Hand To Bone is art for the sake of art. One of those books that may sound wonderful in theory but are a pain in the ass in reality. A 50 page novella without plot, and an undefined and unnamed - what exactly? - protagonist who goes through his daily life for several weeks in a meticulous precision. Its so banal that is depressing. With countless word repetitions, deliberate word repetitions, a source for headache and comes pretty close to Chinese water torture. Its minimalist, raw, reduced to a skeleton of a text, to the bones. Staccato alike stream-of-consciousness rhythm without style. It never makes quite sure who is addressed in those ramblings - the protagonist himself, or me, the reader. Also that Sarah D’Stair totally neglects to use any kind of metaphors, similes or symbolism or even question marks (and lots of those sentences are clearly self-addressed questions) doesnt do the text any good. It is cold, lifeless - an intro-reflective monologue with no emotions attached to the images provided. Its a never ending process that is maddening in its simplicity. I understand on an intellectual level what she is doing, or rather trying to achieve, but the final product isnt anything for entertainment, or enjoyment.