We sit in the living room of the apartment he shares with his wife of nearly 32 years, where they raised their three sons. As we face each other on identical beige couches, he barely pauses after questions before delivering long, eloquent answers in his unplaceable accent. Aciman spent his childhood speaking French in Alexandria, Egypt.
Soon he grows passionate, waving his arms. When emphasizing, his eyebrows arch into crescents as if shielding his face from a torrent of thoughts. Growing up, Aciman developed the worldly existence he would come to show through his characters, moving from Egypt to Italy to France to the U. When he was 14, his Jewish family was kicked out of largely Muslim Alexandria after their business was nationalized and their assets were seized.
They were left with nothing as refugees and spent three years in Rome before finding their way to New York to rebuild in In addition to his memoir and novels, Aciman has written multiple essay collections and edited one about Proust. Look away because that steely gaze of his always reminded me of how tall he stood and how far below him I ranked. Now, in the silence of the moment, I stared back, not to defy him, or to show I wasn't shy any longer, but to surrender, to tell him this is who I am, this is who you are, this is what I want, there is nothing but truth between us now, and where there's truth there are no barriers, no shifty glances, and if nothing comes of this, let it never be said that either of us was unaware of what might happen.
I hadn't a hope left. And maybe I stared back because there wasn't a thing to lose now. I stared back with the all-knowing, I-dare-you-to-kiss-me gaze of someone who both challenges and flees with one and the same gesture. I picked up this book because it was made into a film. No other reason. I really didn't know what to expect.
I was shocked to find, from the very first page, beautiful writing that was riveting. Aciman claims to have dashed this off in four months, if that's true then the man is truly blessed. It's exquisite. It's a work of art. It's such beautiful writing that it almost doesn't matter what he's writing about. I'm sure a lot of people said the same thing about The Goldfinch. But, as we know, I have to review the book. Let's begin. So, the basic premise of this book is that a seventeen-year-old's family hosts an intellectual for six weeks every summer because his father is a famous professor.
This summer they host Oliver, a twenty-four-year-old professor assistant prof? Elio 17 quickly develops a painful and all-consuming crush on Oliver He's never had sex with a man, but has been interested in having sex with a man since he was He picks Oliver to be his first - at least, he hopes and prays and wishes and dreams that Oliver will be his first.
Let's break this down. The book is not a romance novel. Just like The Bridges of Madison County is not a romance novel. Yes, love and sex are involved, but the book is not a romance novel.
Just want to make that clear for you up front. It's the mid '80s and Elio lives in heaven. He lives in Italy. It is the very description of bliss. He spends his days reading, playing instruments, swimming lazily, sunbathing, dating, fucking, eating, and napping.
So whenever he complains about stuff, I was like, "Shut the fuck up. He has zero responsibilities and zero worries. I don't count his crush on Oliver as a 'worry. Some people might be bothered by the age difference here: Elio is 17 and Oliver is It didn't bother me one bit. It would bother you if the year-old was female. The problem with books that feature a year-old female and a significantly older male getting together is that they always make the girl a blushing virgin who has never seen a cock before, much less fucked anyone.
She's always super-naive and sheltered. Because of this, books like these seem really skeezy. There's a huge power divide. The man comes off as a sleazoid who is seducing a 'jailbait' virgin.
It's gross. Rarely do I see a book where a year-old girl who actually knows what she's doing, has sexual agency, isn't a virgin, is competent and on equal footing, willingly and with eyes open enters into a relationship with an older man. That kind of book isn't appealing to readers, I guess, who want an older man with tons of experience 'deflowering' a quaking virgin, ripping hymen, OMG it's-not-going-to-fit, what-is-that-thing?
I mean, your mileage may vary, perhaps that is your schtick, but to me it is not appealing at all. And when the female ISN'T a virgin and we have this situation, she's always presented as a hardened 'loose woman' and it isn't any fun either. Any authors with actual skillz feel free to rise to this challenge. I want two people to meet as relative equals.
