Ocean Vuong is more than just a sad gay, Asian poet
Following the release of his second novel, let's take a look at the growing legacy of Ocean Vuong
Ocean Vuong's "The Emperor of Gladness" was named the 114th selection for Oprah’s Book Club.
Photo illustration by Ryan Quan
Words by Teresa Tran
Ocean Vuong has become a figure as interesting as the stories he writes. The May 13 release of his sophomore novel, The Emperor of Gladness, arrived with fanfare: It’s been named the 114th selection for Oprah’s Book Club. Vuong, reflecting in a recent CBS Mornings interview, said that Oprah Winfrey’s endorsement provided "access (that) means so much to me," speaking to his expanding reach and the resonance of his work with a broad American audience. The author also recalls how his mother’s nail salon would buzz with excitement whenever Winfrey celebrated a book—“they’d literally rise from their seats…saying they’re gonna walk to the Barnes & Noble across the street and buy a book.” For an author whose work centers on marginalized identities, immigrant identities and queer tenderness, this moment feels like more than validation; it feels like belonging.
@cbsmornings Author Ocean Vuong opens up about his book, “The Emperor of Gladness,” being picked by Oprah for Oprah’s Book Club: “That access means so much to me, especially as a first-generation immigrant, as a first generation to go to college, as an educator.” #oprahsbookclub ♬ original sound - CBS Mornings
The Emperor of Gladness: A tender mosaic of loss and redemption
Born Vinh Quoc Vuong in 1988 in Saigon, Vietnam, Vuong’s journey to becoming a celebrated author is intertwined with his family’s experience as refugees. At the age of 2, he immigrated with his family to Hartford, Connecticut, after a year in a refugee camp in the Philippines. Raised primarily by women—his mother, a nail salon worker, and his grandmother—in a working-class environment, as well as with a family history of dyslexia, Vuong was the first in his family to learn to read at age 11. This upbringing, surrounded by the context of the Vietnam War and growing up a queer kid in a mostly white town, has shaped his distinct voice and the themes he’s most interested in exploring in his novels.
The Emperor of Gladness weaves the story of Hai, a depressed 19‑year‑old Vietnamese American who, on the brink of suicide, is stopped by Grazina, a dementia-stricken Lithuanian widow. As their unlikely caretaker relationship unfolds, Vuong explores themes of class, intergenerational care, and chosen family. This novel’s themes call back to Vuong’s debut breakout novel, On Earth We’re Briefly Gorgeous (2019), while at the same time pushes his writing into new terrain: exploration of the economics of work, the impact of illness on interpersonal relationships, and addiction and grief.
The novel is stylistically Vuong, lyrical yet grounded, raw yet humane. In shifting from his debut’s epistolary lyricism to something more narrative-driven, he treads a line: some critics, like The Financial Times, found the prose “overwritten” or the structure forced, but others, including The Guardian, praised its emotional grit, calling it “heartbreaking yet unsentimental,” a meaningful portrait of survival in the United States’ margins.
Controversy, criticism, and the burden of authenticity
Vuong’s bibliography, including his celebrated poetry collection Night Sky with Exit Wounds (2016) as well as his debut novel, has consistently engaged with themes of war, trauma, queer identity, and the immigrant experience. His writing is known for its poetic beauty, formal innovation, and unflinching honesty. Yet, this very success and his chosen subject matter have sparked nuanced conversations within the literary world, particularly within the Vietnamese and Vietnamese American, and Asian queer communities.
Pulitzer Prize-winning critic Andrea Long Chu, in her review for New York Magazine, offers a sharp critique of Vuong's broader career, while ultimately praising his newest book. Chu describes his career as a cycle: striving for legibility as a novelist, rebelling against it as a poet, then striving again through novel-writing. Referencing Vietnamese American critic Som-Mai Nguyen’s earlier criticisms of Vuong from 2022, Chu touches upon a sentiment felt by some within the AA+PI communities: a concern that Vuong's work, while deeply personal and impactful, might inadvertently reinforce certain "self-orientalizing" or "self-stereotyping" narratives. Chu notes that while On Earth, at times, felt self-conscious and performative, "a caricature of the diasporic poet," caught in what Nguyen dubbed “blunt‑force ethnic credibility,” the new novel breaks more fully into readability and narrative sincerity.
