There is nothing remotely titillating about Harrison’s book; instead, it reads like a slow descent into hell—one that compels and repels in almost equal measure at times. Harrison, who did not really meet her father until she was 20, takes the reader on a difficult journey into her loveless childhood, her bouts with anorexia and bulimia, and, eventually, the incestuous 4-year affair with her father. Her prose is deceptively simple; her choice of present tense to describe events that occurred many years ago forces an immediacy—almost a complicity—upon the reader that heightens both revulsion and compassion. The Kiss is not for everybody. Some readers will be outraged by its subject matter; others will find it just too painful to read.
