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精彩短评：
作者：D.A.S. 发布时间：2008-06-08 02:03:12
铁手追命 冷血无情
作者：潘粤萌大表妹 发布时间：2013-10-19 00:09:25
适合翻看，但是考试用的话就太。。。冗杂了
作者：free_POC 发布时间：2020-01-03 22:02:26
没什么独有的内容，一般的合格的期权书籍都会有这部分信息。结合国内股票期权会有点临场感。
作者：Vincen 发布时间：2007-12-24 01:43:03
找工作去喽
作者：Siena 发布时间：2014-05-06 22:58:17
翻译、中文语法、德语词和格式都......
作者：Sany 发布时间：2022-04-24 18:07:01
货币银行方面的一本好书。
深度书评：
土星气质
作者：A Passer-by A 发布时间：2013-01-21 00:15:07
肖像
“微低着头，透过眼镜向下看的眼神——一个近视者温柔的、白日梦者般的那种凝视”，“神情迷离，若有所思”……苏珊·桑塔格在《土星标志下》的如此形容可谓是本雅明标志性的pose了。这位生于19世纪的德国犹太人，却生不逢时的在纳粹战争中跌沛流离于欧洲诸国之间，在最后流亡的丹麦期间，略显老态的他留下的肖像，却是“一副松弛、肥胖的样子，恶狠狠的盯着镜头”。
土星气质
何为“土星气质”？第一次看到有人赋予“忧郁者”（或许可以说是抑郁患者）一个如此朦胧迷离的形容方式。“土星运行最慢，是一颗充满迂回曲折、耽搁停滞的行星。”——这是本雅明的自我标签，也只有同样具备此种标志的人可以读懂他。
土星气质源自“根本上的孤独”，并是“将世界拖进其漩涡中心的孤独”，土星气质将这种风格投射到自己所有的对象上，如波德莱尔、普鲁斯特、卡夫卡……这种“根本上的孤独”又来源于大都市，来源于“对生活中的成功所怀有的恐惧”，这一幕忽然令我想起电影《海上钢琴师》，当1900试图下船走向城市的时候，他发现他恐惧那个没有方向的钢铁森林。本雅明所要诠释的正是“迷失”本身！他一直以来自觉生活在迷宫中，他把城市想象为一张灰色的地图，为了寻找方向，他将每个地点打上丰富多彩的标志符号，然而每个标志符号却又是另一个迷宫的入口。
“土星的影响使人变得漠然、犹豫、迟钝”，与其说本雅明是知道如何迷失于其间，不如说他已经融入迷宫，成为其中一部分。他的漠然、犹豫和迟钝让他放任自己成为没有答案的问题本身，化身为空间，而非时间。“时间是约束、不足、重复、结束等等的媒介。在时间里，一个人不过是他本人：是他一直以来的自己；在空间里，人可以变成另一个人。”本雅明在审视自己的空间维度时，同时也映射了于己相关、甚至自己眼中看到的事物。这是一个迷路者给自己的定位方式。
废墟与残篇的收藏家
如果非要狭义的定义土星气质，那么就是忧郁症患者；广义来说，艺术家或者知识分子多少都有土星气质——即，自我审视。
土星气质的人“始终落后于其自身”，看到“关心的一切东西从远处朝我靠近”，而自己从未与之有永恒的联系，自身与世界的信息交换通过物来进行（人也视为物体），而非通过他人。所以本雅明的视野是各种片段的组合（这让我想起意识流作品的视角），桑塔格认为本雅明的“事物大都以残篇或废墟的形式出现”，通过“巴洛克和超现实主义这两种感受将现实视为物”，他将其缩小并收藏，这是他生活的一种策略。
桑塔格的这一章节的描写让我想到忧郁者如何将自己与世界联系起来——通过感受，本雅明的感受来自于超现主义，表达方式为“工作狂”。
破坏性
由于土星气质的缓慢性和麻木性，只有狂热的工作可以集中注意力。他将所有的物缩小至随身携带，随时可以通过它们进行工作，甚至可以将超现“提升为一种理想，认为可以依靠梦的状态来提供工作所需要的全部物质”。在狂热工作和土星缓慢的对持中，他的“每个句子写出来就好像是第一句，或最后一句”，“他的重要文章仿佛都正好在自我毁灭前及时收尾”，“这些句子的背后似乎有一种恐惧，恐惧自己过早的失去写作能力”。然而土星气质不是让人成为一个创造者，而是成为一个破坏者——“破坏浅薄的内在性，破坏普遍人性、半瓶子醋的创造性以及空洞的言词所具有的安慰人的意图”。
“自杀被视为英雄意志对意志挫败的一种反应。本雅明指出，避开自杀的惟一途径就是超越英雄主义、超越意志的种种努力。具有破坏分子性格不会有被困的感觉，因为他在哪儿都能看到出路。他兴高采烈的忙碌于将存在化为瓦砾，将自己置于十字路口。”
他多次将自己置于十字路口，他认为自由知识分子都是一个正在灭绝的物种，淘汰这一物种的既是革命的共产主义，又是资本主义社会。
