The Lost Language of Cranes

by David Leavitt

David Leavitt's extraordinary first novel, now reissued in paperback, is a seminal work about family, sexual identity, home, and loss.

Set in the 1980s against the backdrop of a swiftly gentrifying Manhattan, The Lost Language of Cranes tells the story of twenty-five-year-old Philip, who realizes he must come out to his parents after falling in love for the first time with a man. Philip's parents are facing their own crisis: pressure from developers and the loss of their longtime home. But the real threat to this family is Philip's father's own struggle with his latent homosexuality, realized only in his Sunday afternoon visits to gay porn theaters. Philip's admission to his parents and his father's hidden life provoke changes that forever alter the landscape of their worlds.

Genres: Fiction, LGBT, Gay, Queer, Contemporary, Gay Fiction, Romance

302 pages, Paperback

First published January 1, 1986

About the author

Leavitt is a graduate of Yale University and a professor at the University of Florida, where he is the co-director of the creative writing program. He is also the editor of Subtropics magazine, The University of Florida's literary review.

Leavitt, who is openly gay, has frequently explored gay issues in his work. He divides his time between Florida and Tuscany, Italy.

Reviews

[Flo · Rating 4 out of 5]

One of the best coming-out stories I've read, probably because it's more than just a coming-out story (if that makes any sense). Very nuanced. There are some clues that it was written 40 years ago, but I haven’t encountered the same thoughtfulness in more recent stories about the importance of recognizing who you are and what it means for a person to keep such a secret versus embracing your identity. It also captures how complicated was to make this decision in the past.

[Lynda · Rating 4 out of 5]

”It was horrible, really, what I was feeling, the sense I had that I was running a terrible risk every minute of my life - risking my family, my career - but not being able to help it; somehow just not being able to help it. I was thinking every day how I had to change my life, how I couldn’t go on this way; but I knew the more I thought that, the farther I was getting from where I thought I should have been.”
[Owen Benjamin]



The Lost Language of Cranes is David Leavitt’s first novel and was published in 1986. It explores the terrible secrets that families keep from one another, and the consequences of their discovery.

Set in 1980s New York against the backdrop of the Aids epidemic, the novel recounts the lives of the Benjamin family; parents Rose and Owen (both 52) and their son Philip (25).

Rose is a copy editor, and Owen, the director of admissions at a private boys’ school. They lead a tightly structured life, devoting their days to work and their evenings to reading. While Rose and Owen both know that their intimacy has faded, neither is willing to question the basic value of their relationship. Every Sunday, they go their separate ways; Rose reads the paper and works in their apartment, while Owen spends the day at a gay pornographic cinema. Rose has no idea how Owen spends these Sundays and would never dream of asking. When she accidentally meets Owen on the street one Sunday while taking a walk, Rose realizes that after 27 years of marriage, she hardly knows him:

“She had stumbled into her husband on a strange street corner, running some mysterious errand she knew nothing of, and they had spoken briefly like strangers, parted like strangers.”

The first cracks appear on the surface of the Benjamin family life when Rose and Owen learn that their New York City apartment will be converted into a co-op, and they must either buy it or move out. Once their sanctuary from the outside world is threatened, the rest of their carefully structured life begins to crumble as well. Their son, Philip, infatuated with a new lover, wants to share his happiness with his parents and finally summons the courage to reveal that he is gay. His disclosure has an immediate impact on their comfortable, settled lives. Rose feels shocked grief, driven by her fear of the sexual danger that her son has to negotiate as a homosexual. Owen is inconsolable, confused by the upheaval in his family, and overwhelmed by his inability to cope with his own undisclosed homosexuality.

The Lost Language of Cranes is a multilayered work of sensibility, delicate on the surface yet packing the punch a reader may feel upon discovering that the title refers not to long-legged birds but to machines employed in lifting materials for building. In a psychological case history discovered by a lesbian friend of Philip's, a boy named Michel who was neglected as a baby is found to have identified with the cranes he saw working outside his nursery window.

”He moved like a crane, made the noises of a crane, and although the doctors showed him many pictures and toys, he only responded to the pictures of cranes, only played with the toy cranes. Only cranes made him happy. He came to be known as the 'crane-child.'”

As Philip's friend muses:

''How wondrous, how grand those cranes must have seemed to Michel, compared to the small and clumsy creatures who surrounded him. For each, in his own way, finds what it is he must love, and loves it; the window becomes a mirror; whatever it is that we love, that is who we are.''

Perhaps in personal relationships our life experiences have shown us that maybe that line should read:

Whoever it is that we love, that is who we are

David Leavitt is gifted at portraying both the mundane as well as the emotional interaction of family members, particularly the marriage crises brought on when Rose and Owen realise they've been living a lie for the past three decades.

This is a beautifully written and perceptive novel about sexual identity and family; about people struggling toward a sense of self in a world where feeling love is a certainty even if being loved is not.

4.5 stars

TV FILM

The Lost Language of Cranes was adapted to a BBC TV film in 1992. The setting was changed to London from New York. While the movie is a fair adaptation of the book, the book (in my opinion) is way better.



