{"id":7475,"date":"2014-09-20T18:47:00","date_gmt":"2014-09-20T18:47:00","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/www.eoisabi.org\/?p=7475"},"modified":"2020-04-11T22:12:42","modified_gmt":"2020-04-11T22:12:42","slug":"the-lost-language-of-cranes-d-leavitt","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/englishroam.com\/?p=7475","title":{"rendered":"The Lost Language of Cranes [excerpt]"},"content":{"rendered":"

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\u00abEARLY ON A rainy Sunday afternoon in November a man was hurrying down Third Avenue, past closed and barred florist shops and newsstands, his hands stuffed into his pockets and his head bent against the wind…\u00bb<\/address>\n

Set in the 1980s against the backdrop of a swiftly gentrifying Manhattan,\u00a0David Leavitt<\/strong>‘s extraordinary first novel,\u00a0The Lost Language of Cranes<\/strong>, 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.<\/p>\n

\u2022\u2192http:\/\/issuu.com\/bloomsbury\/docs\/lost_language_of_cranes_excerpt\/1<\/a>\u21d0[read<\/strong>]<\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00b7 \u00a0<\/span>\u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0[‘voyages’]<\/h6>\n

\u00a0… They had a son, Philip; he was twenty-five, and lived on the West Side. For him, one particular image of his parents had a kind of primal character: Owen and Rose are sitting across the living room from each other in the twin corduroy La-Z-Rockers they had once rented a car and driven all the way to Jersey to buy. It is late at night. Through the crack beneath the door to his bedroom, the light of four one-hundred-watt bulbs glares. There is no sound but that of pages turning, bodies shifting, an occasional stretch. \u00abTwo hundred pages to go,\u00bb<\/em> says Owen. He is reading a densely footnoted biography of Lytton Strachey. Then he moves into the kitchen and opens the refrigerator door. The cake is there, the icing gleaming in the light that goes on when the door opens, one or two slices already missing and the knife – coated with the white silk and yellow crumbs – lying on the plate next to it. Rose joins him. \u00a0She takes te plate out of the refrigerator, puts it down on the counter, and sinks the knife into its softness. He stands by, helpless watching her as she hoists two pieces of cake onto desert plates and carries them to the table. All without a word. Then they sit down, prop their books open in front of them, and eat.<\/p>\n

One fall afternoon, in the elevator, Mrs Lubin – a widow who had lived in the building even longer than the Benjamins – confided in Rose. The landlord, she suspected, was capable of dark treacheries.\u00a0A letter a few days later confirmed her worst fears. The building was going co-op. Because they were not rent-controlled and under sixty-five, they had an opinion tu buy at a reduced price, but they could not continue as renters.<\/p>\n

Of course there had been portents, rumors, finally letters; but the thing seemed to have been put off indefinitely, and finally they had stopped believing it could really happen. Now it had happened. \u00abCan we afford it?\u00bb<\/em> Rose asked Owen. He took off his reading glasses, put down the letter, and rubbed his eyes. \u00abI don’t know,\u00bb<\/em> he said. \u00abI suppose we have enough money. I’ll have to talk it over with an accountant. I’ve never imagined spending so much money before, not since Philip went to college.\u00bb<\/em><\/p>\n

\u00abWe have a few months, at least,\u00bb<\/em> Rose said. \u00abBefore we lose our option.\u00bb<\/em> She looked around herself. Give or take a few new pieces of furniture, and some re-upholstering, it was the same living room they had moved into twenty-one years ago. On the rug, a seveteen-year-old urine stain alone testified to the existence of Doodles, the poodle puppy hit by a car when he was only eight months old. Tey had lived there so long it no longer seemed like a place to her.<\/p>\n

\u00abThe maintenance alone is going to be twice our rent,\u00bb Owen said. \u00abStill, from what I hear, even that’s a bargain.\u00bb<\/em> He looked out the window. \u00abYou know, Arnold Selensky tells me that every other building on the block has already gone co-op.\u00bb<\/em><\/p>\n

\u00abI don’t want to leave,\u00bb<\/em> Rose said. Loke old Mrs Lubin, she panicked at the prospect of change, had heard the stories of the landlords who hired thugs and dropped pets out of windows, feared holesness. Not eveyone felt that way, of course. Owen’s spirited friend in the penthouse, Arnold Selensky, rich and getting richer in the video rental business, invited them up for dinner one night, wagged his cognac glass at them across the plexiglass table, and applauded change. \u00abI myself believe in keeping up with the times,\u00bb<\/em> he explained. \u00abThat music on the stereo, for instance. Eurythmics. Not The Eurythmics, just Eurythmics. Nice, huh? The latest thing. That compact disc player is also the latest thing. No reason just because one’s getting on one should lose touch. So many of the old women in this building, they’re killing themselves, it seems to me; they’re still listening to Lawrence Welk.\u00bb<\/em><\/p>\n

Rose thought, Living in the past. Anachonistic. Bag lady \u00a0. \u00a0. \u00a0.<\/p>\n

\u25ca \u00a0Nath Jones<\/strong> reads from the section of the book entitled \u2193\u00a0Myths of Origin.<\/em><\/p>\n

– Epigraph: \u00a0\u00abForgive me if you read this. I had gone so long without loving I hardly knew what I was thinking.\u00bb<\/em><\/p>\n

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