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Existentialism
Franz Kafka (1883 - 1924)
A hunger Artist |
Du
hast mich letzthin einmal gefragt, warum ich behaupte,
ich hätte Furcht vor Dir |
During
these last decades the interest in professional fasting has
markedly diminished. It used to pay very well to stage such
great performances under one's own management, but today that
is quite impossible. We live in a different world now. At one
time the whole town took a lively interest in the hunger artist;
from day to day of his fast the excitement mounted; everybody
wanted to see him at least once a day; there were people who
bought season tickets for the last few days and sat from morning
till night in front of his small barred cage; even in the nighttime
there were visiting hours, when the whole effect was heightened
by torch flares; on fine days the cage was set out in the open
air, and then it was the children's special treat to see the
hunger artist; for their elders he was often just a joke that
happened to be in fashion, but the children stood openmouthed,
holding each other's hands for greater security, marveling at
him as he sat there pallid in black tights, with his ribs sticking
out so prominently, not even on a seat but down among straw
on the ground, sometimes giving a courteous nod, answering questions
with a constrained smile, or perhaps stretching an arm through
the bars so that one might feel how thin it was, and then again
withdrawing deep into himself, paying no attention to anyone
or anything, not even to the all-important striking of the clock
that was the only piece of furniture in his cage, but merely
staring into vacancy with half-shut eyes, now and then taking
a sip from a tiny glass of water to moisten his lips.
Besides casual onlookers there were also relays of permanent
watchers selected by the public, usually butchers, strangely
enough, and it was their task to watch the hunger artist day
and night, three of them at a time, in case he should have some
secret recourse to nourishment. This was nothing but a formality,
instigated to reassure the masses, for the initiates knew well
enough that during his fast the artist would never in any circumstances,
not even under forcible compulsion, swallow the smallest morsel
of food; the honor of his profession forbade it. Not every watcher,
of course, was capable of understanding this, there were often
groups of night watchers who were very lax in carrying out their
duties and deliberately huddled together in a retired corner
to play cards with great absorption, obviously intending to
give the hunger artist the chance of a little refreshment, which
they supposed he would draw from some private hoard. Nothing
annoyed the artist more than these watchers; they made him miserable;
they made his fast seem unendurable; sometimes he mastered his
feebleness sufficiently to sing during their watch for as long
as he could keep going, to show them how unjust their suspicions
were. But that was of little use; they only wondered at his
cleverness in being able to fill his mouth even while singing.
Much more to his taste were the watchers who sat close up to
the bars, who were not content with the dim night lighting of
the hall but focused him in the full glare of the electric pocket
torch given them by the impresario. The harsh light did not
trouble him at all, in any case he could never sleep properly,
and he could always drowse a little, whatever the light, at
any hour, even when the hall was thronged with noisy onlookers.
He was quite happy at the prospect of spending a sleepless night
with such watchers; he was ready to exchange jokes with them,
to tell them stories out of his nomadic life, anything at all
to keep them awake and demonstrate to them again that he had
no eatables in his cage and that he was fasting as not one of
them could fast. But his happiest moment was when the morning
came and an enormous breakfast was brought for them, at his
expense, on which they flung themselves with the keen appetite
of healthy men after a weary night of wakefulness. Of course
there were people who argued that this breakfast was an unfair
attempt to bribe the watchers, but that was going rather too
far, and when they were invited to take on a night's vigil without
a breakfast, merely for the sake of the cause, they made themselves
scarce, although they stuck stubbornly to their suspicions.
Such suspicions, anyhow, were a necessary accompaniment to the
profession of fasting. No one could possibly watch the hunger
artist continuously, day and night, and so no one could produce
first-hand evidence that the fast had really been rigorous and
continuous; only the artist himself could know that, he was
therefore bound to be the sole completely satisfied spectator
of his own fast. Yet for other reasons he was never satisfied;
it was not perhaps mere fasting that had brought him to such
skeleton thinness that many people had regretfully to keep away
from his exhibitions, because the sight of him was too much
for them, perhaps it was dissatisfaction with himself that had
worn him down. For he alone knew, what no other initiate knew,
how easy it was to fast. It was the easiest thing in the world.