The TV film is available on You Tube (free) at: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-nmQxY...

THE AUTHOR

At the age of twenty-three, David Leavitt burst on the American literary scene with a collection of short stories entitled Family Dancing (1984). The stories dealt with issues of sexuality and terminal cancer. Family Dancing received the PEN/Faulkner Award and was a finalist for the National Book Critics Circle Award. Because of his youth, Leavitt received much attention and was hailed by some as the new voice of his generation.

Two years later, The Lost Language of Cranes, Leavitt’s first novel, appeared to mixed reviews. Focused more clearly on homosexual themes and characters, it established him as a gay writer. During the mid-1980’s, the gay rights movement was well into its second decade and approaching a certain maturity; Leavitt’s novel was noted for dealing with gay themes in a very accessible and universal manner. Despite the critical response, The Lost Language of Cranes spent many weeks on best-seller lists and was a popular success. In 1992, the British Broadcasting Corporation filmed an adaptation of the novel, transferring the story to London.

Leavitt’s other works include Equal Affections (1988), a novel about a family facing its matriarch’s slow death; a second collection of stories, A Place I ve Never Been (1990); and a novel set in wartime England entitled While England Sleeps (1993). His other books can be viewed at his author page David Leavitt. Leavitt has lived in Europe, and his work enjoys great popular and critical success there.

The Lost Language of Cranes is also listed in the recently updated 1001 books you must read before you die

[od1_40reads · Rating 5 out of 5]

I remember stumbling across the BBC adaptation on TV late at night when I was a teenager, catching the end of it, but never being able to find it again after that. So have wanted to read the book for years.

The Lost Language of Cranes is a book that I think all younger LGBTQ+ people should read.

First published in 1986, it was written at a time when more people where starting to come out, fortunately, but still a time when this was a life-changing moment often causing rifts amongst families, with children being disowned by parents and relatives, and when a lot of older generations had been forced into destructive marriages due to societal pressures.

From a modern perspective, it’s an upsetting read as there is so much apologising for simply being gay. Fortunately, for most of us, being queer should no longer be apologised for, but instead celebrated.

But this book takes us back to a time when that certainly was not the case.

It’s a well-written novel, that reminded me of ‘A Little Life’ in places (and indeed I believe Yanagihara included it on a recommended reading list).

It is an important piece of modern queer literature that I feel deserves a renaissance amongst younger readers.

[Chrissie · Rating 4 out of 5]

The Lost Language of Cranes by David Leavitt is a perfect example of why one should push one’s self to complete a book once started, even if it is giving you trouble. I was going to dump this, but by the time I reached its end I had come to like it a lot!

The book’s central issue is the process of accepting and having the guts to speak out about one’s sexual identity when it diverges from the social norm. The book is set in the 1980s in NYC. The gay pride movement was gaining momentum having begun in the early 1970s. Many, many gays still remained closeted in the 80s. This book focuses on the process of “coming out”. Through its fictional characters the arduous process is exceedingly well drawn. Starting from denial through to self-awareness and finally self-acceptance, the reader comes to emotionally feel the protagonists’ journey through bewildering confusion, recriminatory and vituperative bouts of anger and blame, heartbreak and loneliness. A father and a son fight this battle. The mother remains entrenched--unable, unwilling to change her expectations or accept what has been hidden for years. Through these three central characters and diverse lovers, acquaintance and friends, a full gamut of emotions are drawn.

This is a book about love—heterosexual, bisexual and homosexual. It is also about familial love. One type of love overlaps another. The book looks at each of the characters’ ability to feel love, show their love and respond to love. Each character draws their own limits. They do not react in the same way, allowing different behaviors to be observed.

Love has a physical and an emotional component. In a healthy relationship they overlap, they grow simultaneously, they exist side by side. The book gave me trouble at the beginning because the physical sexual component is thrown at the reader before any attachment is felt for the partners. Physical sex without an understanding of the underlying emotional ties is erotica, sex meant purely to titillate. I was not turned on by the graphic description of lickings, penetrations and masturbation of characters toward whom I had not yet come to feel any attachment. As you proceed, the focus shifts to the psychological and emotional aspects of love, which is what I was looking for. I didn’t pick up the book for erotica. I picked it up to better understand the emotional turmoil and difficulties associated with being gay. This is delivered, but you must read to the end.

The prose is straightforward. How individuals talk to each other on an everyday basis is what is delivered. The dialogs are excellent.

The ending is good too--neither a fairy tale ending nor too brutal.

The audiobook is very well narrated by Jonathan Davis. His intonations capture characters’ emotions well. Dialogs are well performed. Varied inflections are used to mirror the respective character’s sexual identity. There is no overdramatization. The performance draws a picture that I perceive as authentic, genuine and real.

The bottom line is that having now read the book I think I better understand the challenges a gay person must face—not so much on an intellectual level but rather on an emotional level.


