Call Me By Your Name

by André Aciman

Did I want to be like him? Did I want to be him? Or did I just want to have him?

“I’m not wise at all. I told you, I know nothing. I know books, and I know how to string words together—it doesn’t mean I know how to speak about the things that matter most to me.”

Zwischen Immer und Nie, for you in silence, somewhere in Italy in the mid-eighties.

There was no hint of irony, nothing that didn’t remind me, unless I was mistaken—and I don’t think I was—that what we had between us was the total transparency that exists among friends only. Perhaps we were friends first and lovers second. But then perhaps this is what lovers are.