He made no secret of this, yet people did not believe him, at
best they set him down as modest, most of them, however, thought
he was out for publicity or else was some kind of cheat who
found it easy to fast because he had discovered a way of making
it easy, and then had the impudence to admit the fact, more
or less. He had to put up with all that, and in the course of
time had got used to it, but his inner dissatisfaction always
rankled, and never yet, after any term of fasting - this must
be granted to his credit - had he left the cage of his own free
will. The longest period of fasting was fixed by his impresario
at forty days, beyond that term he was not allowed to go, not
even in great cities, and there was good reason for it, too.
Experience had proven that for about forty days the interest
of the public could be stimulated by a steadily increasing pressure
of advertisement, but after that the town began to lose interest,
sympathetic support began notably to fall off; there were of
course local variations as between one town and another or one
country and another, but as a general rule forty days marked
the limit. So on the fortieth day the flower-bedecked cage was
opened, enthusiastic spectators filled the hall, a military
band played, two doctors entered the cage to measure the results
of the fast, which were announced through a megaphone, and finally
two young ladies appeared, blissful at having been selected
for the honor, to help the hunger artist down the few steps
leading to a small table on which was spread a carefully chosen
invalid repast. And at this very moment the artist always turned
stubborn. True, he would entrust his bony arms to the outstretched
helping hands of the ladies bending over him, but stand up he
would not. Why stop fasting at this particular moment, after
forty days of it? He had held out for a long time, an illimitably
long time, why stop now, when he was in his best fasting form,
or rather, not yet quite in is bet fasting form? Why should
he be cheated of the fame he would get for fasting longer, for
being not only the record hunger artist of all time, which presumably
he was already, but for beating his own record by a performance
beyond human imagination, since he felt that there were no limits
to his capacity for fasting? His public pretended to admire
him so much, why should it have so little patience with him;
if he could endure fasting longer, why shouldn't the public
endure it? Besides, he was tired, he was comfortable sitting
in the straw, and now he was supposed to lift himself to his
full height and go down to a meal the very thought of which
gave him a nausea that only the presence of the ladies kept
him from betraying, and even that with an effort. And he looked
up into the eyes of the ladies who were apparently so friendly
and in reality so cruel, and shook his head, which felt too
heavy on its strengthless neck. But then there happened again
what always happened. The impresario came forward, without a
word - for the band made speech impossible - lifted his arms
in the air above the artist, as if inviting Heaven to look down
upon this creature here in the straw, this suffering martyr,
which indeed he was, although in quite another sense; grasped
him around the emaciated waist, with exaggerated caution, so
that the frail condition he was in might be appreciated; and
committed him to the care of the blenching ladies, not without
secretly giving him a shaking so that his legs and body tottered
and swayed. The artist now submitted completely; his head lolled
on his breast as if it had landed there by chance; his body
was hollowed out; his legs in a spasm of self-preservation clung
close to each other at the knees, yet scraped on the ground
as if it were not really solid ground, as if they were only
trying to find solid ground; and the whole weight of his body,
a featherweight after all, relapsed onto one of the ladies,
who, looking around for help and panting a little - this post
of honor was not at all what she had expected it to be - first
stretched her neck as far as she could to keep her face at least
free from contact with the artist, then finding this impossible,
and her more fortunate companion not coming to her aid but merely
holding extended in her own trembling hand the little bunch
of knucklebones that was the artist's, to the great delight
of the spectators burst into tears and had to be replaced by
an attendant who had long been stationed in readiness. Then
came the food, a little of which the impresario managed to get
between the artist's lips, while he sat in a kind of half-fainting
trance, to the accompaniment of cheerful patter designed to
distract to public's attention for the artist's condition; after
that, a toast was drunk to the public, supposedly prompted by
a whisper from the artist in the impresario's ear; the band
confirmed it with a mighty flourish, the spectators melted away,
and no one had any cause to be dissatisfied with the proceedings,
no one except the hunger artist himself, he only, as always.
So he lived for many years, with small regular intervals of
recuperation, in visible glory, honored by the world, yet in
spite of that, troubled in spirit, and all the more troubled
because no-one would take his trouble seriously. What comfort
could he possibly need? What more could he possibly wish for?
And if some good-natured person, feeling sorry for him, tried
to console him by pointing out that his melancholy was probably
caused by fasting, it could happen, especially when he had been
fasting for some time, that he reacted with an outburst of fury
and to the general alarm began to shake the bars of his cage
like a wild animal. Yet the impresario had a way of punishing
these outbreaks which he rather enjoyed putting into operation.
