Byron’s longest poem. His funniest poem. The one where he wrote himself as the hero and then spent sixteen cantos making fun of him anyway.

Forget the brooding. Forget the curse. This is Byron with his guard down and his mouth open — gossiping about high society, mocking his own reputation, seducing and getting seduced and getting it catastrophically wrong, over and over, with a wink the whole time. He knew exactly how ridiculous he was. He just couldn’t stop.

This is the version of him nobody assigns in school, because he’s too busy being a mess to teach a lesson.

Curated and introduced by G. Ashworth.

He thinks this one’s the most honest portrait we have of him. He’s also still mad about most of it.