By Franz Kafka
In the last decades interest in hunger artists has declinedconsiderably. Whereas in earlier days there was good money tobe earned putting on major productions of this sort under one’sown management， nowadays that is totally impossible. Thosewere different times. Back then the hunger artist captured theattention of the entire city. From day to day while the fastinglasted， participation increased. Everyone wanted to see thehunger artist at least daily. During the final days there werepeople with subion tickets who sat all day in front ofthe small barred cage. And there were even viewing hours atnight， their impact heightened by torchlight. On fine days thecage was dragged out into the open air， and then the hungerartist was put on display particularly for the children. Whilefor grown-ups the hunger artist was often merely a joke，something they participated in because it was fashionable，the children looked on amazed， their mouths open， holdingeach other’s hands for safety， as he sat there on scatteredstraw—spurning a chair—in a black tights， looking pale， withhis ribs sticking out prominently， sometimes nodding politely，answering questions with a forced smile， even sticking his armout through the bars to let people feel how emaciated he was，but then completely sinking back into himself， so that he paidno attention to anything， not even to what was so important tohim， the striking of the clock， which was the single furnishingin the cage， merely looking out in front of him with his eyesalmost shut and now and then sipping from a tiny glass ofwater to moisten his lips.
Apart from the changing groups of spectators there were alsoconstant observers chosen by the public—strangely enoughthey were usually butchers—who， always three at a time， weregiven the task of observing the hunger artist day and night，so that he didn’t get something to eat in some secret manner.
It was， however， merely a formality， introduced to reassurethe masses， for those who understood knew well enough thatduring the period of fasting the hunger artist would never，under any circumstances， have eaten the slightest thing， noteven if compelled by force. The honour of his art forbade it.
Naturally， none of the watchers understood that. Sometimesthere were nightly groups of watchers who carried out theirvigil very laxly， deliberately sitting together in a distant cornerand putting all their attention into playing cards there， clearlyintending to allow the hunger artist a small refreshment，which， according to their way of thinking， he could get fromsome secret supplies. Nothing was more excruciating to thehunger artist than such watchers. They depressed him. Theymade his fasting terribly difficult. Sometimes he overcamehis weakness and sang during the time they were observing，for as long as he could keep it up， to show people how unjusttheir suspicions about him were. But that was little help. Forthen they just wondered among themselves about his skillat being able to eat even while singing. He much preferredthe observers who sat down right against the bars and， notsatisfied with the dim backlighting of the room， illuminatedhim with electric flashlights. The glaring light didn’t botherhim in the slightest. Generally he couldn’t sleep at all， and hecould always doze under any lighting and at any hour， even inan overcrowded， noisy auditorium. With such observers， hewas very happily prepared to spend the entire night withoutsleeping. He was very pleased to joke with them， to recountstories from his nomadic life and then， in turn， to listen theirstories—doing everything just to keep them awake， so that hecould keep showing them once again that he had nothing to eatin his cage and that he was fasting as none of them could.
He was happiest， however， when morning came and a lavishbreakfast was brought for them at his own expense， on whichthey hurled themselves with the appetite of healthy menafter a hard night’s work without sleep. True， there were stillpeople who wanted to see in this breakfast an unfair meansof influencing the observers， but that was going too far， andif they were asked whether they wanted to undertake theobservers’ night shift for its own sake， without the breakfast，they excused themselves. But nonetheless they stood by theirsuspicions.
However， it was， in general， part of fasting that these doubtswere inextricably associated with it. For， in fact， no one wasin a position to spend time watching the hunger artist everyday and night， so no one could know， on the basis of his ownobservation， whether this was a case of truly uninterrupted，flawless fasting. The hunger artist himself was the only onewho could know that and， at the same time， the only spectatorcapable of being completely satisfied with his own fasting.
But the reason he was never satisfied was something different.
Perhaps it was not fasting at all which made him so veryemaciated that many people， to their own regret， had to stayaway from his performance， because they couldn’t bear to lookat him. For he was also so skeletal out of dissatisfaction withhimself， because he alone knew something that even initiatesdidn’t know—how easy it was to fast. It was the easiest thingin the world. About this he did not remain silent， but peopledid not believe him. At best they thought he was being modest.
Most of them， however， believed he was a publicity seekeror a total swindler， for whom， at all events， fasting was easy，because he understood how to make it easy， and then had thenerve to half admit it. He had to accept all that. Over the yearshe had become accustomed to it. But this dissatisfaction keptgnawing at his insides all the time and never yet—and this onehad to say to his credit—had he left the cage of his own freewill after any period of fasting.