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Call Me By Your Name
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Call Me By Your Name

4.6 67
by Andre Aciman

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Now a major motion picture from director Luca Guadagnino, starring Armie Hammer and Timothée Chalamet, and produced by the Academy Award winning producer of A Room with a View

A New York Times Notable Book of the Year

A Publishers Weekly Best Book of the Year

A Washington Post Best Fiction Book of the Year

A New


Now a major motion picture from director Luca Guadagnino, starring Armie Hammer and Timothée Chalamet, and produced by the Academy Award winning producer of A Room with a View

A New York Times Notable Book of the Year

A Publishers Weekly Best Book of the Year

A Washington Post Best Fiction Book of the Year

A New York Magazine "Future Canon" Selection

A Chicago Tribune Favorite Book of the Year

One of The Seattle Times' Michael Upchurch's Favorite Books of the Year

An Amazon Top 100 Editors' Picks of the Year

An Amazon Top 10 Editors' pick: Debut Fiction (#6)

An Amazon Top 10 Editors' pick: Gay & Lesbian (#1)

Call Me by Your Name is the story of a sudden and powerful romance that blossoms between an adolescent boy and a summer guest at his parents' cliffside mansion on the Italian Riviera. During the restless summer weeks, unrelenting but buried currents of obsession, fascination, and desire intensify their passion as they test the charged ground between them and verge toward the one thing both already fear they may never truly find again: total intimacy. André Aciman's critically acclaimed debut novel is a frank, unsentimental, heartrending elegy to human passion.

Editorial Reviews

From the Publisher

“Superb . . . The beauty of Aciman's writing and the purity of his passions should place this extraordinary first novel within the canon of great romantic love stories for everyone.” —Charles Kaiser, The Washington Post Book World

“An extraordinary examination of longing and the complicated ways in which we negotiate the experience of attraction. . . . It's startling that a novel so bracingly unsentimental--alert to the ways we manipulate, second-guess, forestall, and finally reach stumblingly toward one another--concludes with such emotional depths.” —Mark Doty, O, The Oprah Magazine

“This novel is hot . . . a love letter, an invocation, and something of an epitaph. . . . An exceptionally beautiful book.” —Stacey D'Erasmo, The New York Times Book Review

“If you are prepared to take a hard punch in your gut, and like brave, acute, elated, naked, brutal, tender, humane, and beautiful prose, then you've come to the right place.” —Nicole Krauss, author of The History of Love

“A great love story . . . every phrase, every ache, every giddy rush of sensation in this beautiful novel rings true.” —Michael Upchurch, The Seattle Times

“The novel is richly, sensuously detailed . . . luminous. . . . Aciman deftly charts a burgeoning relationship that both parties want and fear.” —Karen Campbell, The Boston Globe

Publishers Weekly
Egyptian-born Aciman is the author of the acclaimed memoir Out of Egypt and of the essay collection False Papers. His first novel poignantly probes a boy's erotic coming-of-age at his family's Italian Mediterranean home. Elio 17, extremely well-read, sensitive and the son of a prominent expatriate professor finds himself troublingly attracted to this year's visiting resident scholar, recruited by his father from an American university. Oliver is 24, breezy and spontaneous, and at work on a book about Heraclitus. The young men loll about in bathing suits, play tennis, jog along the Italian Riviera and flirt. Both also flirt (and more) with women among their circle of friends, but Elio, who narrates, yearns for Oliver. Their shared literary interests and Jewishness help impart a sense of intimacy, and when they do consummate their passion in Oliver's room, they call each other by the other's name. A trip to Rome, sanctioned by Elio's prescient father, ushers Elio fully into first love's joy and pain, and his travails set up a well-managed look into Elio's future. Aciman overcomes an occasionally awkward structure with elegant writing in Elio's sweet and sanguine voice. (Feb.) Copyright 2006 Reed Business Information.
Library Journal
As this novel opens, 17-year-old Elio is embarking on another relaxed summer of fun and sunshine with his family at their Italian villa by the sea. Each summer, Elio's professor father invites a different guest to stay with them, giving young scholars time to work on their writing and converse with the stream of intellectuals who congregate at the villa. What transpires when Oliver arrives is an unexpected and agonizing flirtation and affair, with great highs and lows. Elio's and Oliver's interactions range from frosty to torrid as they face uncertainty about their own identities, come to terms with their feelings for each other, and, ultimately, decide to take a risk on this relationship. In his first work of fiction, Aciman (Out of Egypt) describes Elio's anxiety, uncertainty, awkwardness, and, later, passion in incredibly vivid detail, leaving no thought process unexplored. The strong bond between the two characters is reminiscent of the bond between Ennis and Jack in Brokeback Mountain, where each finds in the other the one true love of his life. Recommended for larger public libraries. [See Prepub Alert, LJ 10/15/06.]-Sarah Conrad Weisman, Corning Community Coll., NY Copyright 2006 Reed Business Information.
School Library Journal