He would apologize publicly for the artist's behaviour, which
was only to be excused, he admitted, because of the irritability
caused by fasting; a condition hardly to be understood by well-fed
people; then by natural transition he went on to mention the
artist's equally incomprehensible boast that he could fast for
much longer than he was doing; he praised the high ambition,
the good will, the great self-denial undoubtedly implicit in
such a statement; and then quite simply countered it by bringing
out photographs, which were also on sale to the public, showing
the artist on the fortieth day of a fast lying in bed almost
dead from exhaustion. This perversion of the truth, familiar
to the artist though it was, always unnerved him afresh and
proved too much for him. What was a consequence of the premature
ending of his fast was here presented as the cause of it! To
fight against this lack of understanding, against a whole world
of non-understanding, was impossible. Time and again in good
faith he stood by the bars listening to the impresario, but
as soon as the photographs appeared he always let go and sank
with a groan back onto his straw, and the reassured public could
once more come close and gaze at him.
A few years later when the witnesses of such scenes called them
to mind, they often failed to understand themselves at all.
For meanwhile the aforementioned change in public interest had
set in; it seemed to happen almost overnight; there may have
been profound causes for it, but who was going to bother about
that; at any rate the pampered hunger artist suddenly found
himself deserted on fine day by the amusement-seekers, who went
streaming past him to other more-favored attractions. For the
last time the impresario hurried him over half Europe to discover
whether the old interest might still survive here and there;
all in vain; everywhere, as if by secret agreement, a positive
revulsion from professional fasting was in evidence. Of course
it could not really have sprung up so suddenly as all that,
and many premonitory symptoms which had not been sufficiently
remarked or suppressed during the rush and glitter of success
now came retrospectively to mind, but it was now too late to
take any countermeasures. Fasting would surely come into fashion
again at some future date, yet that was no comfort for those
living in the present. What, then, was the hunger artist to
do? He had been applauded by thousands in his time and could
hardly come down to showing himself in a street booth at village
fairs, and as for adopting another profession, he was not only
too old for that but too fanatically devoted to fasting. So
he took leave of the impresario, his partner in an unparalleled
career, and hired himself to a large circus; in order to spare
his own feelings he avoided reading the conditions of his contract.
A large circus with its enormous traffic in replacing and recruiting
men, animals, and apparatus can always find a use for people
at any time, even for a hunger artist, provided of course that
he does not ask too much, and in this particular case anyhow
it was not only the artist who was taken on but his famous and
long-known name as well, indeed considering the peculiar nature
of his performance, which was not impaired by advancing age,
it could not be objected that here was an artist past his prime,
no longer at the height of his professional skill, seeking a
refuge in some quiet corner of a circus; on the contrary, the
hunger artist averred that he could fast as well as ever, which
was entirely credible, he even alleged that if he were allowed
to fast as he liked, and this was at once promised him without
more ado, he could astound the world by establishing a record
never yet achieved, a statement that certainly provoked a smile
among the other professionals, since it left out of account
the change in public opinion, which the hunger artist in his
zeal conveniently forgot.
He had not, however, actually lost his sense of the real situation
and took it as a matter of course that he and his cage should
be stationed, not in the middle of the ring as a main attraction,
but outside, near the animal cages, on a site that was after
all easily accessible. Large and gaily painted placards made
a frame for the cage and announced what was to be seen inside
it. When the public came thronging out in the intervals to see
the animals, they could hardly avoid passing the hunger artist's
cage and stopping there for a moment, perhaps they might even
have stayed longer, had not those pressing behind them behind
them in the narrow gangway, who did not understand why they
should be held up on their way towards the excitements of the
menagerie, made it impossible for anyone to stand gazing for
any length of time. And that was the reason why the hunger artist,
who had of course been looking forward to these visiting hours
as the main achievement of his life, began instead to shrink
from them. At first he could hardly wait for the intervals;
it was exhilarating to watch the crowds come streaming his way,
until only too soon - not even the most obstinate self-deception,
clung to almost consciously, could hold out against the fact
- the conviction was borne in upon him that these people, most
of them, to judge from their actions, again and again, without
exception, were all on their way to the menagerie. And the first
sight of them from a distance remained the best. For when they
reached his cage he was at once deafened by the storm of shouting
and abuse that arose from the two contending factions, which
renewed themselves continuously, of those who wanted to stop
and stare at him - he soon began to dislike them more than the
others - not out of real interest but only out of obstinate
self-assertiveness, and those who wanted to go straight on to
the animals. When the first great rush was past, the stragglers
came along, and these, whom nothing could have prevented from
stopping to look at him as long as they had breath, raced past
with long strides, hardly even glancing at him, in their haste
to get to the menagerie in time. And all too rarely did it happen
that he had a stroke of luck, when some father of a family fetched
up before him with his children, pointed a finger at the hunger
artist, and explained at length what the phenomenon meant, telling
stories of earlier years when he himself had watched similar
but much more thrilling performances, and the children, still
rather uncomprehending, since neither inside or outside school
had they been sufficiently prepared for this lesson - what did
they care about fasting? - yet showed by the brightness of their
intent eyes that new and better times might be coming. Perhaps,
said the hunger artist to himself, many a time, things would
be a little better if his cage were set not quite so near the
menagerie. That made it too easy for people to make their choice,
to say nothing of what he suffered from the stench of the menagerie,
the animals' restlessness by night, the carrying past of raw
lumps of flesh for the beasts of prey, the roaring at feeding
times, depressed him continually. But he did not dare to lodge
a complaint with the management; after all, he had the animals
to thank for the troops of people who passed his cage, among
whom there might always be one here and there to take an interest
in him, and who could tell where they might seclude him if he
called attention to his existence and thereby to the fact that,
strictly speaking, he was only an impediment on the way to the
menagerie.
