Hai, the protagonist of Ocean Vuong's sophomore novel, wants to write a book some day, one that safely holds all of his favourite things. He likely never will, caught amidst the drudgery of living, and making a living, at the superfrayed edges of American society. But Vuong can, and The Emperor of Gladness is his attempt at preserving Hai's memories and experiences against the erasure that awaits them, against the descent into oblivion despite which his people – poor, broken, infirm and neglected – continue to survive.
We first meet Hai teetering at the edge of a bridge in the backwaters of East Gladness, Connecticut, ashamed to return home to his mother, when he is accosted by an elderly woman. Grazina is alone and battling dementia, but in that moment she throws him a lifeline, and Hai agrees to keep on as her caretaker in exchange for food and shelter. The unlikely pair soon form a tender, life-altering bond, one that changes Hai's relationship with his himself, his family, and a post-industrial community beset by invisiblised crises.
This is a thematically complex novel: Vuong here refracts critiques of of labour, consumption, enforced precarity, late capitalism and the American empire against a study of human connection, using the space created by friendship and found family to fold the margins into the centre and remind us of who and what is left behind in our scramble for infinite growth and economic progress. His characters are people who have been written-off from the American dream: fast food chain gig workers, drug addicts, poor immigrants, the disabled and the elderly, none of whom are afforded a place in the veneered world they are enlisted to maintain. Though these connections are only transient – though these characters' very lives and livelihoods are rendered disposable by the systems that govern them – Vuong here tries capturing glimpses of the beauty they create despite a pervasive social, political, and existential stasis.
The trajectories of Vuong's characters intersect top with broader themes of memory and war: Grazina's dementia often transports her back to her fraught youth, while Hai contends with his in the present – East Gladness is a nowhereland stricken with a poverty-enforced drug crisis, an insidious war taking prisoners in his neck of the woods. Hai's cousin, Sony, meanwhile, finds solace and escape in the memorialisation of a different war, one whose seemingly distant spectre continues to haunt the state of their nation. Amidst these scenarios of conflict and forgetting, the author invites readers to pay attention to what draws his characters to each other and how it gives them the strength to keep going.
Though the book is brilliant in scope – expansive and intimate at once – something about it doesn't quite work. Vuong's prose, poetic, diaphanous and carefully cultivated elsewhere, seems here to have gome uncontrollably florid in a way that highlights rather than cushions the flaws of his storytelling. There are several points here – moments intended to be light, to afford grace and complexity to lives otherwise glossed over – where the writing goes from being the vehicle of narration to narrative itself, presenting itself such that its own form is difficult to look past; there are also sections that could be funny, or heartwarming, but which limit themselves in their corniness. And then the loose tiles in the floor – for instance, the way mother and son never run into each other despite coexisting in the same small town – make the whole feel somewhat unbalanced and uneven, somewhat rushed, a little inattentive in its attentiveness.
I'm certain many readers will wholeheartedly love The Emperor of Gladness. I too loved the premise and believed in the promise of it, but in the end there was no crossing over into what it attempted to create and couldn't quite deliver.