I do think part of the sense of betrayal felt by some readers, though, is in part due to the fact that this book was read by people who don’t usually read much or at all.
As a result, these readers have a much more credulous take on what memoir might mean in terms of condensing, rearranging, embellishing material etc, and that ‘unflinchingly honest’ as a marketing tagline might not be a guarantee that everything in the book happened exactly as written.
It’s a more extreme example, but I once inadvertently did the adult bookish equivalent of puncturing the illusion of a child who still thinks Santa Claus is real. A chatty new junior at my London hairdresser, many years ago, seeing me reading while my colour developed, said she didn’t read anything but Katie Price’s books, both the autobiographies and the pony books, but that she really loved them and read them over and over.
Being polite, I said I’d never read them, but had met her very nice ghostwriter more than once (she died terribly young since then). The junior asked what a ghostwriter was, and I could see her starting to look upset, but by the time I realised it was too late to back out and change the subject. She’d had no idea, apparently, that KP didn’t write her own books, and what she’d really loved was the idea that this woman she idolised was really talking to her, and sweating over notebooks to write it all down just for her in some completely unmediated way.
I think there’s something similar going on here for some readers of TSP, who felt they really knew Raynor and Moth, and now feel as if friends lied to them.