It's a very accomplished biography. Coleridge is an exceptionally complex subject. I think with Blake and Yeats he forms a trilogy of Idealist poets. He isn't off happily in his own world like Blake, or a confident real-world operator like Yeats. Instead he was perpetually embarrassed, weak, overwhelmed, struggling to stay afloat. I think he was always battling his own subconscious. It's obviously impossible to know how accurately Holmes has captured his life, but I feel he likes and admires Coleridge without having any illusions about what an idiot (brainy intuitive idiot) he was. The account feels sound, and it is also illuminated by and illuminating of the work.
Some of Coleridge's work seems to be weighed down with plonking conventionality. But I think this is a way of trying to build dams against the sea inside. His notebooks, which Holmes quotes, read like modernism, 100 years early. He compared his mind to a flock of starlings, with only the appearance of cohesion in its churning energy.
that subtle Vulcanian spider-web Net of Steel ... in which my soul flutters inclosed with the Idea of yours - to pass rapidly as in a catalogue thro' the Images only, exclusive of the thousand Thoughts that possess the same force, which never fail instantly to awake into vivider flame the for ever and ever feeling of you: - The fire, Mary, you & I at Gallow-Hill; or if flamy, reflected in children's round faces - a dog - that dog whose restless eyes oft catching the light of the fire used to watch your face as you leaned with your head in your hands and arm, & your feet in the fender - the fender thence - Fowls at Table - the last dinner in Gallow Hill when you drest the two fowls in white sauce... ten thousand links and if it please me, the very spasm & drawing-back of pleasure, which is half pain, you not being there.