在一切存在均被破坏之后，只剩自己。
P.S 初读《土星标志下》时，觉得此文更像是在写桑塔格自己而非本雅明，感觉作者本身比被评论的人物更加enjoy这样土星式描写。而重读《土星》时发现这不是在写谁谁谁、某某某，是写描述一种文学艺术家具备的气质（土星气质），那种可以将时间空间化的感受力，那种将一个连贯的人生过程拆解成一段一段的残篇的能力（大家各不相关，但客观上本来就是相关的）。如果说坦白点（不要说得像文中这么含蓄委婉），可能就是指忧郁气质。曾经看到有书叫《躁狂抑郁多才俊》，虽然躁狂抑郁不一定导致才俊（逻辑上不是必然的因果关系），但才俊一般来说多少都有些抑郁气质（即土星气质），这是一种可以让人保持独立思考的精神动力。
鼠尾續貂
作者：wavyfly 发布时间：2019-11-25 11:15:48
#
書
# 2019《Find Me》3/10
作者：André Aciman
出版社：Farrar, Straus and Giroux
出版時間：2019-10-29
頁數：224
精簡版：單獨讀書筆記
到底是什麼支撐我讀完這兩百多頁的贗品的？是憤怒！除此以外我想不到任何理由！
已經做好了是狗尾續貂的心理準備，但還是心存僥倖：來個老套王子和王子從此幸福地柴米油鹽happily ever after也是可以接受的嘛。
沒想到……沒想到！
Aciman絕對是被《Call Me By Your Name》的成功沖昏了頭腦，根本沒有思考好這本書到底要講什麼，頭重腳輕，結尾江郎才盡，只能戈然而止——假如以作品是否引發情緒作為判斷標準的話，這本書絕對超越上一本——讀得一肚子火，不知道是生氣作者硬生生打碎一個夢，還是痛恨自己為什麼手賤忍不住非要讀！
閱讀目錄時候，還在佩服Aciman的想法，四個章節命名Tempo，Cadenza，Capriccio和Da Capo看上去像是又一首精彩的樂曲，但閱讀過程腦裡響著的是廉價馬戲團配樂——喜怒哀樂刻意為之，故事轉換依靠著kitsch的"Find Me"硬生生串起來，連超市收銀台前的愛情小說都比它來的合理耐讀。
《Tempo》
如果這本書不是擦著《Call Me By Your Name》的邊，這一章勉強可以擠進中年危機男YY書籍列表：中年大學教授火車上偶遇年輕女攝影師，一兩句話就已經認為對方是人生難得知己，故作姿態互相試探，失而復得後攤開心扉，血腥情話加上激情床戰，最後走上婚姻殿堂……
他們兩個一步步心意全開，在跨越的邊緣來回踱步，男龜毛又賊心，還好女追男隔層紗，羅馬夜空下又多了對癡男怨女——Aciman擅長的人物心理描寫，嘮嘮叨叨把這一切刻畫得如同油畫般細膩厚實。故事的確老套，但消遣讀讀還是可以的。
I looked at her once again, still uncertain what all this added up to. Just don’t make me hope, Miranda, don’t. I didn’t even want to raise the subject with her because that would be hoping too.
And always, as ever, the clock is ticking. In the end, I stopped waiting, because I stopped believing that you’d stray into my life because I no longer trusted you existed. Everything else happened in my life—Miss Margutta, my marriage, Italy, my son, my career, my books—but you didn’t. I stopped waiting and learned to live without you. “What was it that you so desperately wanted in those years?” “Someone who knew me inside out, who was me in you, basically.”
土味情話和血腥情話的混合，讓人有點跳tone，可基本符合人物性格和情節推進，就不挑刺了。
Some people may be brokenhearted not because they’ve been hurt but because they’ve never found someone who mattered enough to hurt them.
