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A justly acclaimed memoir about the friendship between the novelist Ann Patchett (Bel Canto, State Of Wonder) and the memoirist/poet Lucy Grealy (Autobiography Of A Face).

The two graduated the same year from Sarah Lawrence, but they became close only when they lived together while studying and teaching at the Iowa Writer’s Workshop. That friendship continued through their years struggling to publish, win grants and fellowships, on through successes, setbacks, publication, fame and Grealy’s untimely death, in 2002, at 39.

As Patchett points out early on in achingly beautiful prose, the two had an ant/grasshopper, turtle/hare dynamic. Patchett was the responsible one and Grealy, we soon see, was impulsive and needy, constantly requiring validation and love.

And no wonder. At 9, Grealy was diagnosed with a rare form of cancer called Ewing’s sarcoma. This led to the removal of her jawbone, and over the years she had dozens of reconstructive surgeries. All of this led to childhood and adolescent taunting, chronic pain and constant difficulty eating, and a lifetime of insecurity and self-consciousness about her looks. (She would detail this in Autobiography Of A Face years later.)

What comes across clearly is a strange, mysterious alchemy �� a chemistry, a blending of souls �� in their friendship. We tend to think that only romantic love depends on chemistry; but friends need it too. And reading Patchett’s lines and reading between the lines, you can see the real love blossom between them.

Patchett recounts the fun, the dancing, the talking, the drinking, the work, the petty squabbles over writing, men and messes both literal and figurative (while they were both writers, they weren’t as competitive since they wrote in different genres). She also includes generous glimpses of their correspondence to add context. (Spoiler alert: these women know how to write!)

There are lots of laughs, like the time Grealy went on a blind date with George Stephanopoulos (even this episode, though, is tinged with sadness). And there are a couple of vivid descriptions of publishing parties, including one awkward one celebrating author Dennis McFarland.

As the book progresses, and Grealy begins taking drugs because of pain caused by surgeries (including one where her tibia was removed to graft onto her face), you begin to see where the narrative is headed. But it’s never predictable. Near the end there are a couple of moments that must have caused Patchett great remorse to remember and write down.

What do I take away from this book, besides wanting to read Grealy’s own memoir?

I think about the role my closest, dearest friends play in my life. How many people would pretend they’re your sibling to stay by your hospital bedside after an operation? Who would you let stay with you so they could recover from addiction? Would you ever collect months and months of a friend’s bills and forge their signature on cheques so they wouldn’t have to deal with it all?

There’s some codependency in these accounts, of which I’m sure Patchett is aware, but there’s also a fierce, unconditional love that is astonishing to behold.

Lots of truth, and so much beauty.