aciman callmebyyourname andreaciman cmbyn armiehammer cmbynfilm timotheechalamet cmbynquote bookworm acimanbook aesthetic book callmebyyournamebook callmebyyournamefilm cmbynbook cmbynlocations cmbynmovie cmbynquotes corcordium elioandoliver elioperlman italy sanclementesyndrom selamore summer1983 elio parallellife novel bookstagram acimanbook
Ok guys. Here is the crazy story about B. Before going to Bordighera, I wanted to read again the Aciman's essay I had previously only looked through - 'My Monet moment'. In this paper he describes his first encounter with pittoresque Italian town and the pains the search of original Monet locations gave him. At certain point, when he was about to give up, he stumbles upon a beautiful villa, which was frequented and painted by Monet.
I made a mental note to visit the place, and was really intrigued by his phrase that now villa operates as a hotel with quite affordable prices.
I was like 'no, the villa built by the famous architector of 19th century can't be that cheap' and opened booking.com to check it. Predictably, I didn't even find the hotel and was about to give up, when I saw the site of the villa, which actually gave me information about available rooms, prices and everything. Indeed, you can make a call and book a room at a bargain price, what I did to my complete amazement.
But what really blew up my mind were the pictures of the villa. At that moment I was posting here last quotes from the book and the description of the Perlmans' villa and surroundings were quite fresh in memory. And I realized that villa Garnier looked pretty much like Perlmans villa. There are discrepancies, of course. In reality it's bigger and has a tower, for example. But could this be a prototype? I'm quite confident about this, especially given the sentiments the building aroused in Aciman.
Can you imagine my state when I managed to book a room two days in advance in the villa, which became iconic thanks to the most delicious book ever?
I'm studying Italian now by a coursebook and just three days before my discovery I learned how to book a room by phone, ask about facilities,etc, although I was quite sure about the inutility of this lexis. Come on, do we really need this in the epoch of booking.com, Airbnb etc? It appears we do, especially when we need to book a room in a very special villa❤️
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That day, after we landed, my mother desperately tried to make it up to me, speaking to me so sweetly and so amicably that we made peace soon enough. Yet the real damage was not in the cutting words she wished she hadn’t spoken and that I would never forget. The damage was to our love: it had lost its warmth, its spontaneity, and become a willed, conscious, rueful love. She was pleased to see I still loved her; I was pleased to see how readily both she and I were fooled. The two of us were aware of being pleased, which intensified our truce. But we must have sensed that being so easily reassured was nothing more than a dilution of our love.
She hugged me more often, and I wanted to be hugged. But I didn’t trust my love, and I could tell, from the way she looked at me when she thought I wasn’t looking, that she didn’t trust it either. — 'Enigma variations'
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.
“Are you happy you’re back?”
⠀
He saw through my question before I did.
⠀
“Are you happy I’m back?” he retorted.
⠀
I looked at him, feeling quite disarmed, though not threatened. Like people who blush easily
but aren’t ashamed of it, I knew better than to stifle this feeling, and let myself be swayed by it.
⠀
“You know I am. More than I ought to be, perhaps.”
⠀
“Me too.”
⠀
That said it all.
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CHIAMAMI COL TUO NOME
Riviera ligure, anni ‘80. Elio ha 17 anni e, insieme ai suoi genitori, accoglie un giovane studente americano, Oliver, nella villa di famiglia dove trascorreranno l’estate. I due ragazzi si innamorano perdutamente l’uno dell’altro.
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Ho amato questo romanzo dalla prima all’ultima pagina per vari motivi: la penna di Aciman, la caratterizzazione dei personaggi, l’ambientazione, i riferimenti letterari e musicali. Elio è il nostro narratore e tramite i suoi pensieri e i suoi mille dubbi su come comportarsi con Oliver si viene trascinati come in un uragano, che prende le sembianze di un amore unico, irrinunciabile, vero, fortissimo, forse proibito ma sicuramente travolgente. La bellezza di queste pagine mi ha conquistata subito, volevo sapere cosa sarebbe successo tra loro due...se la loro storia sarebbe durata o no. Oltre a Elio e Oliver, l’altro protagonista indiscusso di questo romanzo è il luogo: Aciman ci permette di apprezzarne i colori, di sentirne gli odori, di dare un senso magico e ancora più romantico alla storia. Infine, come non citare il meraviglioso discorso tra padre e figlio che mi ha davvero commossa per la sua bellezza. Che dire poi delle ultimissime righe...da brividi! Spero tanto che lo leggerete, a me ha toccato il cuore.