But she looked upset and I thought there were tears welling in her eyes. “Everything I have is yours. Not much, I know,” she said. I let a palm rub the tears down from the side of her face. “Everything you have I’ve never had. What more is there to want?”
“You do make me love who I am.”
“If I could open your body and slip into it and sew you back from the inside, I would do it, so I could cradle your quiet dreams and let you dream mine. I’d be the rib that hasn’t become me yet, happy to hang on and, as you said, see the world with your eyes, not mine, and hear you echo my thoughts and think they’re yours.”
關於"living and time are not aligned and have entirely different itineraries."是本書僅有的亮點，新瓶老酒，但酒味依然濃厚醇香，細品一下頗有感觸。
Some of us never jumped to the next level. We lost track of where we were headed and as a result stayed where we started.”
“Perhaps because I am always trying to retrace my steps back to a spot where I should have jumped on the ferryboat headed to the other bank called life but ended up dawdling on the wrong wharf or, with my luck, took the wrong ferryboat altogether. ”
“Aren’t those the absolute worst scenarios: the things that might have happened but never did and might still happen though we’ve given up hoping they could.”
Some lives wait their turn because they haven’t been lived at all, while others die before they’ve lived out their time, and some are waiting to be relived because they haven’t been lived enough. Basically, we don’t know how to think of time, because time doesn’t really understand time the way we do, because time couldn’t care less what we think of time, because time is just a wobbly, unreliable metaphor for how we think about life. Because ultimately it isn’t time that is wrong for us, or we for time. It may be life itself that is wrong.”
“Everything in my life was merely prologue until now, merely delay, merely pastime, merely waste of time until I came to know you.”
"I like to come back later in the evening when it grows dark to watch the apartment. Then if a light goes on at my old windows, my heart just bursts.” “Why?” “Because part of me probably hasn’t given up wanting to turn back the clock. Or hasn’t quite accepted that I’ve moved on—if indeed I did move on. Perhaps all I truly want is to reconnect with the person I used to be and lost track of and simply turned my back on once I moved elsewhere. I may never want to be who I was in those days, but I do want to see him again, just for a minute or so to find out who this person is who hasn’t even left the wife he hasn’t met yet, and who is still so far from knowing he’ll be a father someday. The young man upstairs knows nothing of this, and part of me wants to bring him up-to-date and let him know I’m still alive, that I haven’t changed, and that I’m standing outside here right now—”
所有以上這些好感，或者說不厭惡感，被作者刻意做作的故事設定完全摧毀。有必要讓女主角青年時3P勾引哥哥xx嗎？！是為了推進之後和第一男主角的SM？前面的中老年小清新，是人格分裂，對嘛？！
The friend did not hesitate, and was right away on top of me. He was done in seconds. But now comes the part I’ll never live down. It seemed such a silly game that I told my brother it was his turn, and even shamed him for hesitating, which was when I realized—and not before—that the whole thing with his friend was simply a ruse on my part, because I wanted my brother, and I wanted him to make love to me, not just fuck me, because it would have been the most natural thing between us, and perhaps this is what lovemaking is. Even his friend urged him on. I’d rather not, she’s my sister—I’ll never forget his words. He stood up, pulled up his jeans, and lay back down on the bed and continued watching TV.
I aped the gesture and gave her face a soft tap. “Harder, much, much harder, front and backhand.” So I slapped her once, which startled her, but she straightaway turned the other cheek, to indicate that I should slap the other as well, which I did, and she said, “Again.” “I don’t like hurting people,” I said. “Yes, but now we are as close as people who’ve lived three hundred years together, it’s your language too, whether you like it or not. You love the taste, I love it too, now kiss me.” She kissed me and I kissed her.
寫完這章總結，我覺得不應該再浪費時間，因為全書最拿得出手的這章是如此庸俗老套。下面幾章更是不堪，不得不懷疑作者是為了收割粉絲的錢，比網絡爽文還不如的水平！！
《Cadenza》
如果說第一章還能看看，我拒絕接受陳腔濫調的第二章。
精蟲上腦，心智永遠不成熟的Elio從17歲到30歲毫無成長，這對於粉絲簡直就是核爆級別的摧毀！這人生十幾年白活了？閱人無數，原來只局限在肉慾的宣洩？曾經那個靈性十足的小毛頭，也就是一慾望的黑洞？
“How many after him?” he asked. “Not many. All short-lived. Men and women.” “Why?” “Maybe because I never really let go or lose myself with others. After an instant of passion, I always fall back to being the autonomous me.”
