Strangers is memoir as spectacle: extreme wealth, staggering naïveté, and a marriage to a true sociopath. It’s compulsively readable largely because of the rarified air it’s set in. Strip away the privilege and it’s a cautionary tale we wouldn’t call “literary.”
Where it works is in the granular detail of a luxury implosion and flashes of genuine self-interrogation. If you loved The End of Normal, this will be catnip. And if you start here and haven’t read Madoff’s memoir yet, add it to the TBR immediately.
