Truth and Beauty: A Friendship

This is a hard book to review because I loved it so much at the beginning, by the halfway point I was annoyed, and for the rest of the book I became increasingly furious.

It started out as a great story about how two grad student writers-to-be bonded instantly and deeply, forming a friendship that anyone would envy, but then it turned into a brutal read about how Lucy completely manipulates and exploits Ann's friendship over the course of decades. The depth of Lucy's neediness and selfishness is shocking. The entire relationship revolves around Lucy needing Ann to tell her multiple times a day that yes, Lucy is talented; yes, Lucy will find love; yes, Lucy will have sex again; yes, Lucy is Ann's very favorite person in the whole world, show more that she loves Lucy best of all. One of the most horrifying examples of this last instance was when the two of them were out to dinner with a new friend of Ann's and Lucy literally climbs onto Ann's lap at the table, snuggles into her and demands that Ann declare Lucy her absolute favorite friend - in front of the other friend! - and then refuses to get off her lap for the rest of the evening. And Ann goes along with it! I can't think of a more rude way to treat the other friend at the table.

There's also the time when they are getting ready for a family holiday party and Lucy tells Ann that her skirt makes her look like a slut, then after Ann changes Lucy puts on the skirt herself and wears it to the party; her only response is to laugh in Ann's face and tell her "Gotcha!", meaning that she just wanted it for herself and lied to get what she wanted. Also Lucy almost ended the friendship when Ann started dating a poet, even though Ann had asked permission first (!!!), because Lucy must be the favored poet in Ann's life. The entire second half of the book is filled with incidents like these.

Throughout this entire book it is made abundantly clear that Lucy has hundreds of friends, that people are drawn to her, enchanted by her. I don't doubt this for a second; but still, how? There must have been some sort of charisma to Lucy that one felt in person that just doesn't come across on the page, something that made up for her appalling behavior. I certainly hope so. show less

In a nutshell: this is the story of an unconventional friendship. Ann Patchett was befriended by the charismatic and neurotic Lucy Grealy when they were students at Sarah Lawrence College. From the age of nine, Grealy suffered from Ewing carcinoma of the jaw which left her terribly disfigured. She endured over thirty surgeries and multiple rounds of chemotherapy. Throughout her life, Lucy didn't know who she was without her illness, her cancer, her surgeries. Due to her low self esteem, Grealy overcompensated by seeking out people to adore and worship her. She thrust her personality onto anyone who would listen, daring them to love and accept her. Confessional: I don't know what to make of Truth and Beauty. There is a sheen of jealousy show more that lightly covers the entire narrative. It is if Patchett wants to paint Grealy as a self-centered narcissist while Patchett is the unconditional, sane, patient, all-loving friend. By sharing Lucy's letters and hardly ever her own replies, Patchett skillfully makes the relationship seem off-balance and schizophrenic. Grealy's low self-esteem forces her to constantly seek approval and love affirmations from Patchett. The two may have been friendly before they became successful writers, but Patchett's word choices convey hints of resentment towards Lucy's fame and even towards Lucy herself throughout the entire story. Every compliment comes across as backhanded and contrived, as if Patchett really wanted to say Lucy used her debilitating disease as a means to be coddled and cared for by everyone around her. I got the nagging sense that Patchett only tolerated Lucy and her illness because she knew Grealy's story was a gold mine. In truth, I have no doubt there was affection shared between the two writers but I feel it was a more honest relationship before the drive to publish and the desire to be famous kicked in. show less

The initial interaction between Patchett and Lucy Grealy, the woman who would become her lifelong friend, sets the tone not only for the book but for the entire relationship. While they had both attended Sara Lawrence College at the same time, they were not friends there – not even acquaintances. But on learning that both had been accepted at the Iowa Writers’ Workshop, Grealy wrote to Patchett and more or less instructed Patchett to find a suitable apartment for her as she apparently didn’t have time to make her own living arrangements. And Patchett, who was “flattered to be asked for help” by someone who “had the pull of celebrity” never considered turning down the peremptory assignment. On their first face-to-face show more meeting at the duplex Patchett found for them to share, Grealy burst into tears and leaped into Patchett’s arms, “staking out this spot … and I was to hold her for as long as she wanted to stay”.

And that pretty much sums up the rest of the book.

Grealy, who developed cancer of the jaw in childhood and suffered disfiguring surgeries and debilitating chemotherapy and radiation treatments as a result, spent the rest of her life seeking what she saw as normality – reconstructive surgeries which inevitably failed, love affairs which she either torpedoed or simply abandoned, financial gains that she frittered away as quickly as she came into them, professional acclaim whose early promise she was never able to develop fully, and always – always – assurances from the people around her that she was worthy of being loved.

At some point in this memoir, the reader must ask the essential question – at what point in a person’s life does the physical and emotional battering they have suffered grant them license to become a bottomless pit of neediness? And what emotional payoff comes to the attendants at that person’s altar?

There is no question that Patchett genuinely loved Grealy. She lists ‘Truth & Beauty’ as “a friendship”, but it is nothing less than a love story, complete with obsession, loss, and an inevitable tragic ending. But Patchett seems, by and large, a reasonably well-adjusted person, and one may be forgiven for asking what she was getting out of this relationship in return.

What the reader will get is a guided tour through what it means to love someone, even with the realization that sometimes, loving them is not enough to save them from themselves. show less

It's never really clear if Lucy Grealy was as much of a gigantic, useless asshole as Patchett's episodic descriptions inadvertently make her out to be. What is clear, abundantly clear, beat-you-over-the-head-with-it clear, is that Patchett needed Grealy more than anything - at least for a few years.
And then the friendship sizzled out.
And then Lucy overdosed (heroin) and died.
And this is Patchett's homage to the friend she finally betrayed - through growing up - through just needing her own, separate life - and it's a desperate sobbing plea to be forgiven for one moment of selfishness.