“Because you and he are the standard. Now that I think of it, there’s only been the two of you. All the others were occasionals. You have given me days that justify the years I’ve been without him.”
連標點符號都在無病呻吟，令到其中難得的幾句“真理”都讓人覺得是故作姿態，讀者完全無法進入共振心態。
Sometimes it’s best to stop things when they’re perfect rather than race on and watch them sour.
Fate works forward, backward, and crisscrosses sideways and couldn’t care less how we scan its purposes with our rickety little befores and afters.”
You die and then no one speaks of you, and before you know it, no one asks, no one tells, no one even knows or wants to know. You’re extinct, you never lived, never loved. Time never casts shadows and memory doesn’t drop ashes.
Life is not so original after all. It has uncanny ways of reminding us that, even without a God, there is a flash of retrospective brilliance in the way fate plays its cards. It doesn’t deal us fifty-two cards; it deals, say, four or five, and they happen to be the same ones our parents and grandparents and great-grandparents played. The cards look pretty frayed and bent. The choice of sequences is limited: at some point the cards will repeat themselves, seldom in the same order, but always in a pattern that seems uncannily familiar. Sometimes the last card is not even played by the one whose life ended. Fate doesn’t always respect what we believe is the end of a life. It will deal your last card to those who come after. Which is why I think all lives are condemned to remain unfinished. This is the deplorable truth we all live with. We reach the end and are by no means done with life, not by a long stretch! There are projects we barely started, matters unresolved and left hanging everywhere. Living means dying with regrets stuck in your craw. As the French poet says, Le temps d’apprendre à vivre il est déjà trop tard, by the time we learn to live, it’s already too late. And yet there must be some small joy in finding that we are each put in a position to complete the lives of others, to close the ledger they left open and play their last card for them. What could be more gratifying than to know that it will always be up to someone else to complete and round off our life? Someone whom we loved and who loves us enough.
特別是為了主題Find Me沒頭沒腦的尋找失蹤猶太故人，忍著怒氣看到章節結尾居然尋人就不了了之？愛情不愛情，肉慾不肉慾，偵探不偵探，亂七八糟的大雜燴，Aciman真的知道自己在寫什麼嗎？
《Capriccio》
為了Oliver，皺著眉打開第三章：炫技的文字和結構，Aciman嘗試讓Oliver把對Elio的思念投射到兩個年輕人身上，但人物無厘頭的上場和離開，刻意得讓人火遮眼——Aciman你認為這樣隨意擺弄無辜他人的自私，是這段感情最好的註腳？！
You fool, it takes two of them to make one of me. I can be man and woman, or both, because you’ve been both to me. Find me, Oliver. Find me.
The only one who doesn’t know is you. But now even you know. You’ve been disloyal. To what, to whom? To yourself.
Why? Because my life stopped there. Because I never really left. Because the rest of me here has been like the severed tail of a lizard that flays and lashes about, while the body’s stayed behind all the way across the Atlantic in that wonderful house by the sea. I’ve been away for far too long. Are you leaving me? I think so. And the children too? I’ll always be their father. And when is this happening? I don’t know. Soon. I can’t say I’m surprised.
This was what death was like: you see people but they don’t see you, and worse yet, you’re trapped being who you were in the moment you died—buying corrugated boxes—and you never changed into the one person you could have been and knew you really were, and you never redressed the one mistake that threw your life off course and now you were forever trapped doing the very last stupid thing you were doing, buying corrugated boxes and tape. I was forty-four years old. I was already dead—and yet too young, too young to die.
《Da Capo》
浪費了《Da Capo》“返始”如此美麗的一個標題，作者選擇了一個庸俗到讓人發指的大團圓結尾，兩個渣男手牽手走向夕陽。
也罷也罷，有了結局，讀者夢就該醒了，童話真的是騙人的。
the lure of bygone days had never left him, that he had forgotten nothing and didn’t want to forget, and that even if he couldn’t write or call to see whether I too had forgotten nothing, still, he knew that though neither of us sought out the other it was only because we had never really parted and that, regardless of where we were, who we were with, and whatever stood in our way, all he needed when the time was right was simply to come and find me. “And you did.” “And I did,” he said.