Adult/High School
Seventeen-year-old Elio faces yet another lazy summer at his parents' home on the Italian coast. As in years past, his family will host a young scholar for six weeks, someone to help Elio's father with his research. Oliver, the handsome American visitor, charms everyone he meets with his cavalier manner. Elio's narrative dwells on the minutiae of his meandering thoughts and growing desire for Oliver. What begins as a casual friendship develops into a passionate yet clandestine affair, and the last chapters fast-forward through Elio's life to a reunion with Oliver decades later. Elio recalls the events of that summer and the years that follow in a voice that is by turns impatient and tender. He expresses his feelings with utter candor, sharing with readers his most private hopes, urges, and insecurities. The intimacy Elio experiences with Oliver is unparalleled and awakens in the protagonist an intensity that dances on the brink of obsession. Although their contact in the ensuing years is limited to the occasional phone call or postcard, Elio continues to harbor an insatiable desire for Oliver. His longing creates a tension that is present from the first sentence to the last.
—Heidi DolamoreCopyright 2006 Reed Business Information.

Kirkus Reviews
Graceful debut novel by memoirist/literary scholar Aciman (False Papers, 2000, etc.), joining young love to his familiar themes of dislocation and wandering. One could be arrested in certain parts of the world for the young love in question, which joins a 17-year-old bookish musician who is improbably well educated-not many college-educated adults have read Celan, heard of Athanasius Kircher or have a context for the Latin cor cordium-with a 24-year-old scholar with one foot in the world of the classical Greeks and another in whatever demimondes an Italian seaside village can offer. Oliver has cruelly good looks and looks cruelly at the world, a "cold, sagacious judge of character and situations." Slathered in suntan oil, bronzing in the Mediterranean sun, he sends young Elio into a swoon at first sight. Oliver is well aware of the effect, for everyone, male and female, falls in love with him: Elio's professor father, whose houseguest Oliver is, has appreciation for the younger man's fearlessness in arguing over philosophy and etymology, the young village girls for his muvi star affectations, older women for his cowboy manners. Possibilities worthy of Highsmith loom, but though Oliver has his dangerous side (for one thing, he's a cardsharp), Aciman never quite dispenses with innocence; Elio's love has a certain chaste quality to it ("I was Glaucus and he was Diomedes"), which doesn't lessen the hurt when the whole thing unravels, at which point intellectual gamesmanship fades away and the wisest man in the book is revealed to be Elio's gently thoughtful father, who has unsuspected depths and offers consolation as best he can: "Right now there's sorrow. I don't envy you the pain. But Ienvy you the pain." That pain yields a happy ending, of a sort. With shades of Marguerite Duras and Patrick White, a quiet, literate and impeccably written love story.

Product Details

Publication date:
Edition description:
First Edition
Sales rank:
Product dimensions:
5.39(w) x 8.17(h) x 0.69(d)
Age Range:
14 - 18 Years

Read an Excerpt

Call Me by Your Name

A Novel
By Aciman, Andre

Farrar, Straus and Giroux

Copyright © 2007 Aciman, Andre
All right reserved.