Througout, Patchett tries to convince us (and convince herself?) that Lucy Grealy really was something special, by George! Not just because of her show more really grotesque childhood cancer - which Grealy downplayed considerably in her Autobiography of A Face, or maybe I was just bored - but because she was just so ... so ... so needy. And smart. And a really talented writer. And people gravitated towards her. And she was oh my just so cool YOU JUST DON'T KNOW HOW COOL SHE WAS.

Meanwhile, Grealy whines (continuously.) about how she desperately craves attention - and simultaneously whines about how no one would pay any attention to her if she weren't deformed. And she turns out to be an addict: WHAT A SURPRISE.
Grealy is perfectly right. Her book is insipid, narrow, and dull - it reads like an afternoon therapy session - and if she hadn't had such a terrible cancer (and been left so terribly scarred), nobody would be interested in her, much less crave her attention with such slavish devotion.

I felt terribly sorry for Lucy Grealy. 33 (!) useless surgeries, being called 'monster' and 'freak' from the time you are a little child - barely being able to eat because you have no teeth (and no jaw left for dentures or prosthesis) - it's enough to drive anyone into addiction.
But my pity doesn't make Patchett a better writer. show less

Ann Patchett met Lucy Grealy in college, but their friendship blossomed during graduate school at the Iowa Writers Workshop. The two complemented one another: Lucy was a free spirit, Ann was organized and practical. But Lucy’s life was complicated by childhood cancer which left her with virtually no jaw, and all of the self-esteem issues that can arise from looking different. As an adult, Lucy had several reconstructive surgeries, but none were successful. The two women supported each other as they encountered personal and professional challenges; Ann was always quick to hop on a plane to New York to visit Lucy any time she was needed, and especially after surgery. Lucy died young (not a spoiler, it’s evident in the dedication), but show more she left an impact on everyone who knew her.

Both Ann and Lucy ultimately experienced literary success and fame, Ann as the author of several novels and Lucy through her memoir, Autobiography of a Face which now I simply MUST read. Truth and Beauty is Ann’s tribute to their intensely close friendship, and a very moving tribute it is. show less

I read Ann Patchett's Bel Canto probably a decade ago at this point, and it remains one of my favorite books of all time—so long as I don't think about it too much. On the one hand, it's beautifully written, genuinely touching, etc etc; on the other hand, it's a poorly (and borderline offensively) fictionalized reimagining of true events. It's the kind of book that you can really only enjoy if you're ignorant of what its about (cough cough The Sparrow, anyone?), and I came out of it feeling like Patchett is both very talented and kind of tacky.
And, reader, that feeling persists!
Ostensibly, Truth and Beauty is Patchett's memoir reflecting on her relationship with fellow author Lucy Grealy, who died not long before this book's show more publication. But it really isn't so much about their friendship so much as it is about Grealy herself: her constant surgeries, her complicated and slightly embarrassing sex life, her struggles with addiction. Patchett fades, somewhat passive aggressively, into the background. There are brief suggestions that, despite her adulation of Grealy, there was some degree of poorly sublimated anger there, as well—a moment when Patchett cries or nearly cries in frustration, after Grealy dismisses her struggles to get published; another where Grealy is extremely pleased that Patchett's romantic relationship has collapsed. And a third, not detailed in the book itself but in an essay by Grealy's sister, where Grealy discards an advanced copy of Patchett's latest novel, unopened and unread. But despite it all Patchett maintains this sort of soap opera image of Grealy as the sickest, specialest girl in the world and herself an absolute nobody, valuable only for infinite and noble patience in the midst of genius.
It feels just a little bit pathetic, like watching a kicked puppy roll over to be pet, except its not a kicked puppy but in fact a remarkably talented writer. But I guess dignity doesn't score points in the memoir game. show less

Whether "Truth & Beauty," Ann Patchett's memoir of her friendship with Lucy Grealy, another writer, makes her look like a saint or a fool readers must decide for themselves. But then saints often look like fools, and fools, if you watch the movie "Being There," sometimes look like saints.

Patchett and Grealy went to college together but didn't actually become friends until they both showed up at the Iowa Writers Workshop in 1985, Patchett an aspiring novelist, Grealy an aspiring poet. They ended up sharing an apartment together and becoming devoted friends. The friendship continued for nearly two decades, even after Patchett settled in Nashville and Grealy, an Ireland native, moved to New York City.

Yet it was never an equal friendship. show more From the beginning Patchett was the giver and Grealy the taker.

Grealy, who died from a drug overdose at the age of 39, underwent nearly 40 operations in her short life because of a facial disfigurement caused by cancer of the jaw. Even though her vibrant personality resulted in more friends and lovers than most other women could imagine, she became dependent upon Patchett to reassure her constantly that, yes, she was loved and, however her ever-changing face happened to look at the moment, she would have sex again.

At one time Grealy was the more famous of the pair. "I was famous for being with her," Patchett writes. Her friend wrote a fictionalized memoir called "Autobiography of a Face," which became a best seller and led to television interviews in which she wowed audiences. But then, despite a handsome book contract, she could write nothing, while Patchett began turning out one novel after another, beginning with "The Patron Saint of Liars."

Never able to manage money, nor anything else, Grealy gave no thought to paying her mounting medical bills, and she would just move to another apartment whenever her landlord became too demanding. Patchett, or some other friend, was always there to help her out and take care of her after those frequent surgeries. At one point Patchett even offered to write her novel for her.

Eventually Grealy became addicted to painkillers, then resorted to harder drugs, all the while insisting she was not an addict. She died in 2002, and Patchett's book came out in 2004.

I vote for saint. show less