Scars We Carry, Words That Linger

An exploration of estrangement, queerness, and the intergenerational trauma of war in Ocean Vuong’s On Earth We’re Briefly Gorgeous.

Photo by Kim Escalone on Unsplash

In On Earth We’re Briefly Gorgeous, Ocean Vuong uses the intimacy of a letter—one that will never be read by its intended recipient—to explore the limits of language in the wake of war, migration, and inheritance. Moving between the protagonist's difficult mother-son relationship, queerness and masculinity, memory and the body, the novel traces how intergenerational trauma is carried, translated, and often misunderstood. This essay considers Vuong’s debut not as a coming-of-age story alone, but as an enduring meditation on what language can—and cannot—hold.

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If you’re like me, part of coping with the new year includes making a list of small goals. Resolution might be too taboo of a word (and maybe too cliché), but to me, there’s nothing wrong with wanting to direct focus toward whatever it is that makes life more organized, more fun, more worthwhile. 

I have decided to read forty books in 2026. The catch is, I want to treat the books in their fullness, not just numbers in my tally. This is all to say, if you need a book to make your heart sing in 2026, look no further than Ocean Vuong’s novel On Earth We’re Briefly Gorgeous. It was the last book this year and The Parlor’s monthly bookclub pick. 

First published in 2019, the book came after Vuong had already established himself as a poet. His previous collections, Burnings (2010), No (2013), and Night Sky with Exit Wounds (2016), were well-received, the latter even winning the T.S. Elliot Prize in 2017. And yet, Vuong is not to be confined as a writer. 

On Earth We’re Briefly Gorgeous is fiction, but is written with a sensitivity to language that only poets have. A novel that mirrors the life of its author, it evokes the same feelings as Slyvia Plath’s The Bell Jar. 

In the story itself, we have the narrator, coined by his nickname “Little Dog”, writing a letter to his mother, Rose, who can’t read English. Little Dog’s life centers around being raised by Rose and his grandma, Lan, both Vietnamese immigrants still grappling with the traumatic effects of war. 

Little Dog’s relationship with Rose is abusive, complicated by moments of true sincerity. Little Dog, knowing English, is able to pass in America in ways Rose cannot, these gaps between them unnamable, but present. His grandma, Lan, a schizophrenic, struggles with PTSD and the decisions she made to survive as an early mother. 

The trauma is passed from each generation, all to Little Dog, who struggles to “be tough” and “survive” in the way Rose tells him he must. 

On Earth We’re Briefly Gorgeous is divided in three parts. While the first sets up the hurt between Little Dog and his family, the second and third dwell in the body. Rose, whose multiracial identity excludes her from both countries she lives. Lan, whose body is slowly giving up on itself. Little Dog, who is growing into his sexuality. 

All characters work their bodies to a point of permanent change. They carry scars that are hard to name to each other.

At one point, the protagonist works on a tobacco farm, like Vuong himself did, and meets Trevor. The two eventually explore a complicated physical relationship with each other, one that confronts their conceptions of masculinity and its confinements. 

While the plot of the novel is enough to want to read through the text, the real revolutions are in small moments. A stark, but haunting comment from Rose. A piece of wisdom from a now-realized Little Dog. 

The true feat of the book is its posture toward language. While I could see some readers could mistake the prose as “flowery,” a hollow decadence just for writers to enjoy, they should understand the story itself dwells in the gap of language itself. The letter Little Dog writes out of emotional necessity will never truly be received from his mother. The effects of war on her life can hardly be explained to her son. 

It all goes back to gaps in experience, which begs the question, how do you translate experience? Not just that, but how do you bridge the gap? 

The book itself is set up as an impossible gesture, but a gesture nevertheless. One that aims to extend past age, scars, and yes, even language. 

Since On Earth We’re Briefly Gorgeous, Vuong published his poetry collection Time is a Mother (2022), which explores the grief of losing his own mother to cancer shortly after the release of his first novel. The collection was shortlisted for the 2023 Griffin Poetry Prize. 

And there is more to read. Vuong’s second novel, The Emperor of Gladness was released May of 2025. 

Consider starting your new year reading with Vuong. There is no better writer to elucidate the powers of language. As you may have guessed, the book is beautiful not briefly, but all the way through.