That's erotica, leave erotica where it is supposed to be. I want relative equals who respect and care for each other, not some kind of power-fantasy. Anyway, where was I? Age difference. Oh, yeah. So, Elio has been with quite a few girls, and he started fucking when he was I don't feel like Oliver is taking advantage of him at all in this book. I don't feel like the love or affair or whatever between these two was skeevy at all in terms of feelings. Some of the sexual acts in here are Elio really wants to experience going to bed with a man.
He's been dreaming about this since he was 14, and he carefully chooses Oliver to be his first. I didn't feel at all like Oliver was a skeeze in any way. This is not a gay novel. I think that bears repeating. This is not a novel about two gay men. It is a novel about two bisexual men. I know bisexuals are always complaining about bisexual erasure and honestly usually I don't know what they are talking about, because I am straight and not really on point with modern bisexual topics, but here it is very clear.
Even I can see it. This is being lauded and embraced as a gay film and a gay book and a celebration of gay love etc. This isn't a bearding situation, either. They both seek out women, enjoy sex with women, frequently fuck women, and love having sex with women. Elio particularly enjoys going down on women. Not gay. And not just because this is Italy in the s, I want to make that clear.
They both enjoy fucking women AND men. And it's not a "a gay man comes along and turns a straight man gay with his awesome penis" either. I want to make that clear, as well.
Elio has been attracted to men since he was fourteen. Even though he's fucked a bunch of women, he wants to experience fucking with a man. Oliver is a good candidate for his first time. This isn't Oliver, a gay man coming along and seducing a straight younger man with alluring gay sex.
Both men are bisexual. This isn't a gay-for-you type of deal. A strong undertone of this book is the idea of fucking yourself. No, no, no. The idea of having sex with yourself. It's very narcissist when you come down to it. I mean, I've heard this idea of calling someone by your own name in bed as 'romantic,' and it is true that this aspect of the story is painted as a very tender, loving, erotic thing between Oliver and Elio.
But in reality it is about the surreal quality of fucking another you. Of course you 'love' the other you, it is you. Let's have some examples. My Star of David, his Star of David, our two necks like one, two cut Jewish men joined together from time immemorial. Perhaps the physical and the metaphorical meanings are clumsy ways of understanding what happens when two beings need, not just to be close together, but to become so totally ductile that each becomes the other.
To be who I am because of you. To be who he was because of me. To be in his mouth while he was in mine and no longer know whose it was, his cock or mine, that was in my mouth. He was my secret conduit to myself - like a catalyst that allows us to become who we are, the foreign body, the pacer, the graft, the patch that sends all the right impulses, the steel pin that keeps a soldier's bone together, the other man's heart that makes us more us than we were before the transplant.
These are just two examples, but it's discussed 10 or 15 times in the book. Elio and Oliver frequently wear each other's clothes and underwear as a blatant reminder from the author of this 'clone fucking' idea. And there were times when they were engaging in this call-me-by-your-name practice and I was just rolling my eyes so hard. I came up to his ear just as he was about to enter the post office, and whispered, "Fuck me, Elio.
The book can be jarring with it's bizarre sexual ideas. The writing is so beautiful and you are lulled by it, only to be snapped out of it by some sex act that leaves you reeling. Some examples: - view spoiler [Elio goes into Oliver's room, smells and kisses his swimsuit all over, puts the swimsuit on, masturbates so that he cums on the suit, leaves it there for Oliver to find.
He splits it open with his cock and rubs it all over his cock, thinks about how much a peach looks like both a vagina and an anus two things that really turn him on and he ejaculates into the peach which he then elaborately compares to a rape victim in a quite disturbing passage and leaves it on his desk.
Later, Oliver comes into his room, notices the peach, asks about it, and then deliberately eats it in front of a blushing, crying Elio who is ecstatic. Then Elio poops while Oliver 'massages' his belly and Oliver looks at Elio's poop. This is portrayed as 'closeness' and 'breaking down any barriers between them. After finger-fucking Marzia, he wants to come home, ask Oliver to sniff his hand, and then have Oliver lick his fingers.
