Th very best of the best: hard.
I read a lot of really, truly good books last year like The Grimm Legacy, Crank,and I finally finished The Kiss which was by for one of the absolute best books I've ever read. I began the Riders of the Apocalypse series, which was just the way I wanted it to: frankly intriguing, either you take the scales or you die, either you control the sword or you die.
The best book I read last year was a memoir titled, The Kiss by Kathryn Harrison.
Never in my life have I fully and completely been stunned into hours long silence, horrified, and riddled so badly with aghast-y knowledge of betrayal and a father's seduction of his un-known teenage daughter, that each chapter of this book felt like bullet holes shot through me. A possessive pastor, regarding his daughter as the ever young and youthful incarnate of his ex-wife whose family snubbed his shabby lower-class upbringing screamed in my veins for this story to be falsified.
But why?
Why write, such a symphonic lyrical verse of a eloquent novel and have it be stamped Dramatic Adult Fiction. It's not possible, the facts, the details, the letters, the background information, the lusty encounters, the incriminations of each hug and phone call could not be made up. A father completely and utterly destroyed his daughter.
I don't think anyone makes up stories like that. Those stories, the real heart-breaking stories that are put out into the world and make people gasp in appallment, those stories haunt a reader. They are not false, they are memories, a woman or man's livelihood placed on a porcelain pedestal and displayed for the entire world to see.
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