On Earth We're Briefly Gorgeous: A Novel Paperback – June 1, 2021

This book is exquisite. The eb and flow of Oceans writing is deeply stirring and truly "gorgeous". Yes, he is a poet. Expresses like a poet, the world reverberates for him as with the greatest poets. His story is woven through this book in its semi-autobiographical form. It is intense. It is heartbreakingly painfully and also utterly beautiful. Like James Baldwin- a great soul and a one in a million writer. It is a true classic.

Arrived with a dirty and torn cover.

The pain of the Vietnam War left splinters all across the globe—at the scale of bothwar-torn countries and broken households. In the novel On Earth We’re Briefly Gorgeous, poet Ocean Vuong details the years of physical abuse endured from a mother suffering from post-traumatic stress disorder after fleeing her homeland and the intense guerilla warfare associated with it. The United State’s involvement in the Vietnam War comes a result of a vain attempt to ‘contain’ communism within Southeast Asia. Vietnam was torn into two separate entities; one of which supported the Soviet cause and the other backed by the military giant that is the United States. Vuong beautifully illustrates the racialized and politicized distributions of ‘controlled’ space and power over nature, while also including the achingly painful caveat of war time abuse and the devastating effects of the struggle for materialistic control of land.One of the most powerful aspects of this piece of work is its showcase of the intersectionality between race, gender, and power. In Part 1, Vuong details the story of his grandmother, a young Vietnamese woman who flees an arranged marriage and is sexually assaulted by an American soldier, producing a ‘white-passing’ child. The woman, self-named to be Lan, is approached by two American soldiers on the street, both of which are noticeably intoxicated and carrying massive M-16s. Lan urinates on herself, standing “on the life-sized period of her own sentence, alive” thanks to the paleness of her daughter. This memory from Vuong’s grandmother is striking as it points back to an argument made by researcher Donna Haraway regarding feminist political ecology. The earth, with an “independent sense of humor, is its own active subject in the propagation of gender and social norms. Lan’s ability as a woman to reproduce protected her from imminent death, pointing to an argument made by feminist poltical ecologist Sharlene Mollett which describes that as humans, we are historically entered into heavily racialized and sexualized relationships, so there is no way to properly separate these traits as completely isolated from the other. The binary hierarchy that existed within this confrontation was ultimately created by the differing characteristics that nature and culture have created to categorize men and women into separate social classes, with regard to race as well.Vuong also successfully illustrates the lack of fairly paid domestic labor done by women of color. His mother, Rose, works in a nail salon where the violent, noxious fumes worked to develop asthma in the young lungs of the employee’s children. The ability of this environment, glamorized by the lure of the ‘American dream,’ to cause extreme bodily harm is not reflected within the American economy. The deeply ingrained, patriarchal ideal of success does not include labor that is seen as undesirable. Silvia Federici, an influential socialist feminist thinker, argues that this ignorance points to an even larger flaw in the way our workforce is structured, and how capitalism takes advantage of our nation’s most vulnerable. Vuong shares aninteresting perspective on this by stating that he hates and loves his mother’s battered hands for what they can never be. Even the child of an immigrant, conditioned by abuse to respect andfear his mother, is ashamed of her occupation. Compared to similar accounts of families chasing the ‘American dream,’ the rawness of Vuong’s emotions makes his entire sentiment even more powerful, as he appeals to each side.Later in the story, Vuong grapples with his sexuality and an opioid addiction, conditioned to believe both are evil. This novel is special in many ways, but its strong, emotional tone helps the reader to connect even deeper to the barriers an immigrant family faces, even if they have no experience with the subject. Early on in the story, we learn that Rose, Vuong’s mother, is illiterate. This open letter of resentment, pride, and love that he feels towards his mother will never be received by her, as she cannot conceptualize the act of reading and writing. The notion that Vuong is writing this as a way to reinforce his ownership over the experiences he has endured continues to impress his audience as a second generation, queer man of color taking his own power in a society that systemically does not grant him any.