A small impediment, to be sure, one that grew steadily less.
People grew familiar with the strange idea that they could be
expected, in times like these, to take an interest in a hunger
artist, and with this familiarity the verdict went out against
him. He might fast as much as he could, and he did so; but nothing
could save him now, people passed him by. Just try to explain
to anyone the art of fasting! Anyone who has no feeling for
it cannot be made to understand it. The fine placards grew dirty
and illegible, they were torn down; the little notice board
showing the number of fast days achieved, which at first was
changed carefully every day, had long stayed at the same figure,
for after the first few weeks even this small task seemed pointless
to the staff; and so the artist simply fasted on and on, as
he had once dreamed of doing, and it was no trouble to him,
just as he had always foretold, but no one counted the days,
no one, not even the artist himself, knew what records he was
already breaking, and his heart became heavy. And when once
in a while some leisurely passer-by stopped, made merry over
the old figure on the board and spoke of swindling, that was
in its way the stupidest lie ever invented by indifference and
inborn malice, since it was not the hunger artist who was cheating,
he was working honestly, but the world was cheating him of his
reward.
Many more days went by, however, and that too came to an end.
An overseer's eye fell on the cage one day and he asked the
attendants why this perfectly good cage should be left standing
there unused with dirty straw inside it; nobody knew, until
one man, helped out by the notice board, remembered about the
hunger artist. They poked into the straw with sticks and found
him in it. "Are you still fasting?" asked the overseer, "when
on earth do you mean to stop?" "Forgive me, everybody," whispered
the hunger artist; only the overseer, who had his ear to the
bars, understood him. "Of course," said the overseer, and tapped
his forehead with a finger to let the attendants know what state
the man was in, "we forgive you." "I always wanted you to admire
my fasting," said the hunger artist. "We do admire it," said
the overseer, affably. "But you shouldn't admire it," said the
hunger artist. "Well then we don't admire it," said the overseer,
"but why shouldn't we admire it?" "Because I have to fast, I
can't help it," said the hunger artist. "What a fellow you are,"
said the overseer, "and why can't you help it?" "Because," said
the hunger artist, lifting his head a little and speaking, with
his lips pursed, as if for a kiss, right into the overseer's
ear, so that no syllable might be lost, "because I couldn't
find the food I liked. If I had found it, believe me, I should
have made no fuss and stuffed myself like you or anyone else."
These were his last words, but in his dimming eyes remained
the firm though no longer proud persuasion that he was still
continuing to fast.
"Well, clear this out now!" said the overseer, and they buried
the hunger artist, straw and all. Into the cage they put a young
panther. Even the most insensitive felt it refreshing to see
this wild creature leaping around the cage that had so long
been dreary. The panther was all right. The food he liked was
brought to him without hesitation by the attendants; he seemed
not even to miss his freedom; his noble body, furnished almost
to the bursting point with all that it needed, seemed to carry
freedom around with it too; somewhere in his jaws it seemed
to lurk; and the joy of life streamed with such ardent passion
from his throat that for the onlookers it was not easy to stand
the shock of it. But they braced themselves, crowded around
the cage, and did not ever want to move away.
Ce
qu'on fait n'est jamais compris mais seulement loué ou blâmé.
Nietzsche, Gay Science |
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