On Earth We're Briefly Gorgeous
Reviews
vuong's writing is beautiful, wonderful prose. however, i felt like i struggled to fully immerse myself into the plot, i was thinking of giving up halfway as i felt like it was losing its pace and it was getting too stretched out, but i would still recommend this to anyone.
This book was a true delight the language was supple, the story giving just enough, and the emotional twists and turns hit deep. The pieces of Vietnamese culture and history sprinkled throughout also give the story its own shadow to give the story depth and deeper meaning that goes further than just the protagonist, his mother, grandmother, grandfather, and boyfriend. Ocean really builds a narrative that is engaging — if not a little meandering — but it makes up for itself in the emotional highlights and the skillful use of language. It's as if you have entered into someone else's stream of consciousness and get to see it through their eyes. Truly a gem that keeps on giving.
Beautiful prose. Sad, sad, story. At times, a little too poetic for a novel. In fact, I'd say this is a novel for poets.
Achingly beautiful, even in its most fleeting moments. One of the only books that has a last page that truly left me satiated. Although the writing felt like it was being stretched to its limits at times, Vuong’s beautiful prose can’t be denied.
so beautiful but so heart shattering...
This book contains a beautiful story outlining generational trauma, finding oneself, and racism. The hardships of Little Dog were poetic and artistically written resulting in an eye opening experience for the reader. I found that I wasnt the biggest fan of the more poetic sections as they were slightly confusing at times as to the where, what, and when, but overall this novel was short and sweet.
"Because the sunset, like survival, exists only on the verge of its own disappearing. To be gorgeous, you must first be seen, but to be seen allows you to be hunted."
Most beautiful book I've ever read. I miss this book more than I remember it.
my pyrrhic victory involves successfully blinking back tears multiple times after deciding to read this book in public.
i would like to write my parents esp. mamah a book too. as if im too coward to show my affection. but pls.. Ma.. Pa.. be my parents again someday.
didn’t enjoy this as much as i thought i would… the barthes example-observation influence doesn’t really flow well with ocean vuong’s prose style - it just ends up being corny. no strong sense of character which makes me less engaged. its very sad and beautifully written though
borrowed, lerry’s copy
Vuong's writing is so damn beautiful, i've never found any books as beautiful as this. but i honestly expected more from this book. no matter how hard i tried to engage with the plot, i just couldn't.. it's like all the efforts was for the writing instead of getting the reader to immerse into the storyline. but i still recommend this book, it just took time for me to finally understand the plot
the juxtaposition of being seen and seeing. but after all, that’s what it means to be human
devastatingly beautiful
REREAD
gorgeous book that makes me appreciate life even more and the people around me
It was not a simple read; Vuong writes how one might recollect. The use of a concept of a son writing to a mother who will never read what he says, communicates to the reader the very weight of what he feels and cannot voice. It describes how he has attempted to understand himself and be understood beyond language - and this he discovers is through the eyes, that is to say through light. This idea of colour is symbiotic to the temporary nature of life and the temporary existence of what we can see, making it, briefly, gorgeous. Vuong's writing stings with poignancy, but it was this quote, Daphne, that made me hurt because I thought of you reading the same words and feeling that you knew what he meant.
'And maybe that's all I wanted - to be asked a question and have it cover me, like a roof the width of myself.'
3.5
It was profoundly SAD yet undeniably beautiful.. After finishing this one, I felt like I need to write something.. anything..to my mother. What a beautiful book. An extended letter from a son to his mother..about war, migration, family, love...and so much more. I get why some ppl loved it and some didn't. I didn't have a physical copy so I thought I should get an audioable one. the narrator voice was like a dream, I really enjoyed it "in a sad way" and it was so poetic. A tough read at times, but a rewarding one.
dark and hard and heavy and yet so, so bright. the kind of writing that makes life worth imagining, worth wanting, worth living.
3.75* I would say. It’s terrific and vulnerable and heartbreaking and powerful, but epistolary narratives just rub me the wrong way.
The story structure bothered me but the book is beautifully written. Some passages accurately captured the diaspora from a war zone experience - e.g. “when does a war end? when I say your name and it mean only your name and not what you left behind.”
3.5/5
i haven’t read a book i was captivated by in a bit, this had so much substance
despite its complex and flowery writing, i devoured this book in less than 3 hours. i immediately established a connection with it after the first few pages, and the narrator's character settled deep within my mind, and i understood. he was just a little boy who wanted love.
what i think would make this book a better read would be the balance of both telling and feeling. at some parts, telling overpowers the other (then it gets pretty bland for me) and vice versa. overall, this would be a great emotional read for people who have eyes for epistolary writing.
Highlights
Trevor had passed away the night before. “I'm broken in two“, the message said. In two, it was the only thought I could keep, sitting in my seat, how losing a person could make more of us, the living, make us two.
I came to know, in those afternoons, that madness can sometimes lead to discovery, that the mind, fractured and short-wired, is not entirely wrong. The room filled and refilled with our voices as the snow fell from her head, the hardwood around my knees whitening as the past unfolded around us.
We sidestep ourselves in order to move forward.
Maybe then, in that life and in this future, you'll find this book and you'll know what happened to us. And you'll remember me. Maybe.
MEMANGIS GUE MENANGIS YA ALLAH
To be gorgeous, you must first be seen, but to be seen allows you to be hunted.
Because the sunset, like survival, exists only on the verge of its own disappearing. To be gorgeous, you must first be seen, but to be seen allows you to be hunted.
When does a war end? When can I say your name and have it mean only your name and not what you left behind?
To be gorgeous, you must first be seen, but to be seen allows you to be hunted.
I am thinking of beauty again, how some things are hunted because we have deemed them beautiful. If, relative to the history of our planet, an individual life is so short, a blink of an eye, as they say, then to be gorgeous, even from the day you're born to the day you die, is to be gorgeous only briefly.
To stay tender, the weight of your life cannot lean on your bones. We love eatin’ what’s soft, his father said.
Sometimes being offered tenderness feels like the very proof that you've been ruined.
What do you call the animal that, finding the hunter, offers itself to be eaten? A martyr? A weakling? No, a beast gaining the rare agency to stop.
… Because I am your son, what I know of work I know equally of loss. And what I know of both I know of your hands.
To love something, then, is to name it after something so worthless it might be left untouched-and alive. A name, thin as air, can also be a shield.
Ever since I could remember, she flickered before me, dipping in and out of sense. Which was why, studying her now, tranquil in the afternoon light, was like looking back in time.
What do we mean when we say survivor? Maybe a survivor is the last one to come home, the final monarch that lands on a branch already weighted with ghosts.
When does a war end? When can I say your name and have it mean only your name and not what you left behind?
I am writing you from inside a body that used to be yours. Which is to say, I am writing as a son.
To bake a cake in the eye of a storm; to feed yourself sugar on the cusp of danger.
Because freedom, I am told, is nothing but the distance between the hunter and its prey.
In two, it was the only thought I could keep, sitting in my seat, how losing a person could make more of us, the living, make us two.
They say if you want something bad enough you’ll end up making a god out of it.
Let me stay here until the end, I said to the Lord, and we’ll call it even. Let me tie my shadow to your feet and call it friendship, I said to myself.
They say nothing lasts forever but they’re just scared it will last longer than they can love it.