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[682] Harvard Square – André Aciman

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” But I suddenly realized one thing very clearly in this dark bedroom. But looking at him I was almost looking at myself. He was the measure of how close I might come to falling apart and losing everything here. He was just my destiny three steps ahead of me. ” (Ch.5, p.203)

Harvard Square begins with a prologue set in the present day as the unnamed narrator guides his unimpressed teenage son around the campus on a visit. But instead of invoking his son’s interest in Harvard, the trip sends the narrator down the memory lane, to the summer of 1977, when he was a graduate student struggling to pass his PhD qualifying exam. The campus is where “everything he sees seems steeped in a stagnant vat of nostalgia.”

He renamed everything around him to snub the world and show there were other ways of seeing and calling things and that everything had to go through baptismal fire . . . It was his way of reinventing the world in his own image, or in the image of what he wanted the world to be— (Ch.2, p.126)

The novel proper is about an intense, unlikely friendship between two men who painstakingly assimilate into a culture that rewards sameness. The narrator, a Jew and transplant from Egypt, was in a crisis of confidence. A huge part of the novel depicts the withering tedium of graduate school. In between long hours of cramming books, tutoring, working at the library, he strikes up friendship with a Muslim cab-driver from Tunisia.

Kalaj is the duke at Cafe Algiers, where he knows everyone by the footsteps. One day, in the slough of despair, the narrator overheard Kalaj talking in French like a jackhammer, lambasting everything about the Western world. Despite the urge to flee, being so lonely and nostalgic of home, he mustered up to introduce himself in French. A friendship unfurls despite that they have nothing in common except their alien status. They share life stories and keep companions.

Ashamed of myself for being ashamed of him. Ashamed of being a snob. Ashamed of letting others see that what we had in common went far deeper than this surface thing called lousy cash flow. Ashamed that I wasn’t allowing myself to own up how deeply I cared for him and had found it easier to think of us as transient . . . (Ch.6, p.226)

But soon Kalaj’s capricious behavior terrifies him. He is ashamed of Kalaj, and yet sees himself by looking at Kalaj. The story becomes darker and more compelling, as the stakes rise and Kalaj’s attempts to secure a green card grow more panicky.

Harvard Square is a ruminative novel that might strike some readers as under-plotted. It’s elegiac but bittersweet. These exiles, acutely conscious of their “homelessness,” find common ground during the hours of worries over their respective crises. Aciman’s style is subdued and beautiful. The story really lingers on a moment in time, in which displaced, drifting people who long for home find refuge in one another. Quoting Aciman’s own words, the book is an ode to those “magical after love” that stays with one all the years, despite the ephemeral “during memories.” This is a book to savor.

292 pp. W. W. Norton. Paper. [Read|Skim|Toss] [Buy|Borrow]

Impressions of Harvard Square

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I didn’t really like Harvard Square until after 126 pages—for it it is about an unlikely friendship, the book is meandering, poised only on emphasizing the difference between an Egyptian transplant who is a Jew, and a Tunisian who aspires to be French. This is a ruminative novel that will strike some readers as under-plotted. But Harvard Square is a quiet contemplation, a plaintive love letter to displaced, wandering people, to anyone who longs for home and reaches unwisely for the hand of a fellow wanderer. “Maybe Kalaj and I were not so different after all,” the narrator reflects. “Everything about us was transient and provisional, as if history wasn’t done experimenting on us and couldn’t decide what to do next.” Aciman spins a hundred tragic, lush reflections on his fascination with Kalaj, but a less patient reader might wonder if a dozen such passages would have sufficed.

[326] Call Me By Your Name – André Aciman

” 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. [240]

Having grappled with romantic loss and have yet fully recovered make me hesitate to read this book, for fear of the operatic sentimentalism and the unrequited love of the story will provoke those over-wrought nerves and sore wounds. But I’m glad I have read this book, which does give me hope and comfort in times of therapeutic nourishment. It reminds me how I can rip out so much of myself to be cured of the hurt faster than I should that I risk going bankrupt and have less to offer the next person who stumbles on my path. Never has a book spoken so profusely the truth of my mind like Call Me By My Name does. On matter of love and relationship, especially unrequited love, which leaves one party completely helpless to cope with the loss, this novel truly brings to life how one’s fear and desire are busy negotiating in the heart.

What if it came and didn’t let go, a sorrow that had come to stay, and did to me what longing for him had done on those nights when it seemed there was something so essential missing from my life that it might as well have been missing from my body, so that losing him now would be like losing a hand . . . without which you couldn’t possibly be you again. [214-215]

So hit home, rendering so bare and raw a gamut of contradicting emotions. This book is the story of a sudden and powerful romance that flourishes between an adolescent lad, Elio, and a summer guest, Oliver, at his parents’ cliffside mansion on the Italian Riviera. Unprepared for the consequences of their (secretly mutual) attraction, each feigns indifference at first, although Elio is so much more smitten at the very beginning. The first sight of the philosophy scholar, seven years of Elio’s senior, promises instant affinities.

I knew that the sofa awaited me in an hour or so. It made me hate myself for feeling so hapless, so thoroughly invisible, so smitten, so callow. Just say something, just touch me, Oliver. Look at me long enough and watch the tears well in my eyes. Knock at my door at night and see if I haven’t already left it ajar for you. Walk inside. There’s always room in my bed. [59]

That the book is told from 17-year-old Elio’s perspective accentuates the contervailing emotions that accompany the attraction: love at first sight, fear, frustration, carnal desire, shame, self-loathing, consummation, bliss, and passion. It’s a coming-of-age story with an innocence that is very loyal to one’s heart feeling.

Watching him wearing my clothes was an unbearable turn on. And he knew it. It was turning both of us on . . . It was porousness, the fungibility, of our bodies—what was mine was suddenly his, just as what belonged to him could be all mine now. [142]

Call Me By Your Name is an elergy to human passion and intimacy. For what Elio and Oliver discover during the six weeks in Italy is the one previous thing both fear they may never find again: true intimacy. Intimacy is what happens when two beings become totally ductile that each becomes the other. This book doesn’t explore the reason behind this consummate affair nor does it justify the outcome. It gives us a story of two men who have found total intimacy that marks their life, regardless of the paths they have taken afterwards.

247 pp. Hardback [Read/Skim/Toss] [Buy/Borrow]