Books like Remarkably Bright Creatures

More Italy here, Sicily this time, and set in the middle of the 19th century.

Again, I love reading about other important political eras, and really enjoy the beautiful prose and light ironic sense of humor. One of my favorite books, all-time. Gorgeous writing and the lightness of the scenes betray the seriousness of the era.

This was the point when Italy was unifying, and the main character of the novel is about to lose his exalted status as one of the great princes of Sicily. You feel for the man, even with his many flaws, and I love books where I’m engaged in the story but also learning a lot about history at the same time.

This is an unlikely story, yet it is also a true one. Harry de Leyer, a Dutch immigrant, saved a horse named Snowman from the slaughterhouse. Harry trained Snowman to become a show-jumping champion. This is a story about an incredible long shot and about a man who believed in his horse. What’s not to love?

I am a third-generation horsewoman, and I grew up hearing stories about the “great horses.” I remember my mother sharing the tale of Snowman and Harry de Leyer with me. For the most part, equestrian stars are incredibly expensive, pedigreed animals. Snowman, in contrast, pulled a plow. The story of Snowman makes it seem possible that we can also find or encounter our own magical plow horse who can carry us to the rarified air of the top of the equestrian world.

This was the first book I ever pulled from the big kids’ shelves at our library. I read it in the big chair in the den until Mother chased me outside with dire threats that I was ruining my eyes. 

Then I read among straw bales and a heap of yard cats until nightfall lured the cats away. Then I read in bed until Mother threatened further direness if I didn’t turn off my light. Then I read by moonlight until I fell asleep and woke again the next day to read more.

A shipwreck, an island, and a horse. A little barn in the suburbs. These were the opposite of my world. During the hours I spent with this book, I became an escape reader.

What stayed with me about The Kite Runner is its understanding of redemption.

You cannot change the past, and redemption does not undo the original harm. Forgiveness is not erasure. What happened still happened, and some of that weight remains. But knowing the truth and owning the harm can change the choices you make afterward. That distinction mattered to me.

Redemption is not pretending the past is gone or somehow balancing the scales perfectly. It is allowing what you now understand to change who you become and how you move forward. Few books I have read have explored guilt, forgiveness, and redemption with that kind of emotional honesty.

This is the best novel I’ve read about bubonic plague.

Student historian Kivrin travels back in time to England of the Middle Ages—unknowingly at the start of the Black Death. The cause of Black Death was the plague bacteria, unknown to people of that time.

What makes the book memorable is its depiction of everyday life, where children who get lost in the forest must find their way home by the tolling of the village church bell. Ultimately, the bell tolls for all the plague’s victims.

The vivid characterization makes me experience people of a time so distant their minds feel alien to us, yet still deeply human.

Many an idealistic young law student like me felt that jolt in our spine early on when we saw up in the balcony of that courthouse a sleepy Scout being told, “Stand up, Jean Louise. Your father’s passin’.”

The movie is as faithful to the novel as the medium would allow. The novel is told entirely from Scout’s POV and not only focuses upon the racism of the time and place, but also upon her coming of age as a tomboy and being told to act “As a little girl should.”

The book offers more to those of us for whom the rule of law and not of men is a passion, especially in Finch’s closing: “There is one human institution that makes a pauper the equal of Rockefeller, a stupid man the equal of Einstein… That institution, gentlemen, is a court.” 

When novelist Paul Sheldon suffers a terrible car accident, he finds himself in the care of Annie Wilkes, a woman who claims to be his biggest fan and wants to nurse him back to health. But Annie isn’t pleased with the way Paul has brought his beloved series featuring Misery Chastain to a close. 

I love that we get a front-row seat to this unhinged author-fan encounter. Despite the horror that’s inflicted, readers—especially ones who are also writers—may take a perverse pleasure in seeing a fan have such strong feelings about a fictional character. 

Another component I adore is the way an author’s ego often causes them to overlook warning signs that would set off alarm bells in others who have a clearer picture of what’s really going on.

What if reproduction required people to mate with another species—creatures more alien than bacteria?

In this book, Lilith Iyapo awakes after a nuclear war to find her alien saviors expect just that. The alien Oankali are organisms whose cells modify their own genes to perfection. But their genes run short of diversity, until they are compelled to share genes with a population as alien to them as—humans.

This disturbing novel asks us how much of our own humanity would we trade for survival? Would I welcome a half-alien child if its monstrous traits cured cancer? A science fiction novel that made me imagine the biological dilemmas of gene exchange.

This is actually just the first book of Ferrante’s four Neapolitan novels, which tell a single riveting story of two girls, Lila and Lenù, from a depressed Naples neighborhood. Lenù is the narrator, taking us through fifty years of friendship and the latter half of the 20th century. (Her actual name is Elena, like the author—another doubling, especially since she writes under a pseudonym.)

I am a sucker for event: a lot happens and we get to know a huge cast of characters from the neighborhood. But our anchors are these two friends and rivals, vibrant and injured, striving to transcend their origins.

What stayed with me most was Morrie’s idea of detaching yourself from the fear surrounding a painful feeling so that you can actually experience it.

I have come to think of that as a kind of presence. It means allowing yourself to feel what is happening without immediately trying to escape it, fix it, or fear it. There is something powerful about simply being present in an ordinary moment and recognizing its value while you are still in it.

Tuesdays with Morrie reminded me that much of life happens in those ordinary moments, and we miss something important when we are too distracted or afraid to fully inhabit them.