Ocean Vuong returns with an achingly beautiful novel about chosen family, unexpected friendship, and the stories we tell ourselves in order to survive.

One late summer evening in the post-industrial town of East Gladness, Connecticut, nineteen-year-old Hai stands on the edge of a bridge in pelting rain, ready to jump, when he hears someone shout across the river. The voice belongs to Grazina, an elderly widow succumbing to dementia, who convinces him to take another path. Bereft and out of options, he quickly becomes her caretaker. Over the course of the year, the unlikely pair develops a life-altering bond, one built on empathy, spiritual reckoning, and heartbreak, with the power to alter Hai’s relationship to himself, his family, and a community at the brink.

Following the cycles of history, memory, and time, The Emperor of Gladness shows the profound ways in which love, labor, and loneliness form the bedrock of American life. At its heart is a brave epic about what it means to exist on the fringes of society and to reckon with the wounds that haunt our collective soul. Hallmarks of Vuong’s writing – formal innovation, syntactic dexterity, and the ability to twin grit with grace through tenderness – are on full display in this story of loss, hope, and how far we would go to possess one of life’s most fleeting mercies: a second chance.

After reading On Earth We’re Briefly Gorgeous earlier this summer, I knew I wanted to explore more of Ocean Vuong’s work. I bought The Emperor of Gladness right away, but it wasn’t until recently that I finally cracked it open. It was definitely worth the wait.

The story begins with nineteen-year-old Hai, standing on a bridge in East Gladness, Connecticut, when a voice calls out across the river. That voice belongs to Grazina, an elderly widow slipping into dementia, who manages to pull him back from the edge. From there, their lives entwine. Hai becomes her caretaker, but what develops between them is an unlikely friendship that changes them both.

Hai is young, adrift, and drowning in feelings of failure. Grazina is old, spirited, and slowly losing her grip on the world. They couldn’t be more different, yet they meet at the same crossroad of loneliness. Their bond becomes a lifeline, a reminder that connection can arrive in the most unexpected ways. Vuong doesn’t shy away from the raw edges. The relationship is heartwarming, yes, but also heartbreaking. That duality is what makes it stick its landing so well.

One thing that really stood out to me is how every character feels alive. Vuong doesn’t let anyone fade into the background. BJ, Sony, Maureen were some of my favorite side characters (seriously loved Sony), but the others are just as well-rounded. Nobody is there to fill space. Everyone has a weight in the story. That level of attention makes the book feel less like a novel and more like a portrait of a whole community.

Pacing-wise, the book takes its time. It pulls you in with quiet intensity. There are tender moments that feel almost fragile, followed by scenes that punch you right in the chest. The shifts are subtle, but they work. You don’t realize how deep you’ve gone until you’re there, sitting in the ache of it.

And the writing is as lyrical and precise as you’d expect. Sentences twist in ways that surprise you, but never just for show. Vuong balances grit with grace, finding tenderness in even the most difficult situations. It’s a heartbreaking yet hopeful look at the ways we cling to each other when the world forgets us.

At its core, this book is about second chances. Hai gets one when Grazina calls out to him on the bridge. Grazina gets one when Hai steps into her life, giving her care and dignity as her memory fades. Both are changed by their connection, and by the end, you feel changed too.

This is not a light read. It’s emotional. It hurts. But it’s the kind of hurt that feels worth it. If you’re looking for a book that will run you through the full gamut of emotions and introduce you to characters you won’t soon forget, this book is exactly that.

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