Rating: 95% | A | ★★★★★
Warnings: + Violence Synopsis (from Goodreads): On Earth We're Briefly Gorgeous is a letter from a son to a mother who cannot read. Written when the speaker, Little Dog, is in his late twenties, the letter unearths a family's history that began before he was born — a history whose epicenter is rooted in Vietnam — and serves as a doorway into parts of his life his mother has never known, all of it leading to an unforgettable revelation. At once a witness to the fraught yet undeniable love between a single mother and her son, it is also a brutally honest exploration of race, class, and masculinity. Asking questions central to our American moment, immersed as we are in addiction, violence, and trauma, but undergirded by compassion and tenderness, On Earth We're Briefly Gorgeous is as much about the power of telling one's own story as it is about the obliterating silence of not being heard. Spoiler-Free Review: (Special thanks to my friend Crystal for pestering me nonstop to read On Earth We're Briefly Gorgeous, especially because not even a hellish comp lit class could fail to dampen her enthusiasm for this book.) Now--On Earth We're Briefly Gorgeous. I read this book in my apartment complex after everyone had deserted for Thanksgiving break, in quarantine, trying not to blow all of my money on Grubhub or drown in my own thoughts. I can say very little about On Earth that hasn't already been said by legions of Vuong fans. I can mostly only commiserate—to agree with everyone about the book's lyricism, its unyielding emotion, its constant intimate communion with Little Dog's thoughts. All I will say is that I found the prose a little heavy while I was reading. "But that's what's amazing about it," Crystal told me over our weekly bagel lunch. "I feel like I need to read it again just to pick up on all the things I missed." Vuong may be overly lyrical, but this critique is not necessarily one of the book but of me, the reader. On Earth is a must-read that deserves all of its awards and praise. And I feel very, very privileged to be able to coexist with Vuong and to look forward to his future work. (Click "Read More" for more information.)
Plot (27/30)
Beginning (10/10), Middle (7/10), and End (10/10) The first few pages of Vuong's work, poetry or prose, are always the most stunning. The opening pages of On Earth emphasize to the reader the privilege they have of living at the same time as Vuong, of being able to hold this book in their hands. What I envy most about poets is how they see themselves—how Vuong can write about himself with such clarity. (Acknowledging On Earth's status as a work of autofiction, I'll refer to the protagonist interchangeably as Vuong and Little Dog; these distinctions are porous for me.) I am twenty-eight years old, 5ft 4in tall, 112lbs. I am handsome at exactly three angles and deadly from everywhere else.
Where the book loses traction is in the second act, as Little Dog's relationship with Trevor becomes more complicated. There are few concrete markers of location, making it difficult to sense the passage of time and of adolescence; the second act progresses in a loose haze of countryside trysts, cold city life, and growing feelings of cultural alienation. Still, there is a simmering innocence to this relationship, and tragedy always hovers on the horizon. Vuong writes in retrospective; Trevor, clearly, is a product of his reflection, just as his memories of his grandmother's life in Vietnam are.
While undeniably a book about cultural identity, what I find more compelling about On Earth—as someone who perhaps can't understand firsthand Vuong's connection to Vietnamese culture—is its role as a bildungsroman. Most of the quotes I flagged while reading center on childhood—specifically on the time Vuong's mother and grandmother have lost in the course of living and uprooting themselves. On Earth is, first and foremost, a letter to Vuong's mother—and with it comes not only Vuong's own sorrow but the sorrow he feels on his family's behalf. So much of the book centers on urges—the urge to fall in love, the urge to hurt, and the urge to want better for those who preceded you. Maybe you'll be a girl and maybe your name will be Rose again, and you'll have a room full of books with parents who will read you bedtime stories in a country not touched by war.
Characters (30/30)
Development (15/15) and Allure (15/15) Little Dog is an exemplary narrator. He "remembers" everything in exquisite detail, infusing the story with a child's naïveté. Again, On Earth is a luminous bildungsroman, adult and childhood emotions developing in parallel—Vuong simultaneously honors his childhood and explains his adult realizations about how much he and his family struggled. What shines in the narration is the sensitive and affectionate portrayal of the relationship between Vuong, his mother, and his grandmother. His grandmother eggs him on to climb a fence and fetch flowers for her. His mother refuses to reject him for his sexuality over a coffee conversation. These details make all the difference. I remember everyone smiling back at the apartment, mayonnaise sandwiches raised to cracked lips. I remember thinking we lived in a sort of mansion.
Writing (18/20)
Descriptions (10/10) and Flow (8/10) Vuong's brilliance with the English language cannot be overstated. On Earth is a gorgeous tangle of vibrant images and emotion, and Vuong achieves this in a book just over 200 pages. He is sparing with his words; each one serves a purpose—to delight, to mourn, to hope. Reading this book is like devouring a fatty Tudor feast, an endless procession of rich meats, sweet fruit, and sharp spirits. Closure/Set-Up (20/20) Logic (10/10) and Closure (10/10) Again, I find myself out-reviewed, out-written, but in this case, by Vuong. There is no better way to end than simply to let him speak: "Where am I, Little Dog?" You're Rose. You're Lan. You're Trevor. As if a name can be more than one thing, deep and wide as a nigh with a truck idling at its edge, and you can step right out of your cage, where I wait for you.
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