I love Brautigan's work. I saw him in person once and found him disgustingly, sloppily drunk but still a genius. His In Watermelon Sugar is one of my favorite books ever, and some of his poetry goes with me every step of the way. This book, however, is way too much. Way, way too much. The minutiae of his life; just not that interesting. The opening chapter is horrific, detailing as it does his suicide and how his body decays, visited by flies and maggots, over the next several weeks. I will be a long, long time getting those images out of my head.Only for the devoted, die-hard, obsessive fan.