*****************
The Lost Language of Cranes 4 stars
The Two Hotel Francforts TBR
Equal Affections TBR
The Indian Clerk TBR

[James · Rating 5 out of 5]

What I admire about this novel is that Leavitt explores the significance in mundane details of the characters' lives. Grabbing a stranger's cock or fighting with a loved one is easy, but talking to those people takes immense courage. The characters find that opportunities come and go, and many aren't worth pursuing, and others can be created. I find their internal lives believable, and this book hooked me and kept me reading far too late for a few nights. But I wouldn't want to be any of the characters, except maybe briefly to experience the excitement of coming out or falling in love for the first time all over again.

[David Carrasco · Rating 5 out of 5]

Hace poco descubrimos que el vecino del tercero primera llevaba una doble vida. No hablo de pequeñas mentiras: tenía otra mujer y otros hijos en Zaragoza, mientras en Barcelona ejercía de delegado comercial, moviéndose entre ciudades como si fuera un espía sin brújula. Ya no vive en nuestro edificio; se quedó en Zaragoza, dejándonos la curiosa sensación de que a veces la verdad y el secreto comparten escalera. Pensé en él mientras leía El lenguaje perdido de las grúas, de David Leavitt, y acompañaba al pobre Owen Benjamin, el padre del protagonista, en su drama existencial. Porque en cierto momento me asaltó la pregunta inevitable: ¿y si el mayor crimen contra uno mismo no fuera lo que hacemos, sino lo que callamos?

Sí, exactamente: ese silencio que heredamos como si fuera un cuadro de Ikea, perfecto y plano. Pues esa es la primera bofetada —el silencio, no el cuadro— que te lanza El lenguaje perdido de las grúas: la constatación de que en muchas casas se habla en susurros, se vive a media voz, y al final se termina heredando no el apellido, sino el silencio. David Leavitt coloca a sus personajes en el Manhattan de los 80, vibrante pero implacable, con sus apartamentos minúsculos, sus librerías, los pisos compartidos y ese ambiente urbano donde salir del armario o llevar una doble vida tiene otra textura: anonimato y visibilidad al mismo tiempo. Y es allí donde una familia aparentemente normal se tambalea porque alguien decide decir en voz alta lo que los demás se empeñan en ocultar. Y de pronto, lo que parecía una historia íntima se convierte en un examen brutal de los secretos familiares

No hace falta desvelar la trama: basta con decir que aquí conviven un hijo que se atreve a mostrarse, un padre que no, y una madre que hace malabares con la negación. A su alrededor, un coro de personajes secundarios —amigos, amantes, compañeros de piso— amplifica esa tensión entre la libertad de ser y el miedo a perderlo todo por decir quién eres. Leavitt no necesita giros espectaculares: su apuesta es más inquietante, porque nos mete en los recovecos de las emociones cotidianas, allí donde cada gesto es un campo de batalla y cada silencio pesa como una losa.

Y si la intensidad de los silencios familiares te mantiene alerta, espera a ver cómo la prosa consigue que cada emoción se sienta como un golpe silencioso. Porque la prosa de Leavitt es elegante y contenida, sin artificios, pero capaz de capturar con precisión los matices más delicados de cada situación, con esa precisión que recuerda a James Salter, por la claridad, economía de palabras y capacidad de transmitir emociones complejas sin grandilocuencia; a Colm Tóibín, por esa introspección silenciosa de sus personajes y la sutileza con que se describe la vida doméstica y los pequeños dramas cotidianos; o incluso a Ian McEwan, por su capacidad para combinar observación social y familiar con tensión narrativa contenida.

Narrado en tercera persona, con cambios de foco que se deslizan sin chirriar, el libro avanza con una calma engañosa, como esas conversaciones familiares que parecen triviales hasta que de pronto estallan. Lo interesante no es tanto el qué, sino el cómo: el modo en que cada voz, cada gesto, cada hueco en la frase deja ver todo lo que no se dice. ¿Y los diálogos? ¡Ay, amigo! Los diálogos son otro de los puntos fuertes de Leavitt: breves, precisos, verosímiles; a menudo aparentemente triviales, pero capaces de hacerte sentir que los personajes están vivos, que cada pausa y cada palabra oculta una emoción o un secreto, y que incluso lo que no se dice pesa tanto como lo que se pronuncia.

Sin embargo, aquí los personajes son el corazón de la novela y, al mismo tiempo, su condena. Philip, el hijo, busca afirmarse, pero no es ningún héroe: su lucha es íntima, cotidiana, el cansancio de quien ya no puede fingir. Owen, el padre, representa lo que ocurre cuando pasas media vida huyendo de ti mismo: lo que te tragas a los veinte se convierte en veneno a los cincuenta. Y Rose, la madre, podría ganar un premio a la intransigencia silenciosa: no cede un centímetro, aunque el mundo que la rodea se desmorone. Esa mujer que termina soltando: “Mi marido y mi hijo los dos, los dos… Dios mío, mi vida es como la última frase de un chiste estúpido”. Un remate que hiere, pero también provoca una sonrisa amarga, porque todos conocemos a alguien como Rose… o quizá lo hayamos sido nosotros mismos. Pero Leavitt nunca los caricaturiza: les otorga la misma ternura que crueldad, como si nos recordara que nadie sale indemne de décadas de secretos.

