欧宝娱乐

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 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.