If someone says, “This just came out – you have to read it!”… I probably won’t, or at least, not right away.
It’s for this reason it took me so long to read The Goldfinch (which I loved) and All the Light We Cannot See (which I didn’t.) I don’t have an explanation for it, except that I’ve always been naturally contrary. But I’m glad I finally got around to reading the much-talked-about Call Me By Your Name, a story of first love between two young men in Northern Italy.
Introspective Elio is my favorite kind of narrator: unsure of himself and unapologetically imperfect; honest yet wholly unreliable. A true adolescent on the cusp of self-awareness, Elio is caught between the endearing, all-encompassing confidence of children and the self-doubt caused, at least in part, by his newfound, deep, gut-wrenching emotions. But these feelings veer refreshingly away from cliché: Elio is almost nonplussed by his bisexuality, instead delving deeply into his sense of self – and how his individuality is reflected in those who surround him. His introspective anxiety, the agony of true first love, endears him to me to no end. I loved how open and bare he made himself, how despite his fear, he allowed himself to truly feel all of those deep, complex, painful emotions.
Elio is also a phenomenally intelligent narrator; his interest in academia is referenced throughout the story, but nowhere do I love this more than in his allusion to Montaigne to reflect his relationship with Oliver (Parce que c’était lui, parce que c’était moi.)
I even loved the ending. I hate endings.
So, in this case, I have to agree with everyone else. Call Me by Your Name is a true masterpiece: Erotic, lush, and captivating.