Ted Hughes reflects in later life upon his marriage to Sylvia Plath.
SP (or "my bride" as she is, distractingly, referred to throughout) is a feckin' nightmare but TH himself doesn't fare much better, coming across as a posturing, self-mythologising, pompous arse. As for the "perfect" marriage... it struck me as a horror-show from the outset. I ended up feeling yucky reading about it, glad not to have to spend time in the company of either party.