I have a lot of complicated feelings about this, but suffice to say it's an incredible book with stunning prose. It's worth reading for that alone, though the way Crosley built up an almost-complete picture of her friend--and she implicitly and explicitly acknowledges it's incomplete, but entirely true to her--is also masterful. 

But. There's grace given to her friend for his darker sides, but no real understanding of or empathy for what it's like to idealize suicide, of how vital it feels and what a relief it is to move from depression to action and how that feels like one of the greatest gifts you can give to your loved ones. Crosley mentions Virginia Woolf's suicide, but has she ever read the note Woolf left for her husband? Crosley's friend left no note, though, so maybe that was enough to disqualify their similarities. 

There's a meditation toward the beginning of the book on how hard it is to live beyond and to accept that your loved one, a dominating and beloved presence in your life, was so wrong this one last time and will never be right again. That was a devastating part of the book. But ultimately this story is about the author, not her friend.