ISBN: 9780374299217

Part One 
If Not Later, When?
"Later!" The word, the voice, the attitude.
            I'd never heard anyone use "later" to say goodbye before. It sounded harsh, curt, and dismissive, spoken with the veiled indifference of people who may not care to see or hear from you again.
            It is the first thing I remember about him, and I can hear it still today. Later!
            I shut my eyes, say the word, and I'm back in Italy, so many years ago, walking down the tree-lined driveway, watching him step out of the cab, billowy blue shirt, wide-open collar, sunglasses, straw hat, skin everywhere. Suddenly he's shaking my hand, handing me his backpack, removing his suitcase from the trunk of the cab, asking if my father is home.
            It might have started right there and then: the shirt, the rolled-up sleeves, the rounded balls of his heels slipping in and out of his frayed espadrilles, eager to test the hot gravel path that led to our house, every stride already asking, Which way to the beach?
            Thissummer's houseguest. Another bore.
            Then, almost without thinking, and with his back already turned to the car, he waves the back of his free hand and utters a careless Later! to another passenger in the car who has probably split the fare from the station. No name added, no jest to smooth out the ruffled leave-taking, nothing. His one-word send-off: brisk, bold, and blunted--take your pick, he couldn't be bothered which.
            You watch, I thought, this is how he'll say goodbye to us when the time comes. With a gruff, slapdash Later!
            Meanwhile, we'd have to put up with him for six long weeks.
            I was thoroughly intimidated. The unapproachable sort.
            I could grow to like him, though. From rounded chin to rounded heel. Then, within days, I would learn to hate him.
            This, the very person whose photo on the application form months earlier had leapt out with promises of instant affinities.
Taking in summer guests was my parents' way of helping young academics revise a manuscript before publication. For six weeks each summer I'd have to vacate my bedroom and move one room down the corridor into a much smaller room that had once belonged to my grandfather. During the winter months, when we were away in the city, it became a part-time toolshed, storage room, and attic where rumor had it my grandfather, my namesake, still ground his teeth in his eternal sleep. Summer residents didn't have to pay anything, were given the full run of the house, and could basically do anything they pleased, provided they spent an hour or so a day helping my father with his correspondence and assorted paperwork. They became part of the family, and after about fifteen years of doing this, we had gotten used to a shower of postcards and gift packages not only around Christmastime but all year long from people who were now totally devoted to our family and would go out of their way when they were in Europe to drop by B. for a day or two with their family and take a nostalgic tour of their old digs.
            At meals there were frequently two or three other guests, sometimes neighbors or relatives, sometimes colleagues, lawyers, doctors, the rich and famous who'd drop by to see my father on their way to their own summer houses. Sometimes we'd even open our dining room to the occasional tourist couple who'd heard of the old villa and simply wanted to come by and take a peek and were totally enchanted when asked to eat with us and tell us all about themselves, while Mafalda, informed at the last minute, dished out her usual fare. My father, who was reserved and shy in private, loved nothing better than to have some precocious rising expert in a field keep the conversation going in a few languages while the hot summer sun, after a few glasses of rosatello, ushered in the unavoidable afternoon torpor. We named the task dinner drudgery--and, after a while, so did most of our six-week guests.
Maybe it started soon after his arrival during one of those grinding lunches when he sat next to me and it finally dawned on me that, despite a light tan acquired during his brief stay in Sicily earlier that summer, the color on the palms of his hands was the same as the pale, soft skin of his soles, of his throat, of the bottom of his forearms, which hadn't really been exposed to much sun. Almost a light pink, as glistening and smooth as the underside of a lizard's belly. Private, chaste, unfledged, like a blush on an athlete's face or an instance of dawn on a stormy night. It told me things about him I never knew to ask.
