"My wish to become a writer was not born inside the halls of an institution, but in a public library, which led me to a bookstore, which has led me here to you," said poet and novelist Ocean Vuong (The Emperor of Gladness, coming from Penguin May 13; Time Is a Mother; On Earth We're Briefly Gorgeous) during his opening keynote Monday morning at Winter Institute 2025 in Denver, Colo.
In a wide-ranging and impassioned talk, Vuong discussed his history as a reader, the different ways books and literature are presented in bookstores and universities, and the role of booksellers and librarians in times of political and civil turmoil.
Vuong recalled that his "first touch with literature" was at a public library in East Hartford, Conn., where his mother would drop him off with the instruction to "read everything, especially what you don't understand." That mandate has stayed with him and guided him, and as an English professor, he said, it is "exactly what I tell my students." The point of reading is not about completing a book, it's about "the book launching you towards other questions."
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Ocean Vuong |
He remembered being drawn to a pretty, tiny, hardback book with a red cover that turned out to be Poetry as Insurgent Art by poet and City Lights co-founder Lawrence Ferlinghetti. It was the "perfect book" for Vuong to read as an 18-year-old, and it launched him into the poetry section. It also led a year later to a trip to San Francisco, where he stopped by City Lights to "pay homage."
In his time as an English professor, Vuong said he has "noticed a peculiar thing," that despite being "surrounded by books" and a "fervor" for literature and storytelling in these departments, he never hears what he hears when he steps into a bookstore, which is "what do you like to read?"
Instead of that question guiding literary education, English departments follow what Vuong called a "dogmatic, monolithic ideology" and "teach according to greatness, towards a pantheon." Unlike some of his peers who took greatness and the pantheon as "fixed truths," Vuong began asking why, and found that the "question of greatness starts to fall apart."
He identified two broad functions of art, with one being prominence and the other being greatness. Art that is prominent is art that "functions within the community," while art that is great is "removed from the populace." He called it "no accident" that what came out of the formation of the canon in the Enlightenment was then used to "dominate the global south" and "subdue those of lower classes."
Vuong found that in many of his classes, "creativity was shunned," and the goal was only "understanding the preset rules of greatness" so that they could be regurgitated later. But in the bookstore, he said, "it was absolutely different." A bookseller will ask, "what do you like to read," the "borders of dogma and genre" break down, and one can go from Octavia Butler to Catcher in the Rye. It's the local community, and not the institution, Vuong asserted, that "privileges creativity, freedom, and delight."
"As expensive as books can be, a hardcover being $30, it's still cheaper than tuition," he said. "Having been through multiple schools, sometimes those classes ain't all that. I say that as a professor myself. Ultimately, it is your relationship with a book and your community--that's it."
The ideology of greatness, he said, can be traced all the way back to Plato's Republic, in which good literature is that which "supports and fortifies the state" and poets are banished for their ability to deceive. He called Plato's treatise "quite fascistic and terrifying," and said it was "no surprise" that dictators like Stalin, Hitler, and Pol Pot have implemented Plato's vision of silencing poets and controlling language.
Vuong elaborated on the power of language, noting that no matter what great things are invented, it is only through language that we can "convince each other to live or die for these things." No war, he said, "has been launched on gunfire or a stroke of the blade alone."
In times of "democratic and civil precarity" such as the present moment, Vuong said, "new sites and methods of linguistic subversion are necessary. New archives must be opened and made anew."
He encouraged booksellers not to think, "I'm just a bookseller, I just work retail," but to see themselves as being "engaged in the work of cultural legibility" and to see themselves "as leaders in this frame." Writers like himself, he added, "owe their life and work" to that frame.
Remarked Vuong: "Perhaps the most luminous north star for any education, literary or otherwise, is the question that has since been the pillar of your practice--what do you like to read?"
He thanked booksellers for "offering another path," saying that "when all the paths are burning up, as they seem to be now, we might look back one day with relief that there is still a narrow passage forward made by a handful of people who believe in language." --Alex Mutter