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Il film è bello, ma io ho notato molte differenze con il libro e alcuni cambiamenti e omissioni non li ho capiti perché li ritenevo molto importanti.
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A voi è piaciuto? Avete letto il libro e/o visto il film?
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“Seeing you here is like waking from a twenty-year coma. You look around you and you find
that your wife has left you, your children, whose childhood you totally missed out on, are grown
men, some are married, your parents have died long ago, you have no friends, and that tiny face
staring at you through goggles belongs to none other than your grandson, who’s been brought along
to welcome Gramps from his long sleep. Your face in the mirror is as white as Rip Van Winkle’s.
⠀
But here’s the catch: you’re still twenty years younger than those gathered around you, which is
why I can be twenty-four in a second—I am twenty-four. And if you pushed the parable a few years further up, I could wake up and be younger than my elder son.”
⠀
“What does this say about the life you’ve lived, then?”
⠀
“Part of it—just part of it—was a coma, but I prefer to call it a parallel life. It sounds better.
Problem is that most of us have—live, that is—more than two parallel lives.”
⠀
⠀
May I speculate a bit about the excerpt? In my seminars on Greek philosophy, our professor explained to us once that in Plato's dialogue 'Phaedrus' you can see the traces of an earlier version, i.e. it was rewritten bit not smoothed perfectly after this. I tend to think that Oliver's monologue about coma is of the same nature due to some discrepancies. First, he talks about 20 years, but there were only 15 passed since that summer. 15 is not 18 or 19,5 to round off it as 20. He could easily say 15. Second, he mentions his wife left him, but two pages earlier he invites Elio to meet his wife.
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I think originally this passage was part of the final scene where Oliver comes back twenty years later and his wife had probably left him indeed. But the following lines about parallel lifes wouldn't fit the situation, because Oliver was about to put the end to them, so the author moved Oliver's monologue earlier in time. As it is now, the passage doesn't sound so conclusive and monumental as it would at the very end.
⠀
What do you think?
#cmbynbookanalysis
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And he proceeded to explain the intricacies of a straight-up dry martini. He was okay being a
bartender to the bar’s help.
⠀
“Where did you learn this?” I asked.
⠀
“Mixology 101. Courtesy Harvard. Weekends, I made a living as a bartender all through
college. Then I became a chef, then a caterer. But always a poker player.”
⠀
His undergraduate years, each time he spoke of them, acquired a limelit, incandescent magic,
as if they belonged to another life, a life to which I had no access since it already belonged to the
past. Proof of its existence trickled, as it did now, in his ability to mix drinks, or to tell arcane grappas apart, or to speak to all women, or in the mysterious square envelopes addressed to him
that arrived at our house from all over the world.
I had never envied him the past, nor felt threatened by it. All these facets of his life had the mysterious character of incidents that had occurred in my father’s life long before my birth but
which continued to resonate into the present. I didn’t envy life before me, nor did I ache to travel
back to the time when he had been my age.
.
Like every experience that marks us for a lifetime, I found myself turned inside out, drawn
and quartered. This was the sum of everything I’d been in my life—and more: who I am when I
sing and stir-fry vegetables for my family and friends on Sunday afternoons; who I am when I
wake up on freezing nights and want nothing more than to throw on a sweater, rush to my desk,
and write about the person I know no one knows I am; who I am when I crave to be naked with
another naked body, or when I crave to be alone in the world; who I am when every part of me
seems miles and centuries apart and each swears it bears my name.
.
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The most perfect creature on earth. I mean the cat, of course
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.
“And you,” I asked, “what moment?”
⠀
“Rome too. Singing together till dawn on Piazza Navona.”
⠀
I had totally forgotten. It wasn’t just a Neapolitan song we ended up singing that night. A
group of young Dutchmen had taken out their guitars and were singing one Beatles song after the
other, and everyone by the main fountain had joined in, and so did we. Even Dante showed up
again and he too sang along in his warped English.
⠀
“Did they serenade us, or am I making it up?”
⠀
He looked at me in bewilderment.
⠀
“They serenaded you—and you were drunk out of your mind. In the end you borrowed the
guitar from one of them and you started playing, and then, out of nowhere, singing. Gaping, they
all were. All the druggies of the world listening like sheep to Handel.
⠀
One of the Dutch girls had
lost it. You wanted to bring her to the hotel. She wanted to come too. What a night. We ended up
sitting in the emptied terrace of a closed caffè behind the piazza, just you and I and the girl watching dawn, each of us slumped on a chair.”