Ocean Vuong’s bestselling debut novel, “On Earth We’re Briefly Gorgeous,” took the literary world by storm. Upon its release, the book was widely praised for its heartbreaking character depictions which were matched equally by the beauty of the author’s prose. When writing this epistolary novel, Vuong leaned into his roots as a poet, with flowery, lyrical language at its core. In addition to the author’s many accolades, including the 2014 Ruth Lilly and Dorothy Sargent Rosenberg Poetry Fellowship and the American Book Award, his newest novel, “The Emperor of Gladness,” has been recognized by Oprah’s Book Club and quickly rose on bestseller lists. As “On Earth We’re Briefly Gorgeous” focused on beautiful prose, it lacked a coherent plotline, which drew me to pick up “The Emperor of Gladness,” which seemed to have a far clearer plot progression and apparently tangible characters. The individuality of these novels also encouraged my attendance at his national tour which enriched my reading experience by providing insight not only into the production of his novels, but also what it means to write.
The novel opens with our narrator, Hai, standing on a bridge, ready to end his life. Breaking through the rain and the noise of his thoughts, an elderly widow, Grazina, calls to him and saves his life. Hai becomes Grazina’s caretaker as she falls deeper into her dementia, and in spite of it all, they become unlikely companions, leaning on one another as they live through their respective hardships. Taking place during the rise of the opioid epidemic in 2009, this story is one of resilience and the beauty in the most mundane aspects of life. Vuong reminds readers that the stories of everyday individuals are just as beautiful as the fantastical and epic stories more widely represented in literature.
While “On Earth We’re Briefly Gorgeous” focuses on the complications of generational experiences and the meaning of blood, “The Emperor of Gladness” takes an even deeper look at the meaning of chosen family. The thickness of blood can be suffocating, and the turn to the purity of friendship can be the breath of fresh air we so desperately need. Both of these perspectives are important in their own ways, though in “On Earth We’re Briefly Gorgeous,” I found that the characters felt more like ideas than people. There is a certain beauty in describing a Queer relationship and the complexities between a mother and son, the way Vuong wrote into his first novel. Hai, living in East Gladness, however, lives the unaesthetic life of a fast food worker, including anecdotes like butchering pigs or racist customers, which exemplify that these people may not fall into the role of an “ideal” protagonist. While Vuong’s debut was beautifully written and heart-wrenching, the silent beauty of this second novel allows for a rich cast of characters that truly feel like real people rather than ideas of them. The readers are intruders, peering into these real lives. Though we come to read a story, we turn the last page feeling as though we have worked, laughed and cried with these characters as their friends.
On Instagram, Vuong has described each book he writes as “reincarnations of one another.” The stark difference, yet evident interlinking of his two novels is indicative of this sentiment. While “On Earth We’re Briefly Gorgeous” is a dark, contemplative story of a Queer immigrant experience, “The Emperor of Gladness” is witty, even hilarious at times despite discussing topics not entirely different from his first novel. By focusing on the individuality of a singular life rather than generational trauma, Vuong’s personality shines through the characters, and his humor introduces a new side to his writing that we, as readers, had not previously experienced. To Vuong, his first novel was a story reflecting his heritage. In “On Earth We’re Briefly Gorgeous,” Vuong’s individuality is relevant, but the book loses purpose without the generational focus. Its serious nature is a response to its audience, which is a largely non-Vietnamese demographic. On tour, Vuong explained that in order to do his work justice, he remained hyper-aware of this audience and felt humor was inappropriate, leading his prose with respect for those who came before him. His second novel, by contrast, is largely inspired by a singular story, and its hope and humor are equal to the adversity these characters share.
In addition to incorporating humor into his novel, Vuong treats this subject with the reverence it deserves, allowing the characters to make fun of themselves through dialogue, but never through the larger prose. The characters feel authentic and use humor to cope, the way many outside of fiction do. It is through humor we find relatability and companionship among those with similar experiences. In fact, these experiences become far more real when the humor feels out of place and reminds us how harsh the reality truly is. Vuong’s prose reminds us of our own mortality — with limited time, our only true accomplishment is the relationships we form with one another and the satisfaction we achieve from real human connection. A particularly moving section of the novel discusses how, when one coworker was waiting for the unimaginable news, everyone stays with her in an act of camaraderie. In spite of all the casual levity when talking about addiction, they will come together in times of need. Novels that reflect only one tone of voice can be powerful, though they lack reality, which is a medley of emotions which oftentimes balance one another. In “The Emperor of Gladness,” no life is purely one emotion, and the world never stops spinning, no matter what each individual may be going through. The characters speak of those suffering without judging or questioning the morality of addiction’s victims — ultimately, they are what we all are: human.
Vuong continued to discuss the reality of human life throughout the duration of his book tour, where he openly spoke about the importance of our narrator, Hai, working in food service. Stemming from Vuong’s own experience working in the food industry, Hai’s story discusses the privileges of financial stability and, even more thoroughly, the rightful pride that any professional has in their work. Vuong’s writing argues that these lesser-valued jobs are the pillars of our society, and those who work in service are essential. When Vuong speaks about the immigrant experience, he explains the pride that hundreds of thousands of immigrants have in their service jobs; they iron their uniforms with their Vietnamese names printed on them, invigorated by their independence and the opportunity to provide for their families. According to Vuong on tour, “The Emperor of Gladness” is a “sonnet for the food industry,” paying respect to those silent in our workforce and their demographics.
Due to this facet of the book, privilege happens to be a main subject of conversation during the discussion portion of the tour. Vuong speaks not only of the privileges his characters may have or lack, but also the privilege that he has in crafting a novel. Even the very beginning of the writing process, the ability to sit in a room and draft a novel, is not guaranteed to all aspiring writers. Financial limitations, familial responsibilities and even linguistic and educational barriers prevent hundreds of thousands of stories from entering the literary world. As readers, we must be aware of the stories that are lost to us as they sit in the minds of writers who must employ themselves for the sole task of putting food on the table. Vuong speaks of his own writing with even more humility. His act of craft is comparable to “eating,” and his dinner has been paid for by his family who work in the service industry, keeping his hands uncalloused, to have the opportunity to try.
Ocean Vuong’s words on stage were even more captivating than the story in his pages. With each of his anecdotes, he credits those in his life who inspired him to write today, including those he never physically met. In each book he writes, he makes an active choice to write with respect and care, both for his history and heritage, and for the countless people who are represented by his words. His perspective on writing and craft can be summarized by a quote he paraphrases from feminist literary icon Susan Sontag: “It’s impossible to write a good sentence with luck.” Vuong inspires readers to realize that craft is intentional and art is the beautiful byproduct. As we read, we are reading the hardened proof of the emotional journey an artist embarks on while creating.
Daily Arts Writer Archisha Pathak can be reached at archpath@umich.edu.