Y mientras cada uno de ellos lucha a su manera con lo que calla, uno entiende que esta historia podría repetirse en cualquier familia, en cualquier ciudad. Lo que muchos no saben —y algunos siguen sin ver— es que este libro no es solo “literatura gay”: es un tratado sobre la vida que no se habla. Philip y Owen podrían ser heterosexuales, podrían vivir en cualquier ciudad del mundo, y la novela seguiría funcionando igual de poderosa. Lo que Leavitt retrata aquí es el peso de los secretos, la tensión entre ser y aparentar, la guerra silenciosa que cada familia libra entre sus paredes. Esa es la razón por la que El lenguaje perdido de las grúas puede atrapar a cualquier lector aunque su experiencia vital no tenga nada que ver con la homosexualidad de los protagonistas: porque nos habla de la fragilidad, de la valentía y de los silencios que todos hemos heredado.

Pero, más allá de su poder emocional, la novela también refleja un momento histórico concreto, y lo más brillante es cómo Leavitt conecta lo íntimo con lo histórico. Porque la novela no es solo un drama doméstico: es también un espejo de un momento en que la homosexualidad en Nueva York convivía con la euforia de la liberación y el miedo al sida. Por eso a muchos les recordará otras obras de la época, como Historia de un chico, de Edmund White, que también mostraba la fragilidad de crecer con un secreto en una ciudad que podía ser refugio y amenaza a la vez; o a algunas de las películas de Woody Allen de los 80 —pienso en Hannah y sus hermanas o Zelig— por su retrato de neurosis urbanas. Y, en ecos más recientes, Tan poca vida , de Hanya Yanagihara, que examina con intensidad los traumas prolongados de sus protagonistas, aunque ella lo hace con un tono mucho más oscuro y expansivo que la contención elegante de Leavitt. Incluso hay rastros de Henry James, no tanto por la sintaxis densa, que aquí no aparece, sino por la sutileza con que describe silencios, miradas y subtextos en relaciones familiares o sociales, combinando una sensibilidad clásica con una modernidad que mantiene la novela vigente para lectores de hoy.

Por eso no conviene perder de vista el contexto en que fue escrita: salir del armario podía significar rupturas familiares, silencios dolorosos y matrimonios forzados por la presión social. Leerla hoy nos recuerda cuánto ha cambiado el mundo, pero también cuánto pesan esas historias heredadas de culpa y miedo. Para cualquier lector joven LGBTQ+ —o para cualquiera curioso sobre lo que significa vivir con secretos impuestos— este libro funciona como un espejo: te muestra las cicatrices de otra generación sin perder la fuerza de la ficción. Y, claro, lo hace sin dar lecciones morales, simplemente exponiendo cómo los silencios moldean vidas.

Sin embargo, más allá de las etiquetas, lo que late aquí es la idea de la identidad como carga hereditaria: los padres transmiten no solo genes, sino miedos. Uno lee El lenguaje perdido de las grúas y entiende que los secretos familiares funcionan como un idioma privado, aprendido de niño sin manual de instrucciones. La gran tragedia es que, cuando alguien decide hablar en otro idioma —el de la verdad—, toda la gramática heredada se derrumba.

Al cerrar el libro, uno no se queda pensando en grandes proclamas políticas, sino en lo cruel que puede ser la vida doméstica cuando se basa en lo que no se dice. Y ahí está la grandeza de Leavitt: en hacernos sentir que esas pequeñas batallas de comedor o de dormitorio son más devastadoras que cualquier guerra declarada.

Así que sí, léelo. No por su valor histórico, ni porque sea “literatura gay” —esa etiqueta reduccionista que tanto ha encasillado a Leavitt—, sino porque te obliga a preguntarte cuánto de tu vida está construido sobre silencios heredados. Y porque hay libros que te enseñan idiomas nuevos, y este, aunque hable de grúas, te enseña el más difícil de todos: el de atreverte a hablar con tu propia voz.

Y mientras cerraba la última página, no pude evitar acordarme de mi vecino, el que tenía otra familia en Zaragoza y cruzaba la ciudad con sus secretos como quien pasea al perro sin correa. Porque lo que Leavitt muestra es universal: todos tenemos nuestro propio “tercero primera” en algún armario, a veces dentro de nuestra propia casa. Y sí, a veces esos silencios no solo arruinan desayunos, matrimonios y pisos… sino que te enseñan de golpe que la vida real tiene más ironía y crueldad que cualquier novela. Y aun así, seguimos hablando en susurros. Hasta que alguien se atreva a gritar. O hasta que nos demos cuenta de que lo que no decimos puede matarnos más rápido que cualquier secreto de alcoba.

[Trevor · Rating 4 out of 5]

The Lost Language of Cranes strikes me as effortlessly comprehensive in its portrayal of gay characters in different walks of life, but also an examination of other characters and tropes that have been staples of gay literature. In many ways, Cranes is a product of its time. The gay identity has certainly evolved a lot since the 1980s, and the struggle of the closet is much less at the forefront. However, this book remains a moving portrait of acceptance and passion. It tells the story of several people who experience coming out in a different way: the woman whose parents disown her, the boy raised by gay parents who experiences acceptance from the beginning, the married man with private fantasies. It explores the excitement and passion that arises from being truthful with your sexuality.

