Perhaps the audience for this book is younger and more susceptible to the “suicide is so poetic” appeal of Plath; or maybe enough older than me to have been in the first generation “inspired” by Plath‘s death. But I found it pretentious and more about the author‘s alter-ego (whom he named for himself although making him much older) than about Plath or Hughes. It smacked of the same kind of feelings as the “I wish I had been at Woodstock” trope.