Remarkably Bright Creatures

In Shelby Van Pelt’s Remarkably Bright Creatures, grief is neither loud nor straightforward—it’s a constant hum beneath the surface of daily life, indirectly shaping the choices characters make and the way they move through the world. Through the characters’ various manifestations of grief, the novel demonstrates how memory—both the act of remembering and the struggle of forgetting—functions as equal parts anchor and burden. Tova has grieved her son Erik for 30 years, ever since…

Remarkably Bright Creatures suggests that loneliness isn’t merely the result of physical isolation—it can arise even in a life full of people, especially when grief, secrecy, or displacement create emotional distance. Tova, Ethan, and Cameron all live among loved ones, yet each carries a private loneliness that routines and small talk can’t quite fix. What ultimately alleviates their isolation is forging unexpected bonds with others. The most transformative relationships in the novel are…

In Remarkably Bright Creatures, closure isn’t achieved with tidy answers or through dramatic revelations—though there are plenty of these in the novel—but through acknowledging what has happened, accepting ambiguity, and choosing connection over isolation. Though much of the story centers on the 30-year-old mysterious disappearance of Tova’s son, Erik, healing for these characters is less about solving a mystery and more about recognizing what can be carried forward, and what must be…