This doesn't happen, it's just his sexual fantasy. The author did a wonderful job of talking about Jewishness and the Jewish identity of both Oliver and Elio. I really liked it. I felt like he wrote about it in a very clear and beautiful way that enhanced the story. I was a bit baffled and amused at Elio's continued insistence that Oliver would be extra-kind to him in bed because they were both Jewish, but everything was very nicely done.
You might get very frustrated reading this book, I know I did. If you remember being seventeen, you'll know what I'm talking about. At least 50 or 60 percent of the book is simply Elio going Does he like me? Does he like me like me? Is he looking at me? I want him to be looking at me.
He's talking to me!!!! Does he like me? What is he thinking? Oh, I want to go to bed with him so badly! He didn't eat breakfast with me today? Does he not like me anymore? Is he staring at me? Now, it's written x more beautifully than I could ever write it, but it is pure teenage angst crush. It gets very frustrating and annoying.
I eventually got to the point in the book where I was like, "Just tell him you are attracted to him already! I wouldn't call it a slow burn, because we are only seeing things from Elio's perspective - who knows what the fuck Oliver is thinking - but it gets tiring quickly.
He's obsessed in the way a teen crush can only be. This may cause readers a lot of frustration and annoyance. If you don't like constant teenage whining and obsessing, this book is not for you. But, I have to give Aciman here major realism points.
Spot on. It's hyper-realistic to be in Elio's mind. He very realistically puts us into Elio's head and really captures the universal human experience. Sexuality, ethnicity, and nationality aside - I feel Aciman really captures the feelings of humans in this book.
It's exquisite and very relatable. Elio is, I'm sad to report, a little fuckboy with the sexual ethics of a snake. He was really pissing me off with a lot of his behavior in this book.
And I think a seventeen-year-old should know better, especially one who has been sexually active for two years already.
He's not sexually ethical, and it really bothered me. And NO ONE curbs him on it, not even his own father, who I believe should have stepped up and curbed him, especially in one particular scene that I was reading and cringing at. It's your job as a parent to teach sexual morals to your children. If dad wasn't up to the task, I thought Oliver would be, but nobody says a fucking thing and Elio never learns any lessons.
Maybe Oliver is a fuckboy as well? Unclear, since we don't really get into his private life that much. Tl;dr - One of the most beautiful books I have ever read. Not for the content, which is As for the story, there are some very touching moments, and Aciman is great at portraying human feelings and emotions. He is a very talented writer, only very talented writers can capture the truth about humans like this. It was jarring every time some IMO bizarre sexual scene came up. Also, Elio's horrible lack of sexual ethics really bothered me.
I know it might not bother everyone, but I like people to act ethically in regards to sex and relationships. I didn't really know what I was getting into in picking this up, but I was surprised to find it was about two bisexual men instead of two gay men like I had initially thought. It does a great job of taking you to Italy. And I feel like Aciman discusses Jewish identity in a wonderful way that is both illuminating and beautiful.
Upon finishing the book, I'm not really sure I even like Elio and Oliver as people, but the book was very enjoyable, gripping, of course beautifully written, and fascinating yet relatable. I would recommend it to anyone who has an interest. Read at your own risk. I loved the salt of his arms, of his shoulders, along the ridges of his spine. They were still new to me. These words, spoken from a height of bliss it seemed no one could steal from us, would take me back to this hotel room and to this damp ferragosto evening as both of us leaned stark-naked with our arms on the windowsill, overlooking an unbearably hot Roman late-late afternoon, both of us still smelling of the stuffy compartment on the southbound train that was probably nearing Naples by now and on which we'd slept, my head resting on his in full view of the other passengers.
Leaning out into the evening air, I knew that this night might never be given to us again, and yet I couldn't bring myself to believe it. He too must have had the same thought as we surveyed the magnificent cityscape, smoking and eating fresh figs, shoulder to shoulder, each wanting to do something to mark the moment, which is why, yielding to an impulse that couldn't have felt more natural at the time, I let my left hand rub his buttocks and then began to stick my middle finger into him as he replied, "You keep doing this, and there's definitely no party.
