Ocean Vuong refuses to be bound by genres as an author. Instead, he believes writing should complicate politics and cultural discourse to encourage critical thinking.
Vuong is notable for his 2019 debut novel “On Earth, We’re Briefly Gorgeous” which has sold over a million copies globally, and won the American Book Award, The Mark Twain American Voice in Literature Award and The New England Book Award. These accolades preceded his appointment as a tenured professor at NYU’s Creative Writing Program, where he received his Master of Fine Arts in 2016.
In May, Vuong released his second novel “The Emperor of Gladness” which discusses generational clashes in immigrant families, as well as the working-class experience in America. Vuong spoke at the Skirball Center for the Performing Arts on Oct. 2, where he shared his inspirations for writing and his teaching philosophy at NYU.
In an interview with WSN, Vuong shared what it means to be a writer and the role that literature plays in the current political climate.
This interview has been edited for length and clarity.
WSN: How does “The Emperor of Gladness” differ from your debut novel?
Vuong: “On Earth, We’re Briefly Gorgeous” is a very serious novel and this novel is a little more lighthearted. I was inspired by Hayao Miyazaki’s work. I thought, ‘What if I made a book that was softer, more humorous?’ — in the same way that Miyazaki used a softer, humorous, charming aesthetic to write about some of the most brutal things in World War II: ecological despair, existential crisis, overconsumption and the loss of spirituality. I thought, ‘That’s such a beautiful way to think about it’ — that you can use a kind of non-serious or childlike aesthetic to talk about serious things.
“The Emperor of Gladness” tells the story of a Vietnamese American boy, Hai, who struggles to live up to his mother’s expectations and seeks refuge with an elderly Lithuanian woman who has dementia. Despite being from different worlds, Hai becomes her caretaker and the two form an unlikely friendship.
Vuong drew inspiration from his own upbringing, spending a lot of time at his mother’s nail salon in Hartford, Connecticut, where his family settled after the fall of Saigon. His family left Vietnam because of the discrimination his mother faced for her mixed-race heritage. At 2 years old, his family fled to a refugee camp in the Philippines before immigrating to the U.S.
After graduating from high school, Vuong considered remaining at the salon to help support his family, but under their insistence, decided to attend community college before transferring to Pace University to study international marketing. He dropped out of Pace after four weeks, transferring to CUNY Brooklyn College to pursue his love for literature. During this time, he attended open mics across New York City and shared what he described as “horrible poems.”
WSN: How would you describe the genre of your writing?
Vuong: The reason why I moved from genre to genre is because I never believed in genre borders. When you start to ask why they’re there, you start to realize it’s usually a group of white critics a hundred years ago that just decided it. I wasn’t in that room, and I don’t think they considered someone like me when they made those rules, so why should I work by those rules that were never invented with me in mind? So testing the limits and testing the container is really important.
The open mics that Vuong attended in college took great courage. He credits his “daring” authorship to his upbringing “below the poverty line,” raised by his mother and grandmother. Because he grew up with “nothing to lose,” Vuong said that he was unafraid to challenge traditional notions of writing, even in rooms with powerful people.
WSN: What role do you think literature plays in the context of today’s political climate?
Vuong: I think literature is always political and it’s always important to society. I think when you think about fiction and literature, you also have to think about how history itself is also fiction and how it’s been kind of weaponized to secure a kind of PR for nationhood. Historically, the first thing dictators do is subdue or coerce the poets. Poetry could be captured and literature could be captured too. I think it’s important to not just assume that writers are virtuous because they’re writing. Wars have begun with books, genocides have begun with speeches and books. Writing is as hurtful as it is lifesaving, and it just depends on how it’s used, how it’s consumed and how it’s read.
Writing and storytelling can be leveraged in political messaging, which Vuong said is a way to “bewilder” the audience. Under President Donald Trump’s administration, he believes that some Americans struggle with comparing current issues to the past, hence seeking solace in slogans like “Make America Great Again,” which he calls a “linguistic hallucination.”
In Vuong’s MFA courses, he approaches the classroom as a “place of illumination” to inspire ideas. He took after his former professors Sharon Olds and Yusef Komunyakaa — both of whom are Pulitzer Prize winners — in formulating his own style of teaching. One thing he took away from them is foregoing criticism in the early stages of the course and leaning into creativity.
WSN: As an NYU professor, how do you approach the classroom?
Vuong: A lot of what we have to do in the class is to undo. I think we often think a degree is something you acquire, but in fact, the most successful pedagogy is about dismantling dogmas. Most students are very surprised at how many assumptions they have that are actually hindering them, and so we do a lot of unpacking. In a creative writing class, I think bringing back strangeness and bewilderment is actually really important. Some students come in expecting clarification, but we do them a disservice if we have this belief that it’s really about clarifying. Creative work is mysterious for the rest of your life — if you’re lucky, it’ll get even murkier.
Contact Kaitlyn Sze Tu at [email protected].