情節勉強，結構混亂，文筆呻吟。如果不是看了Aciman的採訪，根本不敢相信這是他的作品，更不敢相信這是回應全球粉絲對Call Me By Your Name續集的呼喊。
鼠尾續貂，這本書絕對不應該出現，絕對！
詳細版：讀書筆記+相關摘錄
到底是什麼支撐我讀完這兩百多頁的贗品的？是憤怒！除此以外我想不到任何理由！
已經做好了是狗尾續貂的心理準備，但還是心存僥倖：來個老套王子和王子從此幸福地柴米油鹽happily ever after也是可以接受的嘛。
沒想到……沒想到！
Aciman絕對是被《Call Me By Your Name》的成功沖昏了頭腦，根本沒有思考好這本書到底要講什麼，頭重腳輕，結尾江郎才盡，只能戈然而止——假如以作品是否引發情緒作為判斷標準的話，這本書絕對超越上一本——讀得一肚子火，不知道是生氣作者硬生生打碎一個夢，還是痛恨自己為什麼手賤忍不住非要讀！
閱讀目錄時候，還在佩服Aciman的想法，四個章節命名Tempo，Cadenza，Capriccio和Da Capo看上去像是又一首精彩的樂曲，但閱讀過程腦裡響著的是廉價馬戲團配樂——喜怒哀樂刻意為之，故事轉換依靠著kitsch的"Find Me"硬生生串起來，連超市收銀台前的愛情小說都比它來的合理耐讀。
《Tempo》
如果這本書不是擦著《Call Me By Your Name》的邊，這一章勉強可以擠進中年危機男YY書籍列表：中年大學教授火車上偶遇年輕女攝影師，一兩句話就已經認為對方是人生難得知己，故作姿態互相試探，失而復得後攤開心扉，血腥情話加上激情床戰，最後走上婚姻殿堂……
他們兩個一步步心意全開，在跨越的邊緣來回踱步，男龜毛又賊心，還好女追男隔層紗，羅馬夜空下又多了對癡男怨女——Aciman擅長的人物心理描寫，嘮嘮叨叨把這一切刻畫得如同油畫般細膩厚實。故事的確老套，但消遣讀讀還是可以的。
I looked at her once again, still uncertain what all this added up to. Just don’t make me hope, Miranda, don’t. I didn’t even want to raise the subject with her because that would be hoping too.
And always, as ever, the clock is ticking. In the end, I stopped waiting, because I stopped believing that you’d stray into my life because I no longer trusted you existed. Everything else happened in my life—Miss Margutta, my marriage, Italy, my son, my career, my books—but you didn’t. I stopped waiting and learned to live without you. “What was it that you so desperately wanted in those years?” “Someone who knew me inside out, who was me in you, basically.”
while staring at my open book, I caught myself struggling to come up with something to say, if only to help defuse what had all the bearings of a gathering storm about to erupt in our little corner at the very end of the car. Then I thought twice about it. Better to leave her alone and go on with my reading. But when I caught her looking at me, I couldn’t help myself: “Why so glum?” I asked.
I loved that what I’d just said had caught her by surprise.
“Maybe you’re not the kind who opens up to people.” “But I’m speaking with you.” “I’m a stranger, and with strangers opening up is easy.”
We stared at each other. I liked her warm and trusting smile; it suggested something frail and genuine, perhaps even vulnerable. No wonder the men in her life closed in on her. They knew what they were losing the moment she turned her eyes away. Out went the smile, or the languor when she asked heart-to-heart questions while staring with those piercing green eyes that never let up, out the disquieting need for intimacy that her glance tore out of every man when your eyes happened to lock on her in a public space and you knew there went your life. She was doing it right now. She made intimacy want to happen, made it easy, as if you’d always had it in you to give, and were craving to share it but realized you’d never find it in yourself unless it was with her. I wanted to hold her, touch her hand, let a finger drift along her forehead.
A side of me thought she’d leaned even more toward me and had thought of standing up to move to the seat next to me and put both hands in mine. Had this crossed her mind and was I seizing on her wish to do so, or was I simply making it up because the wish was in me?
Miranda put down her fork and lit a cigarette. I watched her shake the match with a decisive hand motion before dropping it into an ashtray. How strong and invulnerable she suddenly seemed. She was showing her other side, the one that sizes people up and makes hasty indictments, then shuts them off and never lets them back in except when she weakens, only to hold it against them that she did. Men were like matches: they caught fire and were shaken off and dropped in the first ashtray that came her way. I watched her take in her first puff. Yes, willful and unbending. Smoking with her face turned away from us made her look so distant and heartless. The type who always gets her way. Not exactly the good girl who doesn’t like to see people hurt.
“I sense, though, that part of you may not like being told you’re not happy.” I attempted a polite nod that also meant I’m just going along with what you’re saying and won’t argue. “But the good part is—” she added, then caught herself once again. “The good part is?” I asked. “The good part is I don’t think you’ve closed the book or given up looking. For happiness, I mean. I like this about you.” I didn’t answer—perhaps my silence was the answer.