            It may have started during those endless hours after lunch when everybody lounged about in bathing suits inside and outside the house, bodies sprawled everywhere, killing time before someone finally suggested we head down to the rocks for a swim. Relatives, cousins, neighbors, friends, friends of friends, colleagues, or just about anyone who cared to knock at our gate and ask if they could use our tennis court--everyone was welcome to lounge and swim and eat and, if they stayed long enough, use the guesthouse.
Or perhaps it started on the beach. Or at the tennis court. Or during our first walk together on his very first day when I was asked to show him the house and its surrounding area and, one thing leading to the other, managed to take him past the very old forged-iron metal gate as far back as the endless empty lot in the hinterland toward the abandoned train tracks that used to connect B. to N. "Is there an abandoned station house somewhere?" he asked, looking through the trees under the scalding sun, probably trying to ask the right question of the owner's son. "No, there was never a station house. The train simply stopped when you asked." He was curious about the train; the rails seemed so narrow. It was a two-wagon train bearing the royal insignia, I explained. Gypsies lived in it now. They'd been living there ever since my mother used to summer here as a girl. The gypsies had hauled the two derailed cars farther inland. Did he want to see them? "Later. Maybe." Polite indifference, as if he'd spotted my misplaced zeal to play up to him and was summarily pushing me away.
            But it stung me.
            Instead, he said he wanted to open an account in one of the banks in B., then pay a visit to his Italian translator, whom his Italian publisher had engaged for his book.
            I decided to take him there by bike.
            The conversation was no better on wheels than on foot. Along the way, we stopped for something to drink. The bar-tabaccheria was totally dark and empty. The owner was mopping the floor with a powerful ammonia solution. We stepped outside as soon as we could. A lonely blackbird, sitting in a Mediterranean pine, sang a few notes that were immediately drowned out by the rattle of the cicadas.
            I took a long swill from a large bottle of mineral water, passed it to him, then drank from it again. I spilled some on my hand and rubbed my face with it, running my wet fingers through my hair. The water was insufficiently cold, not fizzy enough, leaving behind an unslaked likeness of thirst.
            What did one do around here?
            Nothing. Wait for summer to end.
            What did one do in the winter, then?
            I smiled at the answer I was about to give. He got the gist and said, "Don't tell me: wait for summer to come, right?"
            I liked having my mind read. He'd pick up on dinner drudgery sooner than those before him.
            "Actually, in the winter the place gets very gray and dark. We come for Christmas. Otherwise it's a ghost town."
            "And what else do you do here at Christmas besides roast chestnuts and drink eggnog?"
            He was teasing. I offered the same smile as before. He understood, said nothing, we laughed.
            He asked what I did. I played tennis. Swam. Went out at night. Jogged. Transcribed music. Read.
             He said he jogged too. Early in the morning. Where did one jog around here? Along the promenade, mostly. I could show him if he wanted.
            It hit me in the face just when I was starting to like him again: "Later, maybe."
            I had put reading last on my list, thinking that, with the willful, brazen attitude he'd displayed so far, reading would figure last on his. A few hours later, when I remembered that he had just finished writing a book on Heraclitus and that "reading" was probably not an insignificant part of his life, I realized that I needed to perform some clever backpedaling and let him know that my real interests lay right alongside his. What unsettled me, though, was not the fancy footwork needed to redeem myself. It was the unwelcome misgivings with which it finally dawned on me, both then and during our casual conversation by the train tracks, that I had all along, without seeming to, without even admitting it, already been trying--and failing--to win him over.
