Wonderfully narrated, deeply informed account of the wild man of Europe's failing days. That said, I think it's dated (written in 1941), vastly overestimating the importance of Byron as a poet - better seen as a celebrity, he'd be at home today with Kanye and the like, and in the process condescending to his betters, prominently including Shelley (and even Keats, in passing). He is not shy about identifying Byron's shortcomings, including an odious episode in which the poet libeled Shelley (too long a story to get into, a confession blurted out late at night which softpedaled his own role in spreading a false rumor - Shelley, typically, rose above it). But...great, sardonic portraits of Leigh Hunt, Trelawney, Gordon's various inappropriate mistresses, and the whole, insane, hypersexualized and high-flown scene. Highly recommended, even though I disagree with the author's basic premise.