Without giving it another thought, I found myself holding both her hands on the lapels of my jacket against my chest. I had planned nothing of the sort but simply let myself go and touched her forehead with my palm. I’ve seldom been this impulsive and to show I didn’t mean to cross a line began buttoning my jacket.
I tried to withdraw but caressed her forehead one last time. Then kissed it. This time I stared at her, she wouldn’t look away. And in a gesture that caught me totally by surprise again and seemed to spring from who knows how many years back, I let my fingertip touch her on the chin, softly, the way a grown-up might hold a child’s chin between his thumb and forefinger to prevent it from crying, sensing all along, as she did herself, that, if she didn’t move, this caress on the chin was probably a prelude to what I did next, when I allowed my finger to travel along her lower lip—back and forth, back and forth. She did not move away but continued to stare at me. Nor could I tell whether I had offended her by touching her forehead this way, or whether, taken aback, she was still mulling over how to react. And still she continued to stare, bold and unbending.
The words we’d spoken were sufficiently vague for us not to know what the other meant or what we ourselves meant, yet we both immediately sensed, without knowing why, that we’d seized the other’s underlying meaning precisely because it wasn’t spoken.
“Maybe because you’re not a present-tense kind of person. This, for instance, is the present tense,” she said, reaching over and kissing me on the lips. It was not a full kiss, but it lingered and she let her tongue touch my lips. “And you smell good,” she said. Okay, I am fourteen now, I thought.
I’d been alone for ever so long, even when I thought I wasn’t alone—and the taste of something as real as blood was far, far better than the taste of just nothing, of wasted and barren years, so many years.
土味情話和血腥情話的混合，讓人有點跳tone，可基本符合人物性格和情節推進，就不挑刺了。
Some people may be brokenhearted not because they’ve been hurt but because they’ve never found someone who mattered enough to hurt them.
But she looked upset and I thought there were tears welling in her eyes. “Everything I have is yours. Not much, I know,” she said. I let a palm rub the tears down from the side of her face. “Everything you have I’ve never had. What more is there to want?”
“You do make me love who I am.”
“If I could open your body and slip into it and sew you back from the inside, I would do it, so I could cradle your quiet dreams and let you dream mine. I’d be the rib that hasn’t become me yet, happy to hang on and, as you said, see the world with your eyes, not mine, and hear you echo my thoughts and think they’re yours.”
關於"living and time are not aligned and have entirely different itineraries."是本書僅有的亮點，新瓶老酒，但酒味依然濃厚醇香，細品一下頗有感觸。
Some of us never jumped to the next level. We lost track of where we were headed and as a result stayed where we started.”
“Perhaps because I am always trying to retrace my steps back to a spot where I should have jumped on the ferryboat headed to the other bank called life but ended up dawdling on the wrong wharf or, with my luck, took the wrong ferryboat altogether. ”
“Aren’t those the absolute worst scenarios: the things that might have happened but never did and might still happen though we’ve given up hoping they could.”
Some lives wait their turn because they haven’t been lived at all, while others die before they’ve lived out their time, and some are waiting to be relived because they haven’t been lived enough. Basically, we don’t know how to think of time, because time doesn’t really understand time the way we do, because time couldn’t care less what we think of time, because time is just a wobbly, unreliable metaphor for how we think about life. Because ultimately it isn’t time that is wrong for us, or we for time. It may be life itself that is wrong.”
“Everything in my life was merely prologue until now, merely delay, merely pastime, merely waste of time until I came to know you.”
"I like to come back later in the evening when it grows dark to watch the apartment. Then if a light goes on at my old windows, my heart just bursts.” “Why?” “Because part of me probably hasn’t given up wanting to turn back the clock. Or hasn’t quite accepted that I’ve moved on—if indeed I did move on. Perhaps all I truly want is to reconnect with the person I used to be and lost track of and simply turned my back on once I moved elsewhere. I may never want to be who I was in those days, but I do want to see him again, just for a minute or so to find out who this person is who hasn’t even left the wife he hasn’t met yet, and who is still so far from knowing he’ll be a father someday. The young man upstairs knows nothing of this, and part of me wants to bring him up-to-date and let him know I’m still alive, that I haven’t changed, and that I’m standing outside here right now—”
所有以上這些好感，或者說不厭惡感，被作者刻意做作的故事設定完全摧毀。有必要讓女主角青年時3P勾引哥哥xx嗎？！是為了推進之後和第一男主角的SM？前面的中老年小清新，是人格分裂，對嘛？！
The friend did not hesitate, and was right away on top of me. He was done in seconds. But now comes the part I’ll never live down. It seemed such a silly game that I told my brother it was his turn, and even shamed him for hesitating, which was when I realized—and not before—that the whole thing with his friend was simply a ruse on my part, because I wanted my brother, and I wanted him to make love to me, not just fuck me, because it would have been the most natural thing between us, and perhaps this is what lovemaking is. Even his friend urged him on. I’d rather not, she’s my sister—I’ll never forget his words. He stood up, pulled up his jeans, and lay back down on the bed and continued watching TV.
