It's a shame that this book was not written by someone who had the ability to access the intense feelings and pathos that ruled Anne Sexton's life. What was needed here were in-depth insights, an emotional full-color panorama of one of the century's most intriguing famous people, the unfolding of the many emotional dichotomies that operated within Sexton.
Instead, this biography is nothing more than 488 pages of sterile commentaries of the woman's life and heady, highly technical reviews of her work. Middlebrook merely grazes the tragedies and disappointments in Sexton's life -- many so universal. If Middlebrook does have an emotional observation about her subject, she well and erroneously hides it. I particularly took issue with Middlebrook's superficial discussion of the abuses Sexton underwent as a child and then perpetrated on her own children, especially the eldest.
I am not suggesting that Sexton, a child abuser, should have been presented as a pitiful creature, someone who should be glorified and admired, no holds barred. One of the book's basic flaws was the absence of separating Sexton, the person, from Sexton's poetry. As beautiful and haunting as her poems are, Sexton herself was a selfish, cruel woman who, despite every privilege and opportunity presented to her, was so self-absorbed that she cared nothing for her two most miraculous creations, her daughters, except how she could creatively and psychologically benefit from having children. Like they were her little science experiments, discarded at the slightest whim. That so aptly exemplified the driving force behind this woman, that it is a shame it was never presented in human terms.