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mtherobot's Reviews (867)
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 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.
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 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.
