Remarkably Bright Creatures Tova Quotes

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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

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,

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.

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

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.

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.

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.

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 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 himself

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 through with grief, any more simply ran off, overflowed, the way maple syrup on Saturday

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.

Marcellus pokes the tip of an arm through the surface of the water, and Tova lowers her hand. He curls his arm around her wrist in a gesture that’s well beyond familiar now, and there’s something almost instinctive about it, like the way a newborn baby will clutch at its mother’s finger.

Baseball. Who cares, right?” Janice says. Tova smiles, then dabs a napkin on the corners of her mouth. “The only thing more tedious than watching it is talking about it.

Tova clutches the bag to her hip like a biblical fig leaf. As if she’d be bare naked without it.

Tova has never spoken aloud to Will’s grave. Why would she? His tired, sickened body turning to dust underground cannot hear.

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 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 himself.

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.

It was a woman. Right here, in this spot. A few years ago. I was out paddling super early in the morning, and she was sitting on the railing. Talking to someone. Herself, I guess. She looked rough. Like she was on something.” “I see,” Tova says, her voice faint. “She kept talking about a horrible night. An accident. A boom.” A boom. Tova gives a little nod, finding herself unable to speak, and the girl continues. “I always assumed she must have been in combat or something. Trauma from an explosion, maybe.

He thought it meant eels, like the sea creature. Why on earth would anyone put that on a class ring? At the thought of this, Tova suppresses a smile. Even the most brilliant minds are mistaken sometimes. “His full name,” she says, “was Erik Ernest Lindgren Sullivan.

Look, I realize I haven’t been in your shoes, but Peter and I have talked about it. When one of us goes, the other must move on. We’re not that old, Tova. We still have good years ahead of us. Decades, even. Seventy is the new sixty!

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 through with grief, any more simply ran off, overflowed, the way maple syrup on Saturday morning pancakes always cascaded onto the table.

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

Tova’s life events are fiction, but she and my Grandma Anna are both stoic Swedes. Unruffled. Endlessly kind, yet emotionally inscrutable.

Tova hesitates. “You don’t recover. Not all the way. But you do move on. You have to.

Tova has always felt more than a bit of empathy for the sharks, with their never-ending laps around the tank.

Tova's heart. I will do everything I can to help her fill it

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 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 himself.

Tova will make sure she is happy, and I would trust Tova with my life. 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.

When they circle back to the pier, Tova slips away and stands at the railing, alone. To the somber bay that took them both, a cherished son and an exceptional octopus, she whispers inscrutably: “I miss you. Both of you.” She taps her heart.