Find Me

Find Me: Exploring the novel on Life, love, and destiny

Call Me By Your Name, 2017

Whatever you do, do not lie down while reading Find Me, lest you either choke on pure affection or faint from sensuous desire. Reading André Aciman’s sequel to Call Me By Your Name was amongst the most terrifying and yet altogether moving experiences of my decade thus far. I shut and threw this book across my bedroom on multiple occasions, offended by the invasive way it caused me to think such deep and overwhelming thoughts.

I should be accustomed to discomfort from novels on the account of young adulthood is inherently awkward, uneventful, and riveting. I should expect the same emotions to arise in both fiction and real life. For example, a few months ago, on my monthly book run, I had a terrible and unnecessary personal experience:

“I’m looking for The Picture of Dorian Gray,” I began calmly before an over-aware self-consciousness kicked in.

“Of course,” the person behind the desk began typing, then stopped and stared briefly into the openness. 

“That’s by-”

“Oscar Wilde,” I finished.

“Wilde.” The name was exhaled wistfully as if the author and the nameless bookstore person were old friends. As if they had memories and- what else?- history. Yes, history. 

I am convinced that real people live both on and off pages. Real moments exist between shared ownership of nineteenth-century authors and the idea that a book can know you or at least reveal things that make you want to know while simultaneously causing you to feel more known.

André Aciman is aware of this possibility and draws attention to the quotidian. Aciman identifies the nuances of passion and then caresses and dances with them across chapters, continents, and life stages. Ten years after the anthemic “Love My Way” romance between Elio and Oliver in Crema, Aciman shifts his attention to Elio’s father, Samuel Perlman. Now divorced, Samuel finds himself on a train from Florence to Rome to reunite with his son who is now a celebrated classical pianist. While traveling, he meets Miranda who is as interesting and self-assured as the name suggests, and the two pursue a destined relationship in a matter-of-factness emblematic of a story by Rooney or Batuman. They pick up where their previous lovers left off, and recline into a conversation and eventual partnership greater than themselves. 

Meanwhile, Elio pursues a musical mystery with his new muse Michel. This connection burns and fades with the slow realization that Michel simply is not the one. On the other side of the Atlantic, Oliver lives and teaches in New England and also finds himself reconsidering his life and past decisions. In the ending we have long held our breath for, the lovers reunite in Italy in the fulfilling resumption to a love that did not ever cease.

Samuel Perlman eventually passes leaving a son with Miranda. This child, considerately named Oliver, brings the pair together as if a final blessing from Samuel.

Glancing between the pages of the novel and my bedroom ceiling, I could not help but ponder the themes of love, but most assertively, the themes of life. A certain urgency of unrequited love brings to mind the ideals of an unrequited life in which one gives and never takes, takes and never gives- a life in which one lives and fails to understand a true meaning. An unrequited life where Oliver resides in New England has a wife, kids, students who are a part of his life, although they are never truly a part of his- or rather- a part of him.

If Alcott was correct and writing both reflects and confirms importance, then perhaps Aciman is bringing to our attention the fearful consequences of an unlived life. As Elio and Oliver await their unlived potential, this unlived potential yearns also for them. Unlike fiction, if there is no guarantee that our destinies will wait for us, then with most imperativeness shall we board the train leading to our purpose. Nevertheless, an unlived life could be a simpler, more attainable way of describing an unveiled life- one in which one does not travel to Europe to pursue love because one does not know love. An unveiled life in this sense is Oliver residing in New England while Elio settles down with Michel, for neither are cognizant that there is an unceasing flame on the other side of the Atlantic. Perhaps the overwhelmingness I felt while reading Find Me was the slight consideration that as self-directed as I may be, I may not have the capacity to define, feel, or even recognize the call of destiny. 

Oh, that I could write intentionally with a somewhat drastic conviction. Oh, that I could write as well or as succinctly as Sufjan Steven sounds or as rhythmically as falling asleep to Joan Didion. 

If I could win the affection of the masses or the one or two meanderers who find this article on the internet- if I could think furtively, explore clearly, and cause whomever victim- or more commonly known as the reader- to feel such deep, withering thoughts stab and crawl from the great beyond most notably referred to as the subconscious- would I have found my Italy? Would I have crossed my Atlantic? Shall I then discover my Oliver?

While residing in the dichotomy where I could count my failed artistic pursuits- rejected essays, lost competitions- on the same hands that bled while creating such art, I often wonder about the fleeting nature of Time or if the next stage of my life, though exciting, will offer relief in the form of the explosive, Gatsby-like spontaneity and success that young people are conditioned to value.

There is a version of Elio that was numb for many years as if within him lived a dormant being that could only be awakened by the pale skin of Oliver’s forearms. 

If there was a version of Elio that existed, or rather still exists, then perhaps my nascent artistry and separately defined personhood will awaken as well. Perhaps I will find, or perhaps I have already found.