Room on the Sea by Andre Aciman

André Aciman’s Room on the Sea is a novella of remarkable restraint and lingering depth—an introspective tale of fleeting connection, moral ambiguity, and the wistful ache of possibility. Set against the backdrop of a hot New York summer, this compact yet emotionally resonant narrative invites readers to shadow two near-strangers as they drift quietly into one another’s orbits, pulled together by circumstance and curiosity, and pushed apart by the weight of their histories.

Paul, a lawyer, and Catherine, a psychiatrist, are both in their sixties when they meet in the impersonal holding pen of jury selection. From this mundane beginning, Aciman spins a story rich with yearning, tenderness, and intellectual chemistry. What begins as idle conversation soon ripens into companionship, then toes the edge of emotional intimacy, and—perhaps—the suggestion of something more. They are each married, ostensibly content, but quietly discontent enough to entertain the thrill of disruption. For five languid days, they pass the time in the city—coffee shops, galleries, strolls, and shared meals—hovering in the in-between space where affection teases transgression.

Aciman, whose prose is consistently lauded for its elegance and introspection, delivers a narrative that is as much about what is left unsaid as what is spoken. He masterfully captures the internal push-pull of desire and restraint, imbuing his characters with the complexity and contradictions of real people. Paul and Catherine are not glamorous or impulsive. They are thoughtful, articulate, and deeply human—well aware of their own vulnerabilities, yet still seduced by the comfort and excitement of being seen.

What sets Room on the Sea apart from typical tales of infidelity is its moral ambiguity. It neither condones nor condemns. Aciman instead offers a meditation on companionship, regret, and the way life’s opportunities narrow as one ages. The reader is invited into the liminal space between emotional fidelity and physical loyalty, where the heart moves with quiet insistence and the stakes are heartbreakingly high. In doing so, he prompts us to question: is a love story less true because it is brief? Is it more dangerous for being delayed by decades?

There is a voyeuristic pleasure in following Paul and Catherine’s day-to-day wanderings—imbued with a sense of time suspended—and an underlying tension as the week draws to a close. The ending, delicately balanced between resolution and ambiguity, resists cliché. Rather than tie off the narrative with certainty, Aciman leaves space for reflection. The result is a story that haunts gently, asking not for judgement but for understanding.

At just over 160 pages, Room on the Sea is a novella best savoured slowly, like a long afternoon in the sun. Readers familiar with Aciman’s previous work, especially Call Me by Your Name, will recognise his signature fusion of sensuality, philosophical insight, and emotional restraint. In this mature and finely drawn love story, Aciman reminds us that even in life’s late chapters, new desires can surface—and that sometimes, the most meaningful relationships exist only for a moment.

Reviewer: Chris Reed

Faber