The conversation signals growing respect for Vuong's maturing craft, even among those who once found his often-used lyricism “cringe” or overly earnest. This critique isn't a dismissal of his talent, but rather a reflection of a yearning for a wider spectrum of AA+PI stories in the mainstream. There's a desire for narratives that move beyond the often-stereotypical depictions of trauma, difficult parental-child relationships, and the struggles of immigrant life, even as these are undeniably authentic experiences for many.
Yet the critiques amplify a deeper tension: Vuong, one of the few Vietnamese American queer writers who’s reached mainstream acclaim, shoulders expectations. His writing risks falling into the Western schema of AA+PI suffering or “sad queer Asian boy” narratives. Scholars like Nguyen point out the subtle self‑orientalism: arguments that Vietnam is not as up-to-date with current novel storytelling or has more romantic understandings of language compared to the United States, or that the white reader remains “an eavesdropper.” It’s arguable that this framing flattens and exoticizes Vietnam and Vietnamese people. My own take: he’s working within a limited marketplace that often demands those stories. He’s entitled to write them, but we shouldn’t confine him.
Beyond the box: Queer Asian voice, American frame
It's crucial to acknowledge that Vuong, like any artist, is entitled to explore the stories that resonate most deeply with him. His experiences as a Vietnamese American, born in Vietnam and raised in the United States, inevitably inform his perspective. The "American colonizer gaze," which often exoticizes and "others" foreign cultures, is a pervasive force that even those from immigrant backgrounds can internalize, making genuine decolonization of thought a lifelong endeavor. While some pitfalls might come up from being away from Vietnam for so long, to entirely attribute Vuong’s writing to this is reductive.
Beyond the content of his books, Vuong has also been a vocal advocate for literary accessibility. He famously used platforms like Instagram Stories to teach poetry, a move that garnered pushback from more traditional, elitist white literary circles. This willingness to break down barriers and meet readers where they are is a testament to his commitment to a more literate and empathetically engaged United States, particularly one that embraces diverse voices. Vuong’s mainstream success as one of the few Vietnamese American and openly queer writers to achieve such prominence is, in itself, a significant achievement in a literary world that has historically been overwhelmingly white, male, and straight.
A crucial voice, with room to grow
Vuong is, without doubt, an incredibly important and necessary figure in contemporary American literature. His work has opened doors and sparked vital conversations. While critiques from within the queer AA+PI and literary communities are valuable and push for deeper, more multifaceted representation, they exist alongside appreciation for his trailblazing efforts and achievements. His journey, marked by both successes and self-reflection, suggests a writer still growing, still exploring, and ultimately, still pushing the boundaries of what stories can be told and by whom. The Emperor of Gladness is not just a new book; it’s another significant chapter in the evolving narrative of a writer who continues to shape, challenge, and enrich the cultural landscape.
Published on June 30, 2025
Words by Teresa Tran
Teresa Tran (she/her) is an American-born Vietnamese writer and filmmaker based in Atlanta, Georgia, with a background in theater and community organizing. She has a B.A. in English and Women’s Studies and a B.S.Ed in English Education from the University of Georgia and studied British Literature at the University of Oxford. She is currently writing and directing her own short films and working on her debut novel. You can find her on Twitter at @teresatran__.
Art by Ryan Quan
Ryan Quan is the Social Media Editor for JoySauce. This queer, half-Chinese, half-Filipino writer and graphic designer loves everything related to music, creative nonfiction, and art. Based in Brooklyn, he spends most of his time dancing to hyperpop and accidentally falling asleep on the subway. Follow him on Instagram at @ryanquans.