I last reviewed David Leavitt in August, 2003 (While England Sleeps). I compared Leavitt’s prose to that of a Mahler symphony. I still hold his prose in such esteem: for most of his life, apparently, David Leavitt has been able to spin words and sentences into art.
This month, I was treated to another Leavitt work, an early piece, his first and probably most famous novel, The Lost Language of Cranes. This book was written in 1986, at a time when AIDS was on the front burner of just about everything gay. You might expect that AIDS will take center stage here, but that’s not so. Leavitt assumes that AIDS will be cured someday (probably soon) and be subsequently forgotten. To prevent his book from rapidly becoming outdated, he does not make all that much fuss about the disease. It works; the book does not feel all that dated, at least not for that reason. It helps that the characters have very little sex, and when it does happen, it’s soft porn.
This book was re-issued in May, 2005, with a new cover and author’s foreword. I’ll get to the cover in a minute. In the forward, Leavitt hints that upon re-reading his book, he was compelled to correct some of the most egregious mistakes in the text, but he doesn’t go into much detail. He also provides some additional insight into the meaning of the book’s very short intermission, where the book’s title comes from.
The cover of the 2005 edition shows a long-necked bird flying above the New York City skyline. This is a pretty if not baffling choice of cover art, since this kind of crane does not appear in the story. The “language of cranes” refers to a psychological case study of a child discovered to have miraculously survived an almost completely isolated rearing, with little more stimulation than that of a construction site nearby, which he can see. The child, having been raised to the awesome sight, motion, and sound of construction cranes actually becomes one, imitating the sounds and motions in order to communicate with them. It’s a fascinating intermission in the book. It’s also a metaphor for the coming out theme that will play out in the plot.
The principle character is Philip, 25. He’s a bit of a klutz who does not enjoy his job, seeks love and smothers it, and wants very badly to be accepted by his parents after he comes out. These are all problematic, and lead to a general feeling of discomfort whenever Philip is in the story. Case in point: the hopelessly awkward scene where Philip drags his lover’s adoptive parents (a gay couple) to a bar. Philip evolves, though, and his pursuit of another man later in the story is a superb example of friendship catching fire.
He is less successful winning over his mother, a truly remarkable character. Rose provides a counterpoint for the all-is-happy coming out tale by refusing to talk about it. In fact, by the end of the book she still thinks it would have been better not to have known. Despite this and the secrets she herself keeps, she takes a heavy toll from the strikes coming from both of her men, and thus, you remain sympathetic to her.
Philip’s father Owen does not fare so well. He too has a secret that will become the book’s bombshell. Although his scenes are scalding in their introspection and loneliness, Owen remains a very weak character. So weak, that you can almost see the legs of an Oedipus triangle forming. Dad isn’t killed per se, but there’s just no there there. He might as well be dead, while Philip pursues love and acceptance from mom.
The book was made into a movie in 1991 that reappears from time to time on PBS. Leavitt did not write the screenplay but was heavily involved in the process. You can enjoy this story either way, but I definitely recommend the book, because once again, Leavitt’s English is pure joy.