I aped the gesture and gave her face a soft tap. “Harder, much, much harder, front and backhand.” So I slapped her once, which startled her, but she straightaway turned the other cheek, to indicate that I should slap the other as well, which I did, and she said, “Again.” “I don’t like hurting people,” I said. “Yes, but now we are as close as people who’ve lived three hundred years together, it’s your language too, whether you like it or not. You love the taste, I love it too, now kiss me.” She kissed me and I kissed her.
寫完這章總結，我覺得不應該再浪費時間，因為全書最拿得出手的這章是如此庸俗老套。下面幾章更是不堪，不得不懷疑作者是為了收割粉絲的錢，比網絡爽文還不如的水平！！
《Cadenza》
如果說第一章還能看看，我拒絕接受陳腔濫調的第二章。
精蟲上腦，心智永遠不成熟的Elio從17歲到30歲毫無成長，這對於粉絲簡直就是核爆級別的摧毀！這人生十幾年白活了？閱人無數，原來只局限在肉慾的宣洩？曾經那個靈性十足的小毛頭，也就是一慾望的黑洞？
“How many after him?” he asked. “Not many. All short-lived. Men and women.” “Why?” “Maybe because I never really let go or lose myself with others. After an instant of passion, I always fall back to being the autonomous me.”
“Because you and he are the standard. Now that I think of it, there’s only been the two of you. All the others were occasionals. You have given me days that justify the years I’ve been without him.”
So saying he put a wise, gently patronizing arm around my shoulder. I don’t know why, but I reached for the hand that had rested on my shoulder and touched it. It had happened so seamlessly that I looked at him and we both smiled, which allowed his hand, which would most likely have left the spot, to stay just a moment longer. He turned but then looked at me once more, and I felt a sudden urge to hurl myself against him and put my arms around his upper waist right under his jacket. He must have felt something along those lines as well, because in the awkward silence that followed what he’d just said, he kept staring and I was staring back, totally undaunted, until it hit me that perhaps I had read all the signals wrong and I began to want to look away. I liked that his eyes lingered on me still, it made me feel handsome and desirable, something soft, caressing that I wanted to hold in place and didn’t want to escape from except by burrowing into his chest. I liked the promise, in his gaze, of something totally kind and guileless.
He didn’t say anything; he simply nodded. But his wasn’t a nod of affirmation, meaning yes; it was the pensive, distracted, wistful nod of someone who normally chooses not to believe a word he’s heard.
he placed a lingering palm on my cheek—a gesture that completely threw me off and left me feeling shaken and overcome with emotion. It had caught me by surprise. I wanted us to kiss. Just kiss me, will you, if only to help me get over being so visibly flustered.
“Don’t let me go home tonight, Michel,” I said. I know I blushed saying this, and was already scrambling for ways to apologize and take back my words when he came to my rescue. “I was struggling to ask the very same thing but, once again, you beat me to it. The truth is,” he went on, “I don’t do this frequently. Actually, I haven’t done this in a long time.” “This?” I said, with a slight jeer in my voice. “This.”
He put down his glass, moved over to me, and kissed me lightly on the lips, almost diffidently, while, like the obliging soundtrack to our earlier kiss, I kept hearing behind the faint Brazilian singer playing in our room the sound of the elevator coming down to remind me that kissing to the sound of an old elevator going up and down the stairwell was like kissing under the patter of falling rain on a rooftop in the country, and that I liked the sound and didn’t want it to end because I felt snug, protected, and safe under its spell, because, without intruding on us, it gave a voice to the world outside his living room and reminded me that all this was not just happening in my mind. What he was really asking perhaps was for us to take our time and not hurry, and, if need be, backtrack if things went faster than either of us wanted. This I had never done before. Then he kissed me a second time, also lightly.
