It felt like a friend walked away today… Someone witty and intelligent, someone who had a way with words and wizardry to turn sentences into little works of art that I was tempted to underline, read again and note in my journal for safe-keeping, maybe, frame them at some point 😊.
I will remember this book. I will remember it for the story, for the places it took me to, for the languid mornings and unhurried afternoons, for sunlight strewn gardens, wine and the conversations… And Rome and roaming.
I will also remember it for the thrill that first love brings along with the excitement and the ache. I will remember it for the poignant intimacy that the author managed to generate between his protagonists, Elio and Oliver.
‘Call me by Your Name’ intrigued me as a book title. I mulled over it and thought about it, it was just so beautiful… In what sort of a relationship does one demand this from someone, I wondered? After reading the book I understood it.
I didn’t want this book to end and yet I couldn’t wait to turn the pages…
You blink and a third of your life has gone by. You feel old because people younger than you are talking about writing code and creating innovation while you’ve been rooted in artistry (though your art has been more of a concept than something actually tangible). What has manifested sits in countless journals strewn under your bed, collecting dust. On bad days you tell yourself none of it matters, all that has occurred is a tangled system of existential garbage that has consequently wired your brain to the point of abnormality (then you question if anything is actually normal, ponder it briefly over breakfast, and decide to revisit the issue on a later occasion which will undoubtedly happen). Your conversations with everyone from friends and family to the Chinese woman at the cleaners are like throwing darts at a dartboard while blindfolded. You speak in jumbles of inexact words running circles around the point, but hoping to hit the bull’s-eye. 98 percent of the time you make ambiguous generalizations that expand outward like hot air in a balloon except that the air never stops and the idea just gets so fuzzy that all original reason and meaning blur. Now you stand or sit (it’s really the same to you) lost in a cloud. You look around convincing yourself either that: A.”It’s okay to be lost without a direction,” or B. “The way out isn’t here, but maybe it’s over there.” So you scramble along the journey in “that direction.” By now, the air is very thick—Boston fog. Finally, just as the whole thing seems completely screwed you see a rose sprouting from the concrete. And sure, the rose is a day past bloom and slightly wrinkled, but you sit and enjoy it. You drink it in and you feel ALIVE. You haven’t felt this ALIVE in years. With each sip you catch a taste of the words in the journals collecting dust—the rhythm, the melodic tune of the song before the ink dried. As with everything you must continue. And so you step forward blinking, and suddenly you realize a third of your life has gone by.