Then we'd shower and go out and feel like two exposed, live wires giving off sparks each time they so much as flicked each other. Look at old houses and want to hug each one, spot a lamppost and, like a dog, want to spray it, pass an art gallery and look for the hole in the nude, cross a face that did no more than smile our way and already initiate moves to undress the whole person and ask her, or him, or both, if they were more than one, to join us first for drinks, for dinner, anything.
Find Cupid everywhere in Rome because we'd clipped one of his wings and he was forced to fly in circles. Cultural Appropriation. The question has been raised if Aciman, who is a heterosexual, is culturally appropriating by writing this book. It's not my place to discuss this, as I am a straight woman. But the question has come up. The movie also notably stars straight actors.
I haven't seen the film. View all 76 comments. I don't know, I'm very conflicted. I wish I could rate this higher, but I don't think it deserves that.
There were scenes that felt real and were so raw and honest, I absolutely adored them. But most parts just felt unnecessary and boring that says something about a book that's only pages long.
Some things were repeated so often, I rolled my eyes a couple of times! It's humiliating to know that if you use a ballpoint or if you use a fountain pen, the actual quality of the writing changes. Call Me by Your Name , for example, had a different ending and I was never happy with him. So I cut it out and I wrote something else instead. How much planning do you do? The answer is none. Absolutely none. I have no idea where the story is going to go, who is going to sleep with whom, if they're going to sleep with each other at all.
I have no sense. I just know that, at some point, this is where I have to stop because this is where it ends and let's stop right here. Usually I will write a few more pages after a piece and then cut those pages off so that it ends at a dramatic moment filled with tension and, at the same time, something approaching closure.
How do you know when to stop writing? I don't know. I mean, usually, I can fall asleep or I feel that sleep is gaining on me so I have to stop. But there's no sense that this is a moment to stop. Usually I just want to watch some television or maybe do something else. But, by and large, I have no discipline of when to start or went to stop.
It's just slavish. How do you judge the quality of something when it's finished? First of all, when you can no longer fix it. In other words, it could be totally broken but you don't where how to fix it. For me the point is when there's no way it can go from here. When it just can't be fixed anymore and I just don't know what to do with it.
You have to know when to stop. Sometimes you have the wrong ending and it sort of hangs in a way that tells you this is still hanging for the closure. Because it has my voice, it doesn't take place in the present, it doesn't take place in the future, it doesn't take place in any time zone that we know it, incurs in some kind of ethereal realm where things of the past and the present are mixed.
So then I knew, this is my voice, this is as honest as I can be. Learn from people who wrote, not well, but extraordinarily well. Learn from them. Don't learn from Jonathan Safran Foer. What advice would you give to young writers? I have two pieces of advice. That's what Virginia Woolf did. Write book reviews. Everybody talks about the peaches; it has become part of our national discourse. AA: I know. People see peaches and they send me pictures of peaches all the time.
Has it changed the reception to your work? Then I have people who are so young that this is how they foresee their next love affair, or even their first love affair. ESQ: You write about a world where people come and go, where lasting connection feels transient and impossible. The others barely echo. AA: You point to this very ambiguous, amorphous territory called domesticity.
Then you fall back to traditional tropes. I try to stay away from that. What, for you, are the rewards of that fusion? For me, classical music is the ultimate form of aesthetic gratification. This goes back to my father, who was a great reader of books and taught me how to read books. At the same time, he was a man who was not dissolute, but he understood that the body came with a brain.
The brain and the heart and the soul could be gratified one way--the body had to be gratified in another. To me, the two are self-contemporaneous.
They happen at the same time. If you find someone who can give you the two simultaneously, you are a very lucky person. You can feel intimate with a work of art, which I do, and you can feel intimate with another person. AA: He had an antipathy for anything that tried to be current, that was modern, that was up to date. He was more about what happened yesterday and yesteryear and centuries past. I have no real sympathy for modern realism and all the outrages that have occurred.
Yes, it affected me--it affected everybody I know.
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