Tova says. She places a hand on his shoulder. Doesn’t rub or squeeze, just places it there, as if the contact might siphon off some of his pain.

And, well . . . you can’t fix someone who is determined to stay broken.

you can’t fix someone who is determined to stay broken.

Cameron wonders if there’s some sort of special tether children of normal families are granted. One for which he’s never been eligible.

It is comfortable. It is home. I am lucky. I am grateful.

You know, too, of her grief. Grief that has molded her life. Grief that, for the time being, drives her into seclusion. Eventually, I fear, it may drive her to something worse.

No, the deal is never anyone’s fault. But you control the way you play.

This confused me at first because my organ heart skips beats, many of them, every time I swim. But when the cleaning woman fell from the stool, I was not swimming. And yet it stuttered.

But you would do well to believe me when I tell you this: the young male who has recently taken over sanitation duties is a direct descendant of the cleaning woman with the injured foot.

Her void held no sweetness, only bitterness; at the time, Erik had been gone five years. How delicate those wounds were back then, how little it took to nudge the scabs out of place and start the bleeding anew.

Sy Montgomery for writing the wonderful nonfiction book The Soul of an Octopus, which follows her engrossing (and heartwarming, and frequently hilarious) journey as she shadows octopus keepers at the New England Aquarium.

AS ONE WOULD gather from the name, the Knit-Wits began as a knitting club. Twenty-five years ago, a handful of Sowell Bay women met to swap yarn. Eventually, it became a refuge for them to escape empty homes, bittersweet voids left by children grown and moved on.

Tova knew there was a bottom to those depths of despair. Once your soul was soaked though with grief, any more simply ran off, overflowed, the way maple syrup on Saturday-morning pancakes always cascaded onto the table whenever Erik was allowed to pour it himself.

Humans sometime say my heart skipped a beat to convey surprise, shock, terror. This confused me at first because my organ heart skips beats, many of them, every time I swim. But when the cleaning woman fell from the stool, I was not swimming. And yet it stuttered.

Katie had gone through a phase where she tried to ban phones from their bedroom after she read some article about how the light was addictive. Messed up your brain waves somehow. He’d always assumed it was nonsense, but now his eyes burn in the screen’s glow and his brain feels scrambled.

don’t have children who will come stay with me when I’ve had a fall. I don’t have grandchildren who will stop over to unclog my drain or make sure I’m taking my pills. And I won’t put that burden on my friends and neighbors.” “There’s your problem,” says Janice softly. “Assuming it’s a burden.

When I choose to hear, I hear everything. I can tell when the tide is turning to ebb, outside the prison walls, based on the tone of the water crashing against the rocks. When I choose to see, my vision is precise. I can tell which particular human has touched the glass of my tank by the fingerprints left behind.

Tova takes a chocolate chip cookie from the platter Mary Ann set out earlier. Mary Ann warms the cookies in the oven before the ladies arrive. One can’t have tea, she always comments, without something homemade to nibble on. The cookies came from a package Mary Ann bought at Shop-Way. All of the Knit-Wits know this.

My neurons number half a billion, and they are distributed among my eight arms. On occasion, I have wondered whether I might have more intelligence in a single tentacle than a human does in its entire skull. Smart cookie. I am smart, but I am not a snack object dispensed from a packaged food machine. What a preposterous thing to say.

Why does he remember shit like this? If only he could cleanse his brain of the useless knowledge clogging it up. Gaining speed after turning onto the highway that runs out to Aunt Jeanne’s trailer park, Cameron rolls down all the windows and lights a cigarette, which he never does anymore, only when he feels like garbage; and this morning he feels like hot, steaming garbage.

Before Will got sick, Tova used to pack a picnic for two: cheese, fruit, sometimes a bottle of red wine with two plastic tumblers. At Hamilton Park, if the tide was low, they’d scramble down and sit on the beach under the seawall. They’d bury their bare feet in the coarse sand and let the cold, foamy sound lick their ankles as it washed ashore. Tova pulls her hatchback into the empty lot. “Park” has always been a generous term for the narrow strip of soggy grass, its two weather-worn picnic tables, and the drinking fountain that never works. Now, Tova comes here to be alone with her thoughts, when she needs a break from being alone in her house.

Day 1,309 of My Captivity YOU HUMANS LOVE COOKIES. I ASSUME YOU KNOW WHICH food I mean? Circular, about the size of a common clamshell. Some are flecked with dark bits, others are painted or dusted with powder. Cookies can be soft and quiet, moving soundlessly on their journey through human jaws. Cookies can be loud and messy, bits breaking off at the bite, crumbs tumbling down a chin, adding to the flotsam on the floor that the elderly female called Tova must sweep. I have observed many cookies during my captivity here. They are sold in the packaged food machine near the front entrance. Imagine my confusion, then, at the remark made by Dr. Santiago earlier this evening. “What can I say, Terry?” Dr. Santiago raised her shoulders and held her hands up. “I’ve seen a lot of octopuses, but you’ve got a smart cookie here.

Living things have always had to make their way in a wild garden of flowers and vines, of leaves and trees and fungi that hold out not only nourishing things to eat but deadly poisons, too. Nothing is more important to a creature’s survival than knowing which is which, yet drawing a bright line through the middle of the garden, as the God of Genesis found, doesn’t always work. The difficulty is that there are plants that do other, more curious things than simply sustain or extinguish life. Some heal; others rouse or calm or quiet the body’s pain. But most remarkable of all, there are plants in the garden that manufacture molecules with the power to change the subjective experience of reality we call consciousness.

Moonlight shimmies across the water, a thousand candles bobbing on its surface.

Purple has always been her favorite color.

Today, salty-smelling sweat collected on their foreheads. Some of them fashioned the pamphlets handed out at the entrance into fans and waved them in front of their faces.