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248 pages, Paperback
First published January 23, 2007
“He came. He left. Nothing else had changed. I had not changed. The world hadn't changed. Yet nothing would be the same. All that remains is dreammaking and strange remembrance.”
I wanted to kill him myself . . . If I didn't kill him, then I'd cripple him for life, so that he'd be with us in a wheelchair . . . If he were in a wheelchair, I would always know where he was, and he'd be easy to find. I would feel superior to him and become his master, now that he was crippled.Ah yes, this is a psychological thriller in which we delve deep into the mind and thoughts of a stalker. Err, you say this is a romance? Ok, you've lost me.
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.Yes, the book really reads like that, all of it. Elio analyzes every small action, glance, word, and absence from Oliver. And then he obsesses over them. And leaves clues for Oliver, ones that are certain to be creepy and criminal. And it just gets worse from there.
“We rip out so much of ourselves to be cured of things faster than we should that we go bankrupt by the age of thirty and have less to offer each time we start with someone new. But to feel nothing so as not to feel anything - what a waste!”
Me: This isn't too bad, a little boring and some questionable things but not that bad
Me: *Reads the peach scene*
Me: I am... disgusted
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If I didn’t kill him, then I’d cripple him for life, so that he’d be with us in a wheelchair and never go back to the States. If he were in a wheelchair, I would always know where he was, and he’d be easy to find. I would feel superior to him and become his master, now that he was crippled.
Then it hit me that I could have killed myself instead, or hurt myself badly enough and let him know why I’d done it. If I hurt my face, I'd want him to look at me and wonder why, why might anyone do this to himself, until, years and years later—yes, Later! —he’d finally piece the puzzle together and beat his head against the wall.
“You are the only person I’d like to say goodbye to when I die, because only then will this thing I call my life make any sense. And if I should hear that you died, my life as I know it, the me who is speaking with you now, will cease to exist.”
“He came. He left. Nothing else had changed. I had not changed. The world hadn't changed. Yet nothing would be the same. All that remains is dreammaking and strange remembrance.”
“Did I want to be like him? Did I want to be him? Or did I just want to have him? Or are “being” and “having” thoroughly inaccurate verbs in the twisted skein of desire, where having someone’s body to touch and being that someone we’re longing to touch are one and the same, just opposite banks on a river that passes from us to them, back to us and over to them again in this perpetual circuit where the chambers of the heart, like the trapdoors of desire, and the wormholes of time[…]”
“Cor cordium, heart of hearts, I’ve never said anything truer in my life to anyone.”
“Time makes us sentimental. Perhaps, in the end, it is because of time that we suffer.”
“We had the stars, you and I. And this is given once only.”
Let summer never end, let him never go away, let the music on perpetual replay play forever, I’m asking for very little, and I swear I’ll ask for nothing more.
There is a law somewhere that says that when one person is thoroughly smitten with the other, the other must unavoidably be smitten as well. Amor ch’a null’amato amar perdona. Love, which exempts no one who’s loved from loving
To look up and find you there, Oliver. For the day will come soon enough when I’ll look up and you’ll no longer be there.
“Call me by your name and I’ll call you by mine,” which I’d never done in my life before and which, as soon as I said my own name as though it were his, took me to a realm I never shared with anyone in my life before, or since.