            When I did offer--because all visitors loved the idea--to take him to San Giacomo and walk up to the very top of the belfry we nicknamed To-die-for, I should have known better than to just stand there without a comeback. I thought I'd bring him around simply by taking him up there and letting him take in the view of the town, the sea, eternity. But no. Later!
But it might have started way later than I think without my noticing anything at all. You see someone, but you don't really see him, he's in the wings. Or you notice him, but nothing clicks, nothing "catches," and before you're even aware of a presence, or of something troubling you, the six weeks that were offered you have almost passed and he's either already gone or just about to leave, and you're basically scrambling to come to terms with something, which, unbeknownst to you, has been brewing for weeks under your very nose and bears all the symptoms of what you're forced to call I want. How couldn't I have known, you ask? I know desire when I see it--and yet, this time, it slipped by completely. I was going for the devious smile that would suddenly light up his face each time he'd read my mind, when all I really wanted was skin, just skin.
            At dinner on his third evening, I sensed that he was staring at me as I was explaining Haydn's Seven Last Words of Christ, which I'd been transcribing. I was seventeen that year and, being the youngest at the table and the least likely to be listened to, I had developed the habit of smuggling as much information into the fewest possible words. I spoke fast, which gave people the impression that I was always flustered and muffling my words. After I had finished explaining my transcription, I became aware of the keenest glance coming from my left. It thrilled and flattered me; he was obviously interested--he liked me. It hadn't been as difficult as all that, then. But when, after taking my time, I finally turned to face him and take in his glance, I met a cold and icy glare--something at once hostile and vitrified that bordered on cruelty.
             It undid me completely. What had I done to deserve this? I wanted him to be kind to me again, to laugh with me as he had done just a few days earlier on the abandoned train tracks, or when I'd explained to him that same afternoon that B. was the only town in Italy where the corriera, the regional bus line, carrying Christ, whisked by without ever stopping. He had immediately laughed and recognized the veiled allusion to Carlo Levi's book. I liked how our minds seemed to travel in parallel, how we instantly inferred what words the other was toying with but at the last moment held back.
            He was going to be a difficult neighbor. Better stay away from him, I thought. To think that I had almost fallen for the skin of his hands, his chest, his feet that had never touched a rough surface in their existence--and his eyes, which, when their other, kinder gaze fell on you, came like the miracle of the Resurrection. You could never stare long enough but needed to keep staring to find out why you couldn't.
            I must have shot him a similarly wicked glance.
            For two days our conversations came to a sudden halt.
            On the long balcony that both our bedrooms shared, total avoidance: just a makeshift hello, good morning, nice weather, shallow chitchat.
            Then, without explanation, things resumed.
            Did I want to go jogging this morning? No, not really. Well, let's swim, then.
            Today, the pain, the stoking, the thrill of someone new, the promise of so much bliss hovering a fingertip away, the fumbling around people I might misread and don't want to lose and must second-guess at every turn, the desperate cunning I bring to everyone I want and crave to be wanted by, the screens I put up as though between me and the world there were not just one but layers of rice-paper sliding doors, the urge to scramble and unscramble what was never really coded in the first place--all these started the summer Oliver came into our house. They are embossed on every song that was a hit that summer, in every novel I read during and after his stay, on anything from the smell of rosemary on hot days to the frantic rattle of the cicadas in the afternoon--smells and sounds I'd grown up with and known every year of my life until then but that had suddenly turned on me and acquired an inflection forever colored by the events of that summer.
