"In “Künstlerroman,” Vuong describes being in a room of “crystal chandeliers, waiters with plates of caviar spoons, flutes of champagne” and being handed “a book, the artifact of his thinking.” He then signs it “a deliberately affected, illegible signature.” The whole poem is steeped in pitying melancholy, but it is hard to read and feel any other emotion than despair. If the poetry were better, perhaps some readers could forgive such self-indulgence. But when it comes amidst such half-hearted lines as “the man is surrounded by merry people in fine dress,” it is hard to make it to the end of the page." Francesca Peacock • Spectator World

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