Leavitt’s prose sucked me in and left me wanting more. My only complaint is that I felt the ending was a little unfinished, as we’re offered no resolution to some issues that arise throughout the story. I was sad when the story came to an end, as I wanted to spend more time in the lives of these characters that were so beautifully written. Not one character had a sense of feeling false or undeveloped. Even the wife, who is usually portrayed as shrill and overbearing, felt here as a vulnerable and raw person truthfully dealing with the revelations her family is going through.

[Jemppu · Rating 4 out of 5]

Wonderfully mundane, yet compelling. Effortlessly real. I kept gladly falling for these characters and their stories.

4 to 5 stars.

______
Reading updates.

[Sub_zero · Rating 4 out of 5]

4.5/5

Sin comerlo ni beberlo, David Leavitt me ha regalado una de las historias más emotivas, cautivadoras y dolorosamente curativas que he tenido el placer de leer en muchos meses. La historia, ambientada en el Nueva York de mediados de los 80, orbita alrededor de una familia de clase media americana a punto de sufrir una drástica cadena de revelaciones: Owen, el marido, sufre constantemente los remordimientos de un vicio inconfesable, mientras que su mujer Rose lleva años ocultando el anhelo de una pasión secreta. Sin embargo, será su hijo Philip el que dinamite por completo ese acogedor espejismo de tranquilidad cuando decida airear públicamente su homosexualidad. Intensa, abismal, devastadora, cotidiana... El lenguaje perdido de las grúas es una auténtica demostración de talento narrativo y habilidad para manejar varias historias aparentemente inconexas que no solo habla de amor, deseo, sexo y perversión en toda su complejidad, sino que además analiza desde un punto de vista muy interesante nuestra forma de asimilar el lenguaje, de comunicarnos a través de un retorcido entramado de convenciones sociales y de establecer relaciones interpersonales que por lo general tienden hacia lo autodestructivo.

[Rainb0warri0r · Rating 5 out of 5]

"Ciascuno, a modo suo, trova ciò che deve amare, e lo ama; la finestra diventa uno specchio; qualunque sia la cosa che amiamo, è quello che noi siamo."

Ho scoperto Leavitt tardi, confesso: e quel Ballo di famiglia, che pure mi ha rivelato l'atroce sensibilità e capacità di un ventenne, quale era l'autore al momento della sua pubblicazione, m'era sembrato una noia mortale. Ripetitivo, monotematico, estremamente riduttivo delle mille complicazioni della vita.
Quale estremo piacere, allora, scoprire La lingua perduta delle gru. Laddove, al termine del primo libro, mi chiedevo "ma è davvero tutto qui?", in questo secondo e ancora giovanile romanzo (nel 1986 io nascevo e Leavitt intanto aveva venticinque anni) la domanda diventa un'affermazione: "è davvero tutto qui". C'è tutto: l'irriducibile dissezione del quotidiano, le violente contraddizioni della vita, la chirurgia asettica e precisa della vita familiare, e l'amore, che ti condanna e ti salva.
Dotato di una scrittura meravigliosa, davvero impensabile per un ragazzo di quell'età, ma ancora più incredibile per la sua capacità di fare a pezzi la realtà, di spiarne gli anfratti più oscuri: con una maturità inspiegabile Leavitt analizza i riti quotidiani, li scompone, sviscera le liturgie sacre della famiglia, disseziona i ruoli. Potente è la caratterizzazione dei suoi personaggi, straordinariamente audace quella di Rose, la madre, centro indiscusso dell'intero romanzo, continuamente scomposta e ricomposta. Il momento più alto è sicuramente il monologo di Rose, nella scena-chiave del romanzo: la famiglia riunita a cena insieme all'avvenente ospite, estraneo che incrina un triangolo tutt'altro che perfetto. Rose si rifugia nella sua sicura posizione di osservatore esterno, fredda e calcolatrice, scolpisce con lo sguardo il marito e il figlio, attratti dal fascino dell'ospite, prova l'impulso di rovesciare l'intero tavolo, lo placa, allora si sottrae mentalmente, lascia che il suo pensiero scivoli tra i ricordi, in un flusso di coscienza dal sapore joyciano che trascina il lettore.
A fianco della madre, nella cui complessità Leavitt riversa tutta la sua femminile sensibilità, l'autore colloca le due figure maschili, complementari e opposte: il padre represso e depresso, stritolato da un'attrazione mista a repulsione verso un mondo nuovo, e il figlio, Philip, audace nella sua resa incondizionata all'amore, con tutte le sue conseguenze. Spingendosi oltre, lo sguardo di Leavitt dipinge una New York che si fa volutamente cartolina turistica, con descrizioni posate, equilibrate, mentre confina i suoi personaggi in spazi chiusi.
E che dire del significato che l'intero romanzo assume, alla luce del titolo? Scelta audace e inusuale, quella di staccare il messaggio dal medium, di dichiarare apertamente la morale della storia, eppure ponendola al di fuori di esso, dedicandovi uno striminzito capitolo centrale che taglia in due il romanzo e inchioda al centro della lettura il suo perforante senso. La lingua perduta delle gru, richiamandosi a un fatto psichiatrico realmente avvenuto, è il linguaggio segreto dell'amoore, sono le parole non dette che s'incastrano tra madre e figlio costruendo un muro di silenzio, è l'unica certezza che rimane mentre il romanzo finisce, proprio quando la storia sembra cominciare per davvero: qualunque sia la cosa che amiamo, è quello che noi siamo.

