The first major biography to be written on poet, journal writer, feminist, and lesbian May Sarton begins aggressively even before you read any text by its author, Margot Peters.

In the stunning jacket painting by Polly Thayer Starr, a young May Sarton, cigarette in hand, leans forward in her seat — her intense, gray-blue eyes fixed and leveled, her pale, humorless face a chilling mask. She is striking with high cheekbones and a strong chin emphasizing a lean face and a small, set mouth. The painting highlights the fierce curiosity, the sharp intelligence and the coolness for which Sarton was known. Indeed, in this painting, she seems poised to pounce.

Had she lived to see her appointed biographer’s book, “May Sarton: A Biography,” would she be pouncing on Margot Peters?

The book begins with a warning and veiled insults, always welcome after spending $30 on a serious biography. At the end of the short prologue, Peters, the biographer of the Barrymores and of Charlotte Bronte, writes: “May Sarton’s gift for inspiring others was perhaps her greatest achievement. But no public figure levels completely with an audience — and Sarton was a performer above all.

“As I would discover to my dismay, her real life, as opposed to the myth she created, was turbulent, guilt-ridden, full of pain and disappointment — and just plain messy. I am tempted to post a warning: THIS BIOGRAPHY STRONG MEDICINE. NOT TO BE TAKEN INTERNALLY BY SARTON FANS. Yet, perhaps the real May Sarton will be more lasting inspiration than the myth, a phoenix risen from the ashes of fires hotter than anyone guessed.”

Of course, to demystify May Sarton suggests that May Sarton was never the person her public perceived — a serious allegation considering the legions of fans Sarton called her own. To say that she created her own myth suggests deceit on Sarton’s part, the manipulation of her readers, and, worse, dishonesty — something Sarton abhorred. Already we’re on tantalizing — if shaky, sensational and negative — ground. Peter’s difficult job is to back these allegations with hard facts.

The biography begins much like a novel written by a bright Danielle Steel — War-torn Europe, unwanted child, self-consumed parents, poverty, fleeing one country for another, emotional starvation — and the reader cannot help being swept into the sensationalism Peters is so adept at writing.

As a child, May Sarton is depicted as desperate, brattish, clinging, unhappy, unruly, uncontrollable and unwanted. She is a terror, pure and simple, raised by indifferent, uncaring parents: the noted scientist-historian George Sarton, and his English wife, Mabel.

Throughout her life, May Sarton would come to have many love affairs, all of which began with dangerous bursts of passion on her part, most of which ended bitterly and in utter disrepair.

In painstaking detail, Peters quotes directly from Sarton’s letters to trace each affair from its conception to its predictable, ugly end. We learn that she had affairs with Julian and Jullettee Huxley, Edith Forbes Kennedy, Grace Eliot Dudley, the poet Muriel Rukeyser and Cora Dubois, among others.

Peters feels Sarton could not be trusted to tell the truth behind her self-imposed solitude, suggesting that Sarton was solitary only because she had alienated everyone around her.

“`Journal of a Solitude’ pleads for communication even as Sarton complains of intrusions,” Peters writes. “A true solitary would not publish photographs of her house so that fans could zero in with binoculars or camp on her doorstep , or declare that a room without flowers throws her into deep misery, so that fans rush her flowers, for which she must thank them. A true solitary would not complain publicly about solitude. Inspiring hundreds of people to relieve it. But then May was a solitary only because of her impossible temperament.”

Point taken.

More importantly, Sarton was a talented writer who produced several significant books, something that is given only cursory mention in this biography.

And why is that? The reason could be that Peters, like her subject, is a survivor. She knows how to keep her readers turning the pages — tell all the bad, little of the good. She understands that in today’s tough publishing market, turning a profit means winning another book contract, and nothing sells better in America than tabloid biography.

Thus, Peters overlooks Sarton’s impressive work — 19 novels, 15 books of poetry, 13 journals and memoirs. Instead, she focuses on the more sensational aspects of Sarton’s life, which make for great book-of-the-week reading — if not so much for a great biography on a serious literary figure of 20th century American letters.

Perhaps Polly Thayer Starr’s jacket painting should have been printed in black and white, for while Peters writes colorfully, she seems determined to paint a portrait of May Sarton in two colors, leaving serious Sarton scholars wanting fuller, richer hues that will more accurately showcase the subject.

But don’t pity May Sarton. Remember, she’s the phoenix who rises from the ashes of fires hotter than anyone guessed. She almost certainly will rise in other biographies that give equal weight to her work.

In the meantime, read this biography for a more sensational glimpse into the woman’s personal life. Go to Sarton’s novels and poetry for a deeper understanding of the woman.

Margot Peters, “May Sarton: A Biography,” 474 pages, $30, Knopf.