The Grief of Lost Love, Our Human Fragility, the Unreliability of Our Hopes, and the Inevitable Return to What We Thought We Had Surpassed
In This Conversation, André Aciman – Egyptian-born American Author of Call Me by Your Name and Homo Irrealis – Discusses the Deep Impact of His Multicultural Experiences on His Writing, the Complexities of Migration and Exile, the Bittersweet Nature of Lost Love, and the Concept of Time, as Well as His Views on the Film Adaptation of His Novel.
When you accepted my interview request, you mentioned that you know many Iranians. Were you referring to Iranian writers or filmmakers, or to Iranian citizens you had interacted with personally?
In the late 1970s, when I was a graduate student at Harvard, I met many Iranians who were studying there. Some were undergraduates, but most were pursuing graduate degrees. Our relationship was very friendly, and we often socialized together.
Has your multicultural background – being born in Egypt and later immigrating to the United States – had a clear impact on your writing?
It’s easy to claim that the more we are exposed to diverse cultures and languages, the richer and broader our perspective becomes. Sometimes, a phrase comes to me first in French or Italian, and I then translate it into English, the language I am most fluent in, though it’s not my native tongue. But multiculturalism can also bring a sense of insecurity. We don’t know where we truly belong, we don’t quite know who we are, and merely saying that we are a “blend” of multiple cultures and languages doesn’t fully address the challenging question of identity. We often wish to have a singular, clear identity rather than a composite one. We envy those who do, but we wouldn’t trade places with them.
Having lived within multiple cultures firsthand, what insights have you gained about the experience of migration? And what is your view on the global refugee crisis?
I can briefly say that migration – especially when it’s forced – is a profoundly painful experience from which one never fully recovers. The outward appearance of an exile can be misleading: one adapts, builds a life, may even thrive. But one never forgets what was left behind, and never stops comparing what was lost to what has been gained. Psychologically, a refugee’s life is often catastrophic. People can strive to belong to the surrounding culture, and many succeed; yet they always remain outsiders.
Given your deep reflections on memory and time, how do you reconcile with the idea that the present is the only real time, especially since your work often delves into the past and nostalgia?
As I’ve tried to show especially in Homo Irrealis, the present is a time no one truly knows how to inhabit. Though we claim that the present is all we have, the moment we begin to think, we move away from it, either toward what we hope might happen, or what we wish had happened… and still might. In essence, we’re either fantasizing about possibilities or reflecting on past experiences. That’s why I see these imagined or conditional spaces as the most authentic realms in which we actually live. As I’ve said many times, you can enjoy a delicious plate of lasagna in the present, and you should! but even as you’re enjoying it, you are “constructing” a memory of it for tomorrow, so you can remember how good it was. In a sense, I live in three dimensions of time: the present, as it becomes memory, and as it is projected into future recall. Another example I often give is tourists: instead of gazing at a statue, they photograph it, so they’ll remember having seen it, though they never truly looked at it.
Did experiences of love, loss, and absence help shape your narrative voice in Homo Irrealis?
The loss of love wounds our identity. In some ways, it breeds suspicion about loyalty, and this erodes our hope that another person’s love can bring true happiness. The grief of lost love reveals our human fragility, the unreliability of our hopes, and the inevitability of returning to what we thought we had transcended: loneliness.
For me, the loss of love is a metaphor for profound mourning. I have not only lost love—I have also mourned for my homeland, my home, my religion, my flag. So, one deep absence can become entangled with many others.
How do you choose the locations and geographical settings for your novels, since they play a key role in your stories and often function almost as a character themselves? What do these places mean to you?
I don’t choose a location with a specific intention, at least, it’s not a conscious decision. Before I even realize where my story takes place, the location is already determined. Perhaps the opposite is true: the environment that I long to experience leads me to tell the story seamlessly within that setting. Looking back, these places seem perfectly suited: Call Me by Your Name could only take place in Italy during the summer, while Eight White Nights could only happen in winter in New York.
Call Me by Your Name was a successful film adaptation, and it introduced your work to a wider audience. How did you feel about the film?
I loved this adaptation because most of the scenes that were important to me as a writer were preserved in the film, and in some cases, their impact was even enhanced. The scene between father and son at the end is truly magnificent, and I never tire of watching it. The final scene of the film, where Timothée Chalamet gazes into the fireplace, is absolutely brilliant. The confession scene near the memorial to the fallen soldiers of Piave was equally powerful. I’ve heard from many authors who believed that adaptations of their novels were, if not entirely disappointing, incomplete. But I loved the film. I especially adored the way Elio’s inner emotions were expressed simply through his gaze.
What films have had a significant impact on you?
If I think about the films that have influenced me both personally and as a writer, there are many to mention. I love Visconti, and of course, I have a special affection for Eric Rohmer’s Four Moral Tales from 1968-1972.
What’s the secret to the lasting success of your 32-year marriage?
As Richard Burton once answered when asked a similar question: the answer is tolerance. But mutual respect is essential, respecting preferences that often differ from our own desires, being moderately candid, and most importantly, maintaining friendship, love, affection, and enduring companionship.
Have any writers or works had a significant influence on your philosophy of writing?
A writer who had a major influence on me is Marcel Proust. It shouldn’t be surprising, as I’ve been saying this for many years. Specifically, he shaped two things: (1) the ability to research and delve into, to doubt and question, to explore, analyze, not just others, but ultimately oneself. If Proust’s writings connect with many people, it’s precisely because people find themselves in him and his characters. This applies not only to his characters but also to his worldview: always subject to analysis and reinterpretation. (2) His style, which allows the writer to prefer detail over brevity, unless conciseness is absolutely necessary. His writing is not merely flawless, but once you become interested in it, it transforms into a perspective that shapes your view of everything, from vegetation to interior décor, clothing, and of course, people. As Proust himself says, writing style represents the author’s perception of the world.
How do you see the relationship between literature and social or political issues? As a writer, do you feel a responsibility to engage politically with the world?
The connection between literature and social issues is undoubtedly multifaceted. Some writers dedicate their entire careers to writing and discussing social and political issues. Some engage directly and publicly as legal or political analysts, while others skillfully express their political views through novels or non-fiction narratives. I think of Primo Levi or several Soviet-era novelists who artistically expressed their opposition to Stalin. And of course, there are writers whose work is entirely apolitical. Regarding my own writing – except for romantic novels – my primary commitment is to be true to myself and my experiences. When I wrote Out of Egypt and The Roman Year, it was important for me to depict the political environment I grew up in, the anti-Semitism we faced, and the pain we endured as refugees in Italy. This was my way of expressing the hardships that countless other Jews suffered. Even today, I still hear from Middle Eastern Jews who tell me how much they relate to Out of Egypt—the book could be about their own families and the tortures they endured. In this regard, I feel a responsibility to tell my story, and to tell it well.
Are there themes or ideas that you haven’t explored yet in your writing, and are you looking to explore them in your future works?
I always revisit recurring themes: loss, migration, the inability to define oneself, the ambiguous commitment to certainties that others hold, the fragile slope between the past and the future, the challenge of resolving personal identity and collective bonds, and the ever-changing nature of all statements. Ultimately, I realize that considering my history as someone without a clear identity who never fully belongs anywhere, there are two things that sometimes give me comfort. Writing about these subjects, in the hope that it can potentially create clarity and understanding, and the ironic perspective that guides me on my path and challenges me to maintain a unique viewpoint without acknowledging its opposing views.
What book are you working on right now?
I’m working on a novel, but I prefer not to talk about it too much because I’m afraid it will bring bad luck.