[M. Malmierca · Rating 4 out of 5]

Aunque Davitt Leavitt, en éste su primer libro, El lenguaje perdido de las grúas, ya muestra su pericia como narrador, es para mí en el contenido de la obra, en el tema donde reside su mayor acierto. En este caso se trata de la orientación sexual (que en la fecha de publicación del libro no era un tema muy habitual), pero se puede extrapolar a cualquier otro secreto que se pueda dar en las familias o en cualquier grupo humano. La salida a la luz de este secreto en un entorno donde el equilibrio está sustentado por la rutina, por los miedos y por las mentiras hacen que los personajes se desubiquen y produzcan una fuerte situación dramática. Y Leavitt maneja estupendamente esta tensión y consigue hacernos sufrir con la situación, pero disfrutar con la narración. Para ser una ópera prima, tiene el valor suficiente para dedicar un tiempo a su lectura.

[Daniel Myatt · Rating 5 out of 5]

A beautifully written book that gives us a glimpse into a world of gay men in 1980's New York.

Wonderfully written and definitely a book I would recommend to any gay man who wants to learn about his history.

Another wonderful David Leavitt read.

[Gattalucy · Rating 4 out of 5]

Perché ciascuno, a modo suo, trova ciò che deve amare, e lo ama.

Leggere un buon romanzo per me equivale a farsi rapire.
Non importa che storia sia, purchè mi trascini con sé: questa la differenza tra una bella lettura e qualcosa di trascurabile. A volte è la trama, o il finale, a trascinarmi divorando le pagine, altre è il modo di raccontare gli eventi, di mettere insieme le parole, cosicché la prosa si trasforma a poco a poco in poetica e incanto.
Leavitt, che non avevo mai incontrato prima, mi ha affascinato, pur con una storia che non mi avrebbe mai coinvolto, grazie la sua capacità di raccontare le emozioni, i sentimenti dei protagonisti che si aggirano all'intero delle loro rispettive paure: di non essere all'altezza, di far male agli altri, di non riuscire a farsi accettare per le loro scelte, o i loro limiti. Di non essere amati.

”Non si augurava tanto di non sapere la verità, quanto piuttosto di evitarla, per continuare il più a lungo possibile nell'illusione che forse le cose se le immaginava soltanto" personaggio degno di un racconto di Marìas questa Rose, in fuga davanti alla scoperta delle scelte sessuali degli uomini della sua famiglia.
Quante volte ho distolto gli occhi, quante volte sono arrivata a conclusioni ridicole per non guardare in faccia la verità. Adesso, all'improvviso, tutte queste cose hanno un senso per me, tutte le lacune sono state colmate

E bravo Leavitt, sembra che sia uscito un suo nuovo romanzo, ma forse prima proverò a leggere i suoi racconti Ballo di famiglia

[Aly Lauck · Rating 5 out of 5]

Loved this gem! Palpable and personal.

[Surreysmum · Rating 4 out of 5]

As far as I'm aware, this is Leavitt's first published novel, and it's an impressive effort. Leavitt's theme is that of many of his stories in Family Dancing - that is, family relationships from a specifically gay standpoint. In a way, you could analyze this novel down into a rather pedantic series of illustrative dissertations on possible varieties of family response: there's Jerene, the black lesbian whose parents have entirely disowned her; there's Eliot, brought up as the adopted son of a settled & sophisticated gay couple - Eliot who somehow has never managed to develop a capacity for emotional intimacy; there are the two principal characters, Philip and his father Owen, both gay, and both making that revelation in the course of the book. The generational difference is nicely etched - differences in expectations, in guilt level, in ways of going about things. The last main character to mention is Rose, Philip's mother and Owen's wife. She cannot fully accept or understand what she finds out about the two men in her life - but what I find interesting is that she is portrayed neither as monster nor victim. I think I mentioned elsewhere that Leavitt seems to have a surprisingly strong sense of his female characters. Anyway, the point I started out to make and didn't quite finish is that these characters seem to me not only to be perceived/analyzed but to be felt. I really can't think of much higher praise for a modern novel. This is a post-AIDS book, by the way. It's not mentioned by name, but the consciousness of it is everywhere. One last thought just struck me. There are no straight men in this book - gay men, straight women, and gay women, yes.

[John Anthony · Rating 4 out of 5]

Set in New York in the 1980s, the central character, Philip, is gay. He comes out to his parents. At that time, neither Philip, nor his mother Rose, realises that Owen, husband and father, is also gay.