連標點符號都在無病呻吟，令到其中難得的幾句“真理”都讓人覺得是故作姿態，讀者完全無法進入共振心態。
Sometimes it’s best to stop things when they’re perfect rather than race on and watch them sour.
Fate works forward, backward, and crisscrosses sideways and couldn’t care less how we scan its purposes with our rickety little befores and afters.”
You die and then no one speaks of you, and before you know it, no one asks, no one tells, no one even knows or wants to know. You’re extinct, you never lived, never loved. Time never casts shadows and memory doesn’t drop ashes.
Life is not so original after all. It has uncanny ways of reminding us that, even without a God, there is a flash of retrospective brilliance in the way fate plays its cards. It doesn’t deal us fifty-two cards; it deals, say, four or five, and they happen to be the same ones our parents and grandparents and great-grandparents played. The cards look pretty frayed and bent. The choice of sequences is limited: at some point the cards will repeat themselves, seldom in the same order, but always in a pattern that seems uncannily familiar. Sometimes the last card is not even played by the one whose life ended. Fate doesn’t always respect what we believe is the end of a life. It will deal your last card to those who come after. Which is why I think all lives are condemned to remain unfinished. This is the deplorable truth we all live with. We reach the end and are by no means done with life, not by a long stretch! There are projects we barely started, matters unresolved and left hanging everywhere. Living means dying with regrets stuck in your craw. As the French poet says, Le temps d’apprendre à vivre il est déjà trop tard, by the time we learn to live, it’s already too late. And yet there must be some small joy in finding that we are each put in a position to complete the lives of others, to close the ledger they left open and play their last card for them. What could be more gratifying than to know that it will always be up to someone else to complete and round off our life? Someone whom we loved and who loves us enough.
特別是為了主題Find Me沒頭沒腦的尋找失蹤猶太故人，忍著怒氣看到章節結尾居然尋人就不了了之？愛情不愛情，肉慾不肉慾，偵探不偵探，亂七八糟的大雜燴，Aciman真的知道自己在寫什麼嗎？
《Capriccio》
為了Oliver，皺著眉打開第三章：炫技的文字和結構，Aciman嘗試讓Oliver把對Elio的思念投射到兩個年輕人身上，但人物無厘頭的上場和離開，刻意得讓人火遮眼——Aciman你認為這樣隨意擺弄無辜他人的自私，是這段感情最好的註腳？！
You fool, it takes two of them to make one of me. I can be man and woman, or both, because you’ve been both to me. Find me, Oliver. Find me.
The only one who doesn’t know is you. But now even you know. You’ve been disloyal. To what, to whom? To yourself.
Why? Because my life stopped there. Because I never really left. Because the rest of me here has been like the severed tail of a lizard that flays and lashes about, while the body’s stayed behind all the way across the Atlantic in that wonderful house by the sea. I’ve been away for far too long. Are you leaving me? I think so. And the children too? I’ll always be their father. And when is this happening? I don’t know. Soon. I can’t say I’m surprised.
This was what death was like: you see people but they don’t see you, and worse yet, you’re trapped being who you were in the moment you died—buying corrugated boxes—and you never changed into the one person you could have been and knew you really were, and you never redressed the one mistake that threw your life off course and now you were forever trapped doing the very last stupid thing you were doing, buying corrugated boxes and tape. I was forty-four years old. I was already dead—and yet too young, too young to die.
《Da Capo》
浪費了《Da Capo》“返始”如此美麗的一個標題，作者選擇了一個庸俗到讓人發指的大團圓結尾，兩個渣男手牽手走向夕陽。
也罷也罷，有了結局，讀者夢就該醒了，童話真的是騙人的。
the lure of bygone days had never left him, that he had forgotten nothing and didn’t want to forget, and that even if he couldn’t write or call to see whether I too had forgotten nothing, still, he knew that though neither of us sought out the other it was only because we had never really parted and that, regardless of where we were, who we were with, and whatever stood in our way, all he needed when the time was right was simply to come and find me. “And you did.” “And I did,” he said.
情節勉強，結構混亂，文筆呻吟。如果不是看了Aciman的採訪，根本不敢相信這是他的作品，更不敢相信這是回應全球粉絲對Call Me By Your Name續集的呼喊。
鼠尾續貂，這本書絕對不應該出現，絕對！
書目錄
CONTENTS
Title Page
Copyright Notice
Dedication
Tempo
Cadenza
Capriccio
Da Capo
Also by André Aciman
A Note About the Author
Copyright
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