Or perhaps it started after his first week, when I was thrilled to see he still remembered who I was, that he didn't ignore me, and that, therefore, I could allow myself the luxury of passing him on my way to the garden and not having to pretend I was unaware of him. We jogged early on the first morning--all the way up to B. and back. Early the next morning we swam. Then, the day after, we jogged again. I liked racing by the milk delivery van when it was far from done with its rounds, or by the grocer and the baker as they were just getting ready for business, liked to run along the shore and the promenade when there wasn't a soul about yet and our house seemed a distant mirage. I liked it when our feet were aligned, left with left, and struck the ground at the same time, leaving footprints on the shore that I wished to return to and, in secret, place my foot where his had left its mark.
            This alternation of running and swimming was simply his "routine" in graduate school. Did he run on the Sabbath? I joked. He always exercised, even when he was sick; he'd exercise in bed if he had to. Even when he'd slept with someone new the night before, he said, he'd still head out for a jog early in the morning. The only time he didn't exercise was when they operated on him. When I asked him what for, the answer I had promised never to incite in him came at me like the thwack of a jack-in-the-box wearing a baleful smirk. "Later."
            Perhaps he was out of breath and didn't want to talk too much or just wanted to concentrate on his swimming or his running. Or perhaps it was his way of spurring me to do the same--totally harmless.
            But there was something at once chilling and off-putting in the sudden distance that crept between us in the most unexpected moments. It was almost as though he were doing it on purpose; feeding me slack, and more slack, and then yanking away any semblance of fellowship.
             The steely gaze always returned. One day, while I was practicing my guitar at what had become "my table" in the back garden by the pool and he was lying nearby on the grass, I recognized the gaze right away. He had been staring at me while I was focusing on the fingerboard, and when I suddenly raised my face to see if he liked what I was playing, there it was: cutting, cruel, like a glistening blade instantly retracted the moment its victim caught sight of it. He gave me a bland smile, as though to say, No point hiding it now.
            Stay away from him.
            He must have noticed I was shaken and in an effort to make it up to me began asking me questions about the guitar. I was too much on my guard to answer him with candor. Meanwhile, hearing me scramble for answers made him suspect that perhaps more was amiss than I was showing. "Don't bother explaining. Just play it again." But I thought you hated it. Hated it? Whatever gave you that idea? We argued back and forth. "Just play it, will you?" "The same one?" "The same one."
            I stood up and walked into the living room, leaving the large French windows open so that he might hear me play it on the piano. He followed me halfway and, leaning on the windows' wooden frame, listened for a while.
            "You changed it. It's not the same. What did you do to it?"
             "I just played it the way Liszt would have played it had he jimmied around with it."
            "Just play it again, please!"
            I liked the way he feigned exasperation. So I started playing the piece again.
            After a while: "I can't believe you changed it again."
            "Well, not by much. This is just how Busoni would have played it if he had altered Liszt's version."
            "Can't you just play the Bach the way Bach wrote it?"
            "But Bach never wrote it for guitar. He may not even have written it for the harpsichord. In fact, we're not even sure it's by Bach at all."
            "Forget I asked."
            "Okay, okay. No need to get so worked up," I said. It was my turn to feign grudging acquiescence. "This is the Bach as transcribed by me without Busoni and Liszt. It's a very young Bach and it's dedicated to his brother."
            I knew exactly what phrase in the piece must have stirred him the first time, and each time I played it, I was sending it to him as a little gift, because it was really dedicated to him, as a token of something very beautiful in me that would take no genius to figure out and that urged me to throw in an extended cadenza. Just for him.
            We were--and he must have recognized the signs long before I did--flirting.
Excerpted from Call Me By Your Name by André Aciman. Copyright 2007 by André Aciman. Published in January 2007 by Farrar, Straus and Giroux, LLC. All rights reserved.


