Clear (14 page)

So you probably think this is just a
cold
, and that I’m simply making a big, male
fuss
.

Wrong, wrong,
wrong
.

I’m sick as a whippet.

Even the
dogs
have stopped growling at me on my occasional, poignant trips to the refrigerator (of course I’m not eating…That’s just where the citrus is). They know, see?
They
can tell.

The first three days are simply a blur (I can’t–I
won’t
–remember). On day four, however, Bookfinder comes up trumps with the Kafka short stories, and I feel well enough to leave the sordid confines of my fetid hutch, stagger upstairs, wrapped in a blanket, and slump down, wheezing, on to Solomon’s chic but unbelievably impractical cream suede sofa.

I read for twenty solid minutes, accompanied by my four-part
Pet Sounds Sessions
Beach Boys CD. I’m on disc 2, listening to Brian Wilson barking out jovial instructions about the perfect setting for the organ, bass and drums on ‘Good Vibrations’ (Yeah. Hearing that so-familiar stereo backing track slowly coming into its own from virtually nothing kinda sets my skin a-tingle. It’s like seeing this giant, disembodied hand pushing up into a bright summer sky and casually turning all the clouds around…

Okay
. So no more paracetamol for me,
eh
?)

I’ll tell you this for nothing, though (Wilson’s despotic meanderings aside): that story is
damn
strong meat:

A
Hunger
Artist.

It’s vicious. It’s merciless. It’s bleak and uncompromising.

I check out the useful chronology at the back of the book and discover that the story was published just a handful of months after Kafka’s death in 1924. He was only 40 years old. He died of consumption.

Twenty years later (when I move down the chronology a little further) I see how the Nazis murdered all three of his sisters. Then Grete Bloch; the mother of the son he never knew he had. Then the Czech writer, Milena Jesenska’-Pollak, to whom he entrusted his precious diaries…

Man
.

The list just goes
on
.

I suppose Jalisa might’ve had a point re the Jewish angle. Because from what my puffy eyes can divine, Kafka
really
got into being a Jew in his mid to late twenties (prior to that, he’d read German literature, studied law at the German University, etc.). But in 1910 everything changed. He bought tickets to go and see this Yiddish theatre company, and was apparently so inspired by their work, that he began to bury himself in Jewish folklore, started studying Judaism seriously in 1912, then actually
lectured
on Yiddish a short while after.

He rediscovered his Jewishness just on the cusp of the First World War–not the greatest timing, I guess, on one level (but
superlative
timing, really, on another).

When you actually stop and
think
about it, things must’ve been pretty tough for all Europeans back then (ancient boundaries irrevocably altering, traditions in total flux, an entire
generation
of young men about to be haplessly slaughtered…); and starvation?
Hunger
? Basic facts of
life
, not just mildly diverting literary metaphors.

Hmmn
. That’s the best I can do for context. Let’s get to grips with the actual
story
, eh?

So the basic
gist
of ‘A Hunger Artist’ is as follows: there’s this professional Hunger Artist (the main character–
duh
) who works alongside a clever impresario. He starves himself all over Europe. This is back in a time when fasting was still considered to be ‘in fashion’–those are the actual words Kafka uses. Most adults find the whole thing slightly ridiculous–‘just a joke’–but the children are totally bowled over by it (I’ve
seen
the kids at Blaine,
and
the adults, for that matter, who also
totally
conform to type: even the most diehard supporters can’t help smirking slightly. But the kids? They all just fall madly in love with the spectacle. The kids are hypnotised. They’re agog. They’re intoxicated…A crazy combination of doubtful and exhilarated. And instead of allowing one impulse to counter the other, to win it over–like any grown-up would–they simply experience it
all
, as a
whole
. And it’s joyful. It’s almost–kind of…
uh…, ancient
, somehow. You know?
Primal
.

But
woah
there a moment…

Time
Out
!

Because what are these parents even
thinking
, bringing their kids along? What kind of fucked-up message is this depraved tableau sending out to them? ‘Hector, get little Fifi’s coat on. We’re going to a public starving–And tomorrow? A man is devoured by a python. Friday? Public
fucking
execution.’

That’s wrong, man. That’s
really
wrong).

Anyhow, the parallels (at this juncture) are fairly overwhelming. I’d quote you the entire relevant section from the story if I could, but remember that bored SOB in the copyright department of that Big-Ass publishers in Swindon? Remember him?
Yeah
.

So let me just,
uh
, paraphrase, if I may. And compare.

Kafka describes the Hunger Artist on page one (I’ve highlighted the important words and phrases in bold, to further ease the comparison):

(1) He’s dressed in
black
(
tick
for Blaine).


(2) He is ‘
self-contained
,’ and ‘
courteous
’…(
tick, tick
; Blaine’s nothing if not both).


(3) He answers questions with a ‘
constrained smile
’ (big
tick
).


(4) Every so often he withdraws, into a kind of
thoughtful trance
, where nothing can distract him (
Tickus Majorus
).


(5) Next to him is a large
clock
(
tick
–although Blaine’s is digital).


(6) Every so often he takes a small, restrained sip of
water
from a cup (
tick
, Blaine swigs his straight from the bottle).