Interesting character drawings and sketches of relationships. The importance of the family unit is central to the main story with the acceptance/rejection of the child and lifestyle. Rose is perhaps the best drawn character in the book and the one who evokes the most sympathy. Cold and rather self-contained she could be said to have “lost” her husband and son by the end of the book. Philip seemed weak and wimpish.

First impressions of the book were that it was trite in style but I was won over as I read on and enjoyed reading it. I could identify with the growing up process and the coming to terms with self and consciousness of same.

[Elizabeth (Alaska) · Rating 5 out of 5]

I have read other David Leavitt books and have appreciated reading them. Leavitt wrote a preface to the edition I read, saying the central characters—Rose, Owen, and Philip—strike me as being as alive today as they were when I invented them more than a decade ago. This is most certainly true, and this is what makes this novel special. Novels whose characterizations feel like real people are the ones I want to read. This also has what I perceive as above average writing, though Leavitt disparages his writing in this, his second, novel. Yes, there were a few sentences I had to reread, but I can certainly allow him that.

There are 3 long chapters - more sections, than chapters - being 90, 95, and 145 pages, and then one ultra short section of 3 pages. This ultra-short section is called The Crane Child. We could wonder why it was included. One of the minor characters, Jerene, came across an article at the end of 7 years of writing her dissertation. The Crane Child was a neglected child for two years and cried constantly, but came to love a crane, a piece of construction equipment, and quieted upon seeing it. About it, she concludes For each, in his own way, she believed, finds what it is he must love, and loves it; the window becomes a mirror; whatever it is that we love, that is who we are. In his preface, Leavitt changes "whatever" to "whoever", but the point is made.

This applies to his characters who struggle with homosexuality. And make no mistake, his characters do struggle. I am about as straight as a person can be, but I've recognized for long enough that all of us simply want to love and be loved, regardless of how we are alike or how we are different. Leavitt contributes to this understanding.

A word of caution: some of the earlier parts of this have graphic sex, so much so that it borders on the pornographic. There was more in this novel than in his other novels. For that reason only, it would be easy to downgrade this to 4-stars. I cannot do that, but perhaps writing it, will alert others.

[El · Rating 4 out of 5]

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Today is World AIDS Day. Since AIDS was first really recognized in the early 80s I think the numbers have reached over 25 million deaths. Pretty staggering when you think about it, and when you think about all the lives that have been touched in some way by this pandemic. It's not just about the big names you see on the news. It's about their families too, the ones you don't see on TV. It's about people in your neighborhood who could also be sick. It could be about just anyone. Friends, families, lovers.


It was not intentional that I finished The Lost Language of Cranes on World AIDS Day, but I'm glad I did. It's first the story of Philip Benjamin, a young gay man who struggles with the first stage of informing his parents of his homosexuality. The story covers not only Philip's perspective but also those of his mother, Rose, and his father, Owen. A double-whammy for Rose when she finds out Owen harbors his own homosexual tendencies. The three members of the family are forced to deal with their own opinions, feelings, emotions, and fears that come with these realizations. On the other end of the spectrum there is Philip's boyfriend, Eliot, who was raised by a homosexual couple after his parents died. The relationship between Philip and Eliot is often sad to read, and hard in other parts to see Philip try so hard to make something of the relationship that perhaps was never meant to be. Other characters - such as Eliot's roommate, Jerene, who has spent the last seven years writing a dissertation about lost languages - also serve pivotal roles in the telling of the story.

The story itself is filled with a lot of beauty. The writing is almost flawless as far as I'm concerned. I've read Leavitt's The Body of Jonah Boyd and was not that impressed with it. The Lost Language of Cranes felt much more powerful and much more complete. I was able to commiserate with each of the characters individually, though I've never dealt with the experience, for example, of having my son tell me he is gay. Leavitt managed to tell a universal story of the difficult and often controversial subject of homosexuality, especially considering the publication date of 1986 - when the AIDS pandemic was relatively new and so many people still thought you could contract the disease by drinking out of an infected person's glass.

The story itself also takes place in the 80s and there is a good deal of discussion about AIDS, particularly in relation to Philip's character and his own fears and worries. I saw somewhere that the story felt to someone to be "dated", and I didn't get that feeling at all. This could have been written today and still been about the 80s. Leavitt's experiences with being a gay man in NYC in the 80s gave him a lot to go on for this book, a lot of material, right down to articles published at the time suggesting homosexuals limit their sexual partners to 10 people - which of course grew to a smaller number as it became evident that HIV/AIDS was not something that was just going to go away. So "dated" is not the word I would use here. I find it just as relevant today, if not more so, than in the 80s when The Lost Language of the Cranes was first published.

[Cindy · Rating 3 out of 5]

A story of family and friends coming to grips with who they are and redefining their lives in the process.

These have to be some of the most real, vivid characters I've ever encountered in a novel. Really incredible. So why didn't I give the book 5-stars? I just wasn't compelled or all that interested in the story until about 2/3 of the way through the book.

If you love great, interesting, complex and evolving characters, this is the book for you. If you need a bit more plot, maybe not.

I also wonder if some of my inability to latch-on to the story was that it was set in Manhattan? I've always found the ways of New York life to be foreign, and I never quite 'get' it.