Excerpted from Call Me by Your Name by Aciman, Andre Copyright © 2007 by Aciman, Andre. Excerpted by permission.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.

Meet the Author

André Aciman is the author of Out of Egypt and False Papers, and the editor of The Proust Project. He teaches comparative literature at the Graduate Center of the City University of New York. He lives with his family in Manhattan.

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Call Me By Your Name 4.6 out of 5 based on 0 ratings. 67 reviews.
Casperthghost13816 More than 1 year ago
Not in a long time has a book affected me in such a way. When I stared this book, I loved the writing style and the description of Elio's world. But then I suddenly became attached to Elio. I felt what he felt. His fascination, his desires, his admiration, and after a while his love for Oliver. You feel as though you are there, sitting in the thick, warm atmosphere of an Italian Riviera, seeing every step of the blossoming relationship between Oliver and Elio. Yet always wondering what will happen when this guest finally has to leave?
The biggest surprise of this book is that Aciman describes the one thing that everyone in this world looks for and many do not find, total intimacy. Where two people become one unit, not just physically but emotionally. Where both people become each other. Even though I have finished the book, I still am looking at it, re-reading whole chapters just because this book has affected me in such a way.
Try this book, not only will it touch your heart but it will make you wonder and feel things that you haven't felt in a very, very long time.
Maria_of_amor More than 1 year ago
If only we all could express who we were at 17 with such grace, honesty and lucidity.
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
well i thought the book was written very differently than any other book i've read, so it pulled me in right away. but i'm not sure how i feel about it. elio's obsession sometimes creeped me out, but sometimes i related so well, because i've had the same emotions. it's one of those books where it feels like you're the only one who's read it and it's such an engrossing book that it feels like your life. it will also definitely stay with me for a long time.
Guest More than 1 year ago
This book is, plainly and simply, an exquisitely-written love story that has haunted me long after I finished reading it. The story and characters touched my heart, and I found myself rereading excerpts and passages that were particularly beautiful. I highly recommend this book.
Guest More than 1 year ago
I do not think I have ever read such a beautiful masterpiece. This book leaves you aching for what must exist, and yet can only exist within the pages of fiction. There are innumerable quotes and passages that will touch your heart and leave you breathless.
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
This book! Oh, this book! If you have ever fallen instantly, with every cell in your body, for someone, then you will read your own story in this book. There is no character named Elio; you are Elio and Oliver is your lover. Beware - you will re-live every detail of your affair - from the anxiety ridden beginning to the lust-fueled middle to the heart-wrenching end. You will find yourself staying up too late at night to read this book, and then staying up later still re-living the insanity that was your own romance. You will find yourself seeking out your current partner, just so you can close your eyes and pretend that your Oliver is once again touching you. And you will wish, you will wish, that you had thought to ask your lover to "Call Me By Your Name."
Etoile More than 1 year ago
The best book I've ever read, Aciman writes in a touching beautiful way, I felt what Eliot felt, I could listen to the cicadas, I could feel the warm Italian breeze over my skin. Now that I've finished the book, I miss Eliot, Oliver, Italy, and the beautiful words in Call me by your name. I found out that it is possible to call other person by your name, because you share a deep connection, and I realized that love goes beyond what I had thought. I would never forget this book, written in a really realistic way, describing carefully each feeling, each action, seducing you in each page, leaving you totally gasped with your heart beating tenderly. I have the fondest love for this unforgettable book, that will not rest on my mind, on the contrary my mind, my heart , myself will rest in the book, in the middle of that Italian summer for ever.
Guest More than 1 year ago
This book was amazing! I suggest it to anyone who loves a good love story. If Oliver and Elio's characters were writen any differently it would'nt be as good as it was. It will definitely go on the bookshelf with my favorites!
Guest More than 1 year ago
A truly amazing novel. The author does a great job of building Oliver and Elio's relationship. Taking them slowly, and sometimes painfully, from friends to lovers. Aciman also does a magnificent job describing the sights sounds feelings emotions and everything you could possibly want to know. Brilliant! I was hooked from the beginning when we first meet Oliver, and couldn't put it down. Even when I started crying in the 4th and final part. A real tearjerker! Overall it's too good to be summed up in a review, it's definitely a must read!!
Guest More than 1 year ago
This is such a wonderful book. Although it rips your heart out, it is so well written and so evocative of it's setting, Italy, that although I've never been there, I could see and smell it. By the end of the book, I felt as if I knew these characters, and exactly what they looked like. This book is absolutely worth your time.
Guest More than 1 year ago
