Call me by your name
av André Aciman (forfatter).
Atlantic Books 2009 Heftet
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During a restless summer on the Italian Riviera, a powerful romance blooms between seventeen-year-old Elio and his father's house guest, Oliver. Unrelenting currents of obsession and fear, fascination and desire threaten to overwhelm the lovers who at first feign indifference to the charge between them. What grows from the depths of their souls is a romance of scarcely six weeks' duration, and an experience that marks them for a lifetime. For what the two discover on the Riviera and during a sultry evening in Rome is the one thing they both already fear they may never truly find again: total intimacy.
Bokdetaljer
Forlag Atlantic Books
Utgivelsesår 2009
Format Heftet
ISBN13 9781843546535
EAN 9781843546535
Serie Elio (1)
Språk Engelsk
Sider 248
Utgave 1
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For meg ble denne for stillestående og langdryg, særlig i første halvdel. Vurderte sterkt å droppe lesingen og bare se den på Netflix, men noe fikk meg til å fortsette - den har jo fått så bra score, den er nødt for å ta seg opp. Og det gjorde den. Når den først kom ordentlig i gang ble den ganske så bra både i handling og med lettere språk. Klarer likevel ikke gi den så høyt terningkast, så lander den litt under middels.
Denne boka var veldig spesiell! Elio forelsker seg i sommergjesten Oliver på den italienske rivieraen. Skrivestilen virket litt svulstig i begynnelsen, men etter hvert kom jeg inn i den poetiske flyten. Det er mye lengsler, tvil, tankespinn og sakte tilnærmelser. Og etter hvert: heftig romantikk! Her er det både intellektuelle samtaler om litteratur og klassisk musikk, og poetiske rå og direkte beskrivelser av begjær. Gleder meg til å se filmen, jeg tror stemningen kan komme veldig godt frem i filmformat. Og forhåpentligvis får vi høre musikken som blir beskrevet i boka.
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Caroline Sagstad siterer Call me by your name av André Aciman
00:51, 3. november 2011 Ingen har det som favoritt.
I stopped for a second. If you remember everything, I wanted to say, and if you are really like me, then before you leave tomorrow, or when you’re just ready to shut the door of the taxi and have already said goodbye to everyone else and there’s not a thing left to say in this life, then, just this once, turn to me, even in jest, or as an afterthought, which would have meant everything to me when we were together, and, as you did back then, look me in the face, hold my gaze, and call me by your name.
Wenke siterer Call me by your name av André Aciman (side 225)
21:05, 23. januar 2018 Ingen har det som favoritt.
Was my father someone else? And if he was someone else, who was I?
Wenke siterer Call me by your name av André Aciman (side 232)
21:08, 23. januar 2018 Ingen har det som favoritt.
Time makes us sentimental. Perhaps, in the end, it is because of time that we siffer.
Caroline Sagstad siterer Call me by your name av André Aciman
00:57, 3. november 2011 Ingen har det som favoritt.
As we ambled down and emptied labyrinth of sparely lit streets, I began to wonder what all this talk of San Clemente had to do with us – how we move through time, how time moves through us, how we change and keep changing and come back to the same. One could even grow old and not learn a thing but this. That was the poet’s lesson, I presume. In a month or so from now, when I’d revisit Rome, being here tonight with Oliver would seem totally unreal, as thought it had happened to an entirely different me. And the wish born three years ago here when an errand boy offered to take me to a cheap movie theater known for what went on there would seem no less unfulfilled to me three months from now than it was three years ago. 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.
Karoline Røyskatt siterer Call me by your name av André Aciman (side 142)
14:20, 5. januar 2019 Ingen har det som favoritt.
That morning he went into town alone. Post office, Signora Milani, the usual rounds. I saw him pedal down the cypress lane, still wearing my trunks. No one had ever worn my clothes. Perhaps the physical and the metaphorical meanings are clumsy ways of understanding 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. To be in his mouth while he was in mine and no longer know whose it was, his cock or mine, that was in my mouth. He was my secret conduit to myself- like a catalyst that allows us to become who we are, the foreign body, the pacer, the graft, the patch that sends all the right impulses, the steel pin that makes us more us than we were before the transplant.
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