This novel is deeply personal, written by an extremely sensitive man. I heard Vuong being interviewed by the NYT and I was so taken with his emotion that I wanted to read the book.Alas, this novel is not for me. Although its themes of war, immigration, coming of age, and death are very compelling and well written, there was graphic gay sex and many obscene words that, to my mind, do not make this book recommendable or to be lauded.Also, the storyline is not linear and with no division of different times and places, I was confused which made the book difficult to understand. Plus, the similes just don’t make sense although I realize that this narrative is more like poetry.Actually, the last 25 pages are the best.For the reasons listed above, I had to give this book only 3 stars.

Reading the reviews of this book here, I found a fascinating snapshot of who we are: richly feeling and yet constrained, open and still closed in mind and heart, welcoming and resolutely petty, loving but spiteful. The book itself was, for me, incandescent, soaring to great heights, and crushing, dragging me as reader to terrible depths. In the balance, the book is a paean to beauty in all its forms--and beauty takes shapes that pierce the spirit with both pain and joy. Regarding literary sensibility, for me there are strains of Proust in the seemingly involuntary function of memory. Another reviewer related this to Whitman and I can absolutely understand why. The references to Barthes, Duchamp, etcetera are part of my regular lexicon of references (given my own work) so Vuong's literary allusions felt natural to me, though I could imagine others growing discontent with the exposure to the unfamiliar--when they don't wish to be sidetracked by new ideas. For me that was always a joy in reading a well-read writer (e.g., Eco or Borges). Vuong loves language with a passion; that is obvious. His ardor sings. The tune is a sometimes a dithyramb, often an elegy, occasionally a hymn, and at times a heartbreaking lament. If I were to offer a criticism of faults, there were a few moments of uneveness of quality in parts II and III. But these seemed exceedingly minor to me in the context of the total work.The book is not for everyone. I write that in manner similar to saying that Joyce isn't for everyone. Readers who claim the book is bad because they couldn't understand it, because Vuong doesn't follow a straight line or leave a clear thread in the labyrinth for them to follow are claiming a rather pedestrian criterion for a universal judgment. By that measure, "Finnegans Wake" is a crime against humanity! Here's a thought: "I don't like this sort of writing" is a very different statement from "this is bad writing." The former is wholly understandable and might just be a matter of individual taste. The latter is a declaration of critical finality, the rightful domain of consensus and posterity. And to those who recoiled in homophobic disgust, I beg you to try opening yourself up to the world as others live it. I'm a straight white male, so I share neither the same sexual desires nor experiences of America (or world) as the author, but allowing myself to empathize with the characters Vuong writes only makes the scope of human understanding that much broader for me. To feel like some agenda is being pushed upon one here is less a reflection on author, publisher, or reviewers than upon one's own defense mechanisms and inability to momentarily leave a world that only affirms only a dominant narrative that reflects one's own experiences. The abuse of the narrator and other figures, the violence against animals: these things are horrific and abject, yes. But they are also a part of life. As part of life they are subjects of poetic reflection; life is not all happy songs and roses, why should art be? I remember someone complaining that Goya's "Disasters" were so horrific as to render his art bad, or not art at all. Most of us would find that idea risible, but I see the sentiment repeated here. Turning our backs on brutality is to give it access to us unchecked and unexamined. The violence in "On Earth," never felt gratuitous to me nor aestheticized for the sake of glorifying violence or excusing it. Rather, it seemed to me that Vuong explored the ambivalences of our brutality, our ability to be loving, caring monsters, beautiful and horribly flawed. Anyhow, I loved the book and recommend it if you are looking for a read that with at once enthrall and challenge you. I read it in one sitting, so I can say that Vuong captured something profound and compelling for me, personally. I honestly find it hard to believe how young he is; there is a wealth of experience and reflection here that is seemingly beyond his years. I look forward to his future endeavors.

The item arrived carefully packaged and in precisely as-described condition. I am happy with my experience, and will buy from this seller in the future.