This novel has universal appeal. Both young and old, gays and straight people, and especially people who admire lovely prose, will find it irresistible. A novel as magnificent and gripping as this gets published only once in a blue moon. This novel will grip your mind at the very beginning, and the witty, charming voice of its narrator, seventeen years old Elio, will lead you through the wondrous tunnel of human emotions such as desire, passion and lust, in search of the elusive and slippery love. The story is about young Elio¿s intense infatuation with the handsome American, twenty-four years old Oliver, a post-doctoral scholar and author, who comes as a house-guest to stay for six weeks at Elio¿s villa in the Italian Riviera. Elio is well-read and talented. He can sing, and play guitar and piano, too. Both men like to jog and play tennis. They love to swim and they flirt on the beach and indulge in witty dialogue. The author, Andre Acimen, succeeds in creating an illusion that the two young men make a perfect pair - a match made in heaven. But nothing in this world is perfect, of course, and nothing lasts for ever. And there lies the tension and the aches and pains a reader feels, and the torment one suffers while reading this novel. If you ever had crush on someone when you were a teenager, reading this novel will bring out the long dormant memories to the surface, and you will feel the sweet aches and experience the torments again, like new. Perhaps you will also feel an overwhelming desire to read some passages again, only to marvel at the glittering prose, at sentences of extraordinary beauty and elegance. Here is Elio¿s reflection on his jogging with Oliver on the beach: ¿I liked it when our feet were aligned, left with left, and struck the ground at the same time, leaving footprints on the shore that I wished to return to and, in secret, place my foot where his had left its mark.¿ If you are young at heart, you will easily empathize with Elio and feel all his emotions, and if you are very old at heart, and thought your heart petrified so long ago that it was incapable of feeling desire, passion, lust and love, you will be utterly astonished to hear your heart begin to sing a few notes again. And you most certainly will witness the alchemy of Andre Aciman¿s poetic prose slowly transmuting the baser human emotions of passion and lust into precious and divine love. Reading this novel will touch and warm your heart.
Anonymous 10 months ago
At first, I thought this was going to be a slog, but then the book found it's beautiful voice and the prose started to soar. Loved it.
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
carlosmock More than 1 year ago
Call me by Your Name by Andr&eacute; Aciman This is a coming of age novel, a love story between Elio, a 17 y/o Italian Jew and Oliver, a 24 y/o college professor from Columbia University. Elio's family offer a room for two months in the summer on their Italian Riviera home to a college graduate so that they can do some sabbatical work. The student helps Elio's father, a college professor, with his work while working on his/her project. On Elio's 17th birthday, this person happens to be Oliver. Oliver is trying to write a book on Heraclitus. He meets and becomes part of Elio's family life: mom and dad; Mafalda, the cook; Manfredi, her husband and chauffeur; Anchise, the gardener. The neighbors: Vimini, the 10 y/o girl with leukemia, Chiari, the slotty girl who seduces Oliver, Marzia, Elio's first carnal experience. However, from the minute they meet, the physical connection between Elio and Oliver is colossal. At first, Oliver tries to avoid involvement, but Elio is resilient on his quest. As they finally consume their love, Elio is first run by guilt. Guilt is followed by acceptance, and acceptance ends with a three day stay in Rome where Elio and Oliver live like lovers in an upscale hotel rented by Elio's father. They party with writers, poets, and artists and Elio, who is brilliant and an accomplished musician, decides this is the life he wants. As Oliver returns to his college life in New England, he stays in touch with Elio. &quot;...we'll speak about two young men who found much happiness for a few weeks and lived the remainder of their lives dipping cotton swabs into that bowl of happiness, fearing they'd use it up, without daring to drink more than a thimbleful on ritual anniversaries.&quot; The book ends with the two lovers meeting 23 years later when Elio asks Oliver, now married with two kids, to &quot;look me in the eye, hold my gaze, and call me by your name.&quot; Told from the Elio's first person point of view the book is an enjoyable story of love, lust, acceptance, and growth. The prose is at points poetic. &quot;...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.&quot; A beautiful love story.
wordstoliveby More than 1 year ago
At times creepy. But ultimately I found this book to be very pleasant. It had beautiful characters and an interesting plot. And it was exactly the right length, which in these days, is hard to do.  Read it!
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
This book really draws you into every nuance of discovering one's same sex attraction. Each chapter invites the reader to savor the subtle complexities of attraction, loving, confusion, hope, and maturing self awareness. You'll go back to it over and over and never be disappointed.
AngieJG More than 1 year ago
I was worried when I started reading the novel. I saw where it was headed and didn't think it would be a book I enjoy. It is definitely not one of my usual selections. The books I read tend to be historical fiction with long flowing prose. This book is written is short, Hemingway, get to the point sentences. It was hard to figure out what was happening in the beginning, then it fell into place. I was pleasantly surprised by how much I liked this book and the love story it presents. Just as my title says, it was a very interesting and unique read. I don't know that it is for everyone. But it did me some good to get out of my comfort zone and try a new genre and author.
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Beautiful. Amazing. Brilliantly written love story and coming of age story that opens up your eyes to see the world and experiences in a whole new light. If you can remember your first love or that moment when you realized you found the love of your life, this wonderful book is for you.
bbb57 More than 1 year ago
I cannot overstate the beautiful writing in this book. Descriptively raw yet tender, bold yet intimate, heavy yet sensitive. On the other hand, the story was bland. I recommend it for the writing style alone.
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
This is a book that, if you even consider reading it, you must read.
Anonymous More than 1 year ago