I really loved how the book captured the mid-eighties, like a little time-capsule. There were quite a few pop-culture references, which was nostalgic. I was also fascinated by the discussions of AIDS and how it was impacting the gay community in those early days.

[Filipa Ribeiro Ferreira · Rating 4 out of 5]

Este livro traz-nos a Nova Iorque dos anos 80 no seu esplendor, retratando sobretudo a vida dos gays, os bares, cinemas e parques que frequentam, o perigo da SIDA e as transformações que a doença acarreta nos seus relacionamentos. Há também uma tensão entre quem assume a sua homosexualidade e quem se esconde atrás de vidas de fachada. Philip resolve contar aos pais que é gay, mas não tem a noção do caos que essa revelação vai provocar sobretudo no seu pai mas também na relação dos pais, que já sofriam a angústia de verem o seu apartamento em Manhattan vendido sem possibilidade de o comprarem.

[James Horn · Rating 4 out of 5]

Excellent novel of coming out. I very much enjoyed The Lost Language of Cranes and felt very attached to the characters. The prose here is reminiscent of greats like Cheever and Carver, while still feeling fresh. Sometimes novels are all about timing and I think this would have resonated even more if I hadn’t just read Hanya Yanigahara’s A Little Life. This modern classic is certainly worth your time!

[Rob · Rating 2 out of 5]

I always find it hard to review a two-star book, because the inevitable question is 'well why did you read it?' I read this because it was sort of hinted to me that Leavitt is a kind of American Alan Hollinghurst. However, his writing lacks the grace and style of Hollinghurst, and his characters lack the depth and complexity.

Essentially this is a book about miserable people written in lifeless prose. As a contrast, I'm reading Howard Jacobson at the moment, who writes about miserable people with sparkling, witty prose and it makes all the difference.

I did wonder as I read it if this book has just aged badly, and that at the time of writing it could get away with its dead prose and maudlin world view because it had political currency. However, there are many positive reviews on here, so I guess it just didn't provide that specific thing that separates my taste from that of many others.

[diario_de_um_leitor_pjv · Rating 5 out of 5]

(reli em Julho de 2022 depois de ter lido em 1990 e 1998, escrevi nessa altura este comentário e vídeo)

Sobre o livro de Leavitt e sobre o ciclo LGBTI

Um vídeo sobre o livro "A linguagem perdida dos guindastes" de David Leavitt.

Sobre a minha relação com este livro que é mesmo muito especial e muito íntima. Escolhi este romance para (quase) terminar o meu ciclo LGBTI que comecei em Junho.

Mas este é também um vídeo sobre os últimos meses e as suas leituras e sobre as minhas paixões.

https://www.instagram.com/p/CR1PmEDnCM7/

[Maria Lago · Rating 5 out of 5]

Como todo lo que hace Leavitt, está maravillosamente escrito y esto no es asunto baladí. Quizás sea una historia mundanal, pero para nada es aburrida. Quizás sea precisamente esa cotidianeidad lo que permea a la historia de verosimilitud. Quizás sea una manera que tiene este autor de poner las cosas en su sitio: salir del armario, enamorarse y descorazonarse, aceptar, enfadarse, equivocarse y continuar... Pura vida.

[Bill Silva · Rating 3 out of 5]

I can imagine this novel was more groundbreaking and compelling when it was originally published in 1986--but it seems very dated today in 2020. Leavitt awkwardly attempts to up the literary significance of his story with his frequent ponderings about language--but this is basically a domestic drama centering on some mostly whiny characters who engender little sympathy or interest. For a period piece, it has some value--but we seem so far from that time in so many ways.

[Kevin Rainford · Rating 5 out of 5]

I first read this book when I was in my early 20s, when I was the son Phillip’s age. Now I’ve reread it as I’ve reached my mid 50’s, Owen the fathers age. It made me recollect how much I connected to the son and how this novel gave me hope for love. I still love this book and am so thankful that I was lucky enough to live a life of truth unlike Owen who was only able to reveal himself at my age.

[Michael Flick · Rating 5 out of 5]

Sad story of a son and father coming out as homosexuals, crumbling their worlds. There’s a lot of love and anger here, it’s brutally honest even if not exactly sure that’s best. But it must be, the alternatives are lives of regret and pretending, being a stranger, isolated even from yourself, even sadder.


The key is on page 177: “…whatever it is that we love, that is who we are.”

[Tell · Rating 4 out of 5]

Lovely, beautifully written, verbose, elegant. Leavitt perfectly conjures the spirit of New York in the eighties, painting a portrait of both queer nightlife, middle class ennui, and familial tension with a deft hand.
I loved his subtle character building through the mundane everyday interactions of the protagonists, and was ultimately charmed by the intense self reflection, rendered through dialogue and long walks around the city.
I might be biased since I love reading about New York in the past, but the writing really is stunning. A must read for queer readers, queer New Yorkers, and New Yorkers of any stripe who want to luxuriate in descriptions of the city.

[Alice · Rating 4 out of 5]

3.5

[Marcos · Rating 5 out of 5]

fácilmente, de lo mejor que he leído.
ha sido la novela indicada en el momento justo