Emperor of Gladness by Ocean Vuong - A Poetic Journey

Ocean Vuong, a Vietnamese American poet and novelist, has emerged as a luminous voice in contemporary literature, celebrated for his evocative poetry collections Night Sky with Exit Wounds and Time Is a Mother, and his bestselling debut novel, On Earth We’re Briefly Gorgeous. A MacArthur Fellow and T.S. Eliot Prize recipient, Vuong weaves prose with poetic precision, crafting narratives that resonate with raw emotional power. His second novel, The Emperor of Gladness, published in 2025 by Penguin Press, is a profound exploration of chosen family, resilience, and the quiet dignity of working-class life.

Set in the fictional post-industrial town of East Gladness, Connecticut, the novel draws from Vuong’s experiences in the service industry, elder care, and his Vietnamese immigrant heritage. Its title, a nod to Wallace Stevens’ poem “The Emperor of Ice-Cream,” signals its elegiac yet hopeful tone, capturing “the hardest thing in the world is to live only once” (Vuong, 2025, p. 1).

This review argues that The Emperor of Gladness is essential reading for its breathtaking prose, deep empathy, and unflinching portrayal of marginalized lives, offering a universal meditation on survival and human connection. Its innovative blend of poetic and narrative forms, coupled with its exploration of intergenerational trauma, addiction, and found family, makes it a vital contribution to literary fiction. For Indian readers, the novel’s themes of displacement, labor, and resilience resonate deeply, echoing the works of Indian authors such as Bama, Vaikom Muhammad Basheer, Mulk Raj Anand, U.R. Ananthamurthy, and Kamala Markandaya. These authors, with their focus on marginalized voices, social inequities, and the search for identity, amplify the novel’s relevance in the Indian context. Its tender yet gritty depiction of human bonds invites readers to reflect on the beauty and pain of existence, making it a must-read for those seeking emotional depth and social insight.

The Emperor of Gladness unfolds over nine months in East Gladness, Connecticut, a decaying town marked by “a dried-up brook whose memory of water never reached this century” (Vuong, 2025, p. 3). The story centers on Hai, a 19-year-old Vietnamese-American college dropout and painkiller addict, standing on King Phillip’s bridge, ready to end his life: “In the midnight of his childhood and a lifetime from first light” (Vuong, 2025, p. 5). His attempt is interrupted by Grazina, an 82-year-old Lithuanian widow with dementia, who shares a story of surviving Stalin’s purges: “To be alive and try to be a decent person, and not turn it into anything big or grand, that’s the hardest thing of all” (Vuong, 2025, p. 12). Out of necessity, Hai becomes her caretaker, moving into her crumbling home by the toxic river, forging a bond rooted in “empathy, spiritual reckoning, and heartbreak” (Vuong, 2025, p. 20).

Hai, estranged from his mother—who believes he’s thriving in medical school—takes a job at HomeMarket, a fast-casual diner where “the garlicky, tar-ish and vinegar scent of human work” (Vuong, 2025, p. 65) permeates the air. There, he finds a makeshift family among coworkers: BJ, a towering manager aspiring to be a pro wrestler; Russia, a Tajikistani immigrant described as “a cuter version of Gollum” (Vuong, 2025, p. 70); and Maureen, an aging cashier with conspiracy theories. His autistic cousin Sony, obsessed with the Civil War, adds humor and pathos, declaring, “I like Nasa – the real kind, not make-believe like Star Trek” (Vuong, 2025, p. 85). Their interactions, from slaughterhouse visits to wrestling nights at Hairy Harry’s dive bar, reveal the “genuine if brief glow of gladness” (Vuong, 2025, p. 100) that sustains them.

The novel’s structure, divided into seasons, traces Hai’s journey from despair to tentative hope. Grazina’s dementia becomes a metaphor for memory’s fragility, as Hai soothes her by pretending to be a soldier: “We’re safe now, Grazina. The war’s over” (Vuong, 2025, p. 130). A surreal scene where Hai, as “Sgt. Pepper,” bathes Grazina while imagining a wartime escape—“a jeep that sweeps them across war-torn Europe” (Vuong, 2025, p. 200)—blends humor and heartbreak. Hai’s reflections on his family’s escape from Vietnam and the opioid crisis, where “everyday Americans lost themselves so quickly” (Vuong, 2025, p. 110), anchor the narrative in socio-political currents. The novel’s climax, set in spring, is a lyrical reckoning with “what it means to exist on the fringes of society” (Vuong, 2025, p. 300), culminating in a tender, ambiguous resolution that affirms “a page, turning, is a wing lifted with no twin, and therefore no flight” (Vuong, 2025, p. 350).

The Emperor of Gladness is a literary triumph, showcasing Vuong’s ability to “twin grit with grace through tenderness” (Vuong, 2025, p. 15). His prose, a cascade of poetic precision, transforms the mundane into the mythic, as seen in the vivid imagery of East Gladness: “Mornings, the light rinses this place the shade of oatmeal” (Vuong, 2025, p. 7). This evocative language elevates the post-industrial town into a universal stage for human struggle, reminiscent of Thornton Wilder’s Our Town. The novel’s focus on working-class life—rare in American fiction—offers a raw, authentic portrayal of labor’s toll and dignity. The slaughterhouse scene, with its visceral depiction of “smoking vats of vibrant, primary-coloured side dishes” (Vuong, 2025, p. 68), captures the sensory brutality of service work, grounding the narrative in lived experience.

