Bruno Steiger writes about Stauffer's second book: 'Stauffer paints a picture of an unhappy, completely shrill nature in his new book. Even in her childhood, she recorded her suffering and pain in a diary, hoping that her mother would read it, "happily weeping" over the realization that her daughter has learned and understood the essentials of life. She has retained a pronounced interest in everything physically organic, primarily focusing on injury and decay. Taking photos of her belly button is, of course, impossible for her; her arms are too short to hold the camera at the necessary distance for a good picture. Just as organically amputated as the arms of Stauffer's protagonist, her language also seems so. It is marked by a limitation to the monstrously banal, played out and concluded in a brutally artless manner. In her often blindly furious approach to the jargon of psychology, physiotherapy, and self-experience, Stauffer's prose achieves an authenticity that is not easy to compare. One might hear a grumpy Gertrude Stein grumbling in the background, and Laederach's cold melancholy occasionally shines through. In Stauffer's work, there is an additional reduction to the performative gesture, where form and message, strangely enough, become quite battered, if not maliciously shattered, play material, particularly within the grand themes of love and loss. Stauffer's deconstruction of our emotional register impresses with the consistency with which his protagonist dismisses all the comforts of the true, the good, and the beautiful early on. She insists on her disappointment; even her deep inner crying appears as a form of meanness and self-hatred. The fact that the author never resorts to wit or irony in any line can be considered a quality of this rather disturbing book.' A good reason to publish it a second time.