Ruminations on Call Me By Your Name by Andre Aciman

My attachment to the novel Call Me By Your Name has never been something I feel particularly comfortable discussing with anyone. Despite its popularity and impact on popular culture due to the release of the critically acclaimed movie adaptation in 2017, it has always felt like a secret I must keep close to my heart. As what always seems to be the case, it’s easier to feign indifference than reveal just how attached I am to something so publicly available; Anyone can read and judge and interpret it in their own way. God forbid we disagree on the value of the book when it is something that is so personal to me, it feels as though it was written for me; I’ve laid claim to it in my head. How do I explain the three copies I have on my bookshelf, my inability to part from my copy when I move from location to location? The masses of neon sticky notes peeking from the pages, painstakingly color coded? I’ve read voraciously since I was a child, I’ve spent all my days in between pages that have amassed to hundreds of books I’ve consumed in my lifetime, yet no book has been able to touch me as deeply as this one. 

Call Me By Your Name, on the surface, is an account on behalf of Elio that spans over several months in his Italian summer home, where he meets Oliver, an exchange student who comes to stay with his family for the time. It is so much more than what some may simply deem a love story, it is a story of Elio’s coming of age into the bubble they have created for themselves in that moment of time. But it is also arguably as simple as an account of what caused his evolution from teenager to young man, from meeting Oliver and being intimidated at first glance, to learning and experiencing the capacity to feel so deeply for someone for the first time, for what may possibly be the only time in his life. There is not much of a structured plot, the book meanders through the supposedly short time frame, and it is strictly told from Elio’s perspective. Yet it is entrancing in the way it explores Elio’s innermost thoughts and desire, one does not miss Oliver’s perspective at all, which would simply dilute the potency of Elio’s point of view. The writing and exploration of Elio’s memories, as told by Elio many years into the future, is stunning and entrancing. There is no way to read it other than to savor each word like the sensation of the breeze through one’s hair during a bike ride through the Italian countryside, or the fragrance of a ripe peach’s skin. Elio’s character is indescribably human, the way he describes his emotions as if he is still reeling from them, deeply and utterly moved by the sheer intensity of his panic, desire, obsession, adoration, confusion, and the way he receives what he perceives as rejection. It is all so vividly captured, the high highs and low lows. In many ways, anyone can relate to Elio, for better or for worse. Because haven’t we all been victim to our emotions before, our hearts controlling our minds, rather than what many may believe regarding the two being separate? As the reader goes on the journey of Elio’s summer, the weeks passing, he takes us through phases of being stuck in his head, jumping to conclusions, immature scribbles in his journal, futile attempts to convince himself of indifference, the unmistakable pleasure he relishes from any kind of attention Oliver lavishes on him. 

The connection that is implied to be mutual, that blossoms between them feels divine and is even described as such. The magic comes less from what we have been conditioned to associate with greatness, grandeur, and glamor. Rather, it is heightened by the characters’ and situation’s sheer ordinariness. Elio is convinced Oliver is extraordinary, he describes Oliver as beloved by all, socially ept and quite simply, all the things Elio is not. Witnessing Elio perform mental aerobics is almost pitiful at times, but it’s like watching something overwhelming to the senses, that chips away at one’s mental fortitude; You can't pull your eyes away. It does not always paint the most romantic, rosy view of love, Elio’s fascination almost leans on the side of unhealthy obsession at times, which makes it all the more complex and up for interpretation. But what is love, if not irrational and even ugly at times? Maybe the story of their connection simply lays out the facts as they are, that you do not need to be extraordinary to be loved deeply.  

In moments where Oliver reciprocates Elio’s care and affection, or even quiet idyllic moments where they are together, we can sense how Elio looks back with an all encompassing wistfulness, on this summer that has changed who he is as his core, and how he sees the world and others around him for better or for worse. Don’t we all find ourselves looking to the past through our individual lenses for fragments and morsels of better days, romantic because they are no longer real, only through our muddled minds can we experience these moments again, but by then it's spoiled. They will never be the same. We can never quite recreate these moments the way we want to. In that sense, Elio’s narration is unreliable, we will never know if Oliver truly felt the same way for Elio, with the same intensity, because the memories are all strange remembrances.