Writing this almost immediately after finishing and I'm struggling to put into words my feelings. 

Part fiction, part autobiography, this epistolary novel presses a weight upon something deep inside me. 

The prose is beautiful all throughout, as are the poems. In parts it's like reading a song, the author singing and baring their soul. 

It's heartwrenching and beautiful. 

This book is not written for me; a boring, straight white British man in his 30s. But that's not to say I didn't get something from it. Vuong exposes parts of him which rarely touch light, and in doing so illuminates memories and evokes feelings lost to me. 

The areas which are foreign to me are made relatable by the carefully painted imagery he creates through the pages, and a direct manifestation of Little Dog, who glides between Ocean and the character, blending facsimile with truth so you're left feeling like you know both beings. 

I'm sure people who can relate to the character more physically and culturally will get even more from this. 

This novel is full of familial struggle, frustration, grief, poverty, death, and so, so much gentle but blinding love. The empathy Oceans writing displays towards everyone, alongside the open-hearted spotlight on Little Dogs struggles, acts as a pilot light throughout. 

I need space and time to further process this. Like a stone thrown into the river, I'm sure time will dull some of the intensity this has left me with, but I hope the I continue to remember the weight of this, and how it sank me.