The emotional core lies in the bond between Hai and Grazina, a relationship that avoids sentimental redemption arcs through its raw vulnerability. Their bathtub scene, where Hai’s role-playing soothes Grazina’s confusion, is both heartbreaking and humorous, showcasing Vuong’s ability to balance tones. The ensemble cast—BJ, Russia, Maureen, Sony—forms a vibrant community, each character imbued with quirks, like Sony’s NASA obsession: “It makes things wobbly” (Vuong, 2025, p. 85). Vuong’s dialogue cuts sharply, adding humor and humanity. The novel’s thematic depth, exploring addiction, immigrant trauma, and memory’s fragility, elevates it beyond its intimate scope. Grazina’s dementia serves as a poignant metaphor for collective forgetting, resonating with India’s struggles with historical amnesia, as seen in Mulk Raj Anand’s Untouchable or Kamala Markandaya’s Nectar in a Sieve.

For Indian readers, Hai’s labor and estrangement mirror the lives of migrant workers in Bama’s Karukku, while the found family echoes the community resilience in U.R. Ananthamurthy’s Samskara and Markandaya’s Nectar in a Sieve, where rural communities band together amid hardship. The novel’s structure, with seasonal divisions and introspective vignettes, enriches its emotional resonance, making it both a page-turner and a lyrical meditation.

Despite its brilliance, The Emperor of Gladness has flaws. Its dense, poetic prose occasionally overshadows narrative clarity, as passages like “a scab of land along a river in New England” (Vuong, 2025, p. 3) can feel indulgent, potentially alienating readers seeking a straightforward plot. The fragmented structure, prioritizing moments over a cohesive arc, may frustrate those expecting traditional storytelling. The absence of a meeting between Hai and his mother, despite their proximity, strains credibility, creating narrative gaps. Secondary characters like Maureen and Russia, while vivid, lack fully developed backstories, limiting the novel’s social tapestry. The portrayal of Vietnamese identity occasionally risks oversimplification, leaning on cultural markers without deeper exploration.

For Indian readers, the American setting may reduce cultural relatability compared to the grounded narratives of Basheer’s Balyakalasakhi, Anand’s Coolie, or Markandaya’s Nectar in a Sieve, which weave India’s socio-cultural fabric into their stories. The prose’s sentimentality, as in “a page, turning, is a wing lifted with no twin” (Vuong, 2025, p. 350), can feel overly precious, potentially distancing readers accustomed to the stark realism of Bama or Ananthamurthy. The audiobook narration by James Aaron Oh, while evocative, occasionally struggles with pacing during dense passages, disrupting immersion.

Why Indian Readers Must Read This Book

The Emperor of Gladness is a vital read for Indian audiences, resonating with the subcontinent’s experiences of displacement, labor, and resilience. Hai’s struggle with addiction and familial estrangement mirrors the challenges faced by India’s marginalized youth and migrant workers, as depicted in Bama’s Karukku, where Tamil Dalit women navigate systemic oppression. His reflection, “The hardest thing in the world is to live only once” (Vuong, 2025, p. 1), echoes the existential weight of surviving in a society marked by inequality, akin to Mulk Raj Anand’s Untouchable, which exposes caste-based indignities, or Kamala Markandaya’s Nectar in a Sieve, where rural families endure relentless hardship. Grazina’s dementia, a metaphor for fading memory, parallels India’s collective amnesia surrounding colonial and communal histories, as explored in Vaikom Muhammad Basheer’s Balyakalasakhi.

The novel’s portrayal of working-class life, where “the garlicky, tar-ish and vinegar scent of human work” (Vuong, 2025, p. 65) defines existence, resonates with India’s informal labor sector, from street vendors to factory workers, as seen in Anand’s Coolie or Markandaya’s depictions of rural toil. Hai’s found family at HomeMarket reflects the makeshift communities in India’s urban slums and rural villages, a theme central to U.R. Ananthamurthy’s Samskara, where societal outcasts forge bonds amid exclusion, and Bama’s narratives of Dalit solidarity. The novel’s humor, such as Sony’s quip, “I like Nasa – the real kind, not make-believe like Star Trek” (Vuong, 2025, p. 85), and tenderness, as in Hai’s care for Grazina—“We’re safe now, Grazina. The war’s over” (Vuong, 2025, p. 130)—offer a universal language of connection.

For Indian literary fiction fans, Vuong’s lyrical prose and thematic depth rival the emotional intensity of Arundhati Roy’s The God of Small Things or the socio-political nuance of Markandaya’s Nectar in a Sieve. Its exploration of trauma and hope, where “a genuine if brief glow of gladness” (Vuong, 2025, p. 100) sustains life, speaks to India’s resilience amid economic and social challenges. The novel’s accessibility, with vivid characters and poignant moments, makes it ideal for India’s growing readership, encouraging reflection on identity, community, and the enduring power of kindness.

The Emperor of Gladness is a luminous, heart-wrenching novel that cements Ocean Vuong’s place as a literary virtuoso. Its poetic prose, vivid characters, and exploration of chosen family, labor, and memory create a narrative that is both intimate and epic. Despite minor flaws—dense prose, fragmented structure, and underdeveloped secondary characters—its emotional resonance and socio-political insight make it a triumph. For Indian readers, its themes of displacement and resilience echo the works of Bama, Basheer, Anand, Ananthamurthy, and Markandaya, offering a profound lens into shared human struggles. I wholeheartedly recommend The Emperor of Gladness to readers seeking a transformative literary experience, one that challenges us to find beauty in survival and meaning in connection, reminding us that “to be alive and try to be a decent person” (Vuong, 2025, p. 12) is a quiet, enduring heroism.