TONE DEAF WRITING SINKS ALL GOOD IDEAS

Ocean Vuong takes inspiration from the elegance of other writers and works hard to construct memorable, poetic sentences. Note here that the verb used is construct, not compose—the latter implies an effort of musicality, the work of a writer with an ear for euphony. The list of those who can do this effortlessly is long—Updike, Cheever, Baldwin, Nabokov, Abe, Toni Morrison—but the line of those who slave away to achieve it is infinitely longer.Vuong is by no means a horrible writer. In fact, there are stretches of fine detail and emotional nuance when he leaves the poet’s hat in the trunk of the car. I say “trunk of the car” to suggest that Vuong writes at his best when he stops trying to take the reader’s breath away with images that are clearly designed to do just that.The premise of the novel is certainly sound for a three-hankie literary sob-fest. The Emperor of Gladness follows a depressed 19-year-old college dropout named Hai who becomes the caretaker for an elderly widow, Grazina, suffering from dementia. They form an unlikely bond and find a sense of belonging in the post-industrial town of East Gladness, Connecticut.

Far too often, however, Vuong gums up the narrative flow with sentences that are incongruous—sometimes even ridiculous—howlers that make you swallow hard, like you’ve bitten into something too bitter or too sweet. Lines like “I know, it’s not fair that the word laughter is trapped inside slaughter” or “Our hands empty except for our hands” are examples of poetic overreach. These images, similes, and allusions often feel absurdly strained and tonelessly incongruous. They add nothing to the storyline—no irony, no momentum, no mystery, and no real connection to the emotional core of the suffering being portrayed.I finished the book in fits and starts, forcing my way past the roadblocks of these inept poeticisms. There was no joy in Mudville after closing the final page. Vuong clearly wants to be a good writer—perhaps even a great one—but that will be difficult unless he develops a sharper sense of what works in his prose and what doesn’t. Composing means paying attention to how well the words come together to form an effective whole. Vuong has the raw talent, but he needs to learn when to let the poetry serve the story, not smother it.