Okay, so before you go and get all
narky
on me, I know full-well that the art of hunger-striking isn’t going to be something which a person necessarily ‘makes their own’. I mean there’s only so much an individual can do to innovate in this field (apart from, say, riding on a tricycle, while fasting, which would–quite frankly–be utterly ridiculous). Even so, I think the comparisons are telling (okay, Jalisa was right.
Bully
for Jalisa.
Hip hip
etc.).

In the story, the Hunger Artist (note ‘artist’) has ‘watchers’ to keep an eye on him. Butchers, mainly (nobody really knows why, exactly). He pays them for their services by feeding them a huge breakfast each morning (which is consumed–with palpable relish, directly in front of him)…

(7) The ‘watchers’
eat
in front of him (
tick
, cf. the burger van).

Sometimes the watchers huddle up in a corner and play cards together. They don’t take the watching seriously. This drives the Hunger Artist crazy, because he
wants
people to guard him, he
wants
to dispel all doubts about the fact that he’s really starving. He
needs
people to know that he’s not cheating.

Kafka says that all initiates into hunger-striking know that it would be literally impossible to cheat if you were even remotely serious about it. This is because the fast is primarily against
oneself
(not the watchers or the audience). It’s almost entirely an ‘interior’ act.

He’s definitely got a point there. Fasting is about endurance. Maybe some people confuse the concept of a fast with the idea of–say–a diet. When you diet you are hoping to achieve some kind of result (weight loss). If you cheat, then maybe you don’t lose quite as much weight that week as you might’ve hoped, but the diet continues. The diet is predicated on the
end results
, not on the actual
process
of dieting.

A fast is entirely different. When you cheat on a fast, it’s no longer a fast. The act of fasting is predicated entirely–nay exclusively–on
not eating
. To eat on a fast would be like spending six months reading
War and Peace
(entirely for your own pleasure) but not actually digesting the words, just sitting, every evening, and holding the book, turning the pages, moving your eyes etc. but taking nothing in.

What an unholy waste of energy. How utterly self-defeating.

Kafka readily admits in his story that suspicion is ‘a necessary accompaniment’ to professional fasting. This is because (at the time of writing) nobody could possibly hope to watch the Hunger Artist for 24 hours a day, solid.

Okay. So in Blaine’s case ‘progress’ has made this possible. He’s being filmed. He’s live on Sky. The hungry American has Moroccan chamber maids and Antipodean businessmen watching him at every available opportunity, waiting–just
waiting
–to catch him out. Blaine has the entire world observing. Millions of eyes, all focusing on him.

But still we doubt (
Wow
. Feels kinda strange for me to be lying here and pencilling in Kafka as a pessimistic light-weight. If Kafka could only see the
lengths
Blaine and his people have had to go to prove his legitimacy (the water testing, the dispassionate 24-hour scrutiny etc.) only to still–
still
–be doubted…
Man
, I honestly think the sallow Czech might crack a dry smile. I do).

Now here’s the crux of the story: Kafka says that in the Art of Fasting,
only
the Fasters themselves can know, 100 per cent, that they aren’t cheating. And this makes him–I’m gonna steal a sentence, but I’ll do it in a whisper,
‘The sole completely satisfied spectator of his own fast.’

Cool,
huh
? Basically, Kafka’s saying that fasting is
intrinsically unsatisfactory
as a spectator sport.

(And to think that Blaine
read
this, then calmly continued on with the project. Or maybe–
damn
you, Bly–that’s
why
…The perverse fucker.)

In case you were wondering, I still haven’t reached the narrative crux yet. The crux is this: the Hunger Artist–even when he
is
legit and he
knows
he is–is
also
dissatisfied with his own fasting. This (Kafka claims, but merely in the case of his own fictional character, obviously) is because he alone knows how
easy
(Kafka’s word) it is to fast. There’s no trick to it. He’s not doing anything to
make
it so–there’s no ‘knack’. He just happens to find the whole process fairly effortless.

Baldly speaking, Kafka’s hero
loves
to fast (Some people really thrill to that whole ‘endurance’ groove. How else to explain all those idiots risking life and limb to trudge to the North Pole? Or 16,000 twats gamely running the London Marathon?). The critical point here is: the Hunger Artist loves to fast, and when the fast ends, he always secretly yearns to fast
on
.

But he’s contractually obliged to fast for only 40 days. His impresario has noticed that the public’s interest cannot be maintained for any period longer than 40 days (even with heavy advertising–
yup
, believe it or not, this story is brimming with a really modern kind of cynicism about ‘the media’, and is totally keyed into the whole idea of the potential manipulativeness of publicity, etc).

The 40-day thing is non-negotiable (I can’t really comment on
why
Kafka has chosen this particular timescale–or his impresario, either. He just does. Maybe it’s unconsciously biblical. Who knows).

So on the 40th day, the Hunger Artist’s flower-bedecked cage is duly opened–

(8) The Hunger Artist sits in a ‘
flower
-bedecked cage’ (
tick
: Blaine has his gerbera, remember?)

–and two doctors enter, with megaphones, to check exactly how much weight the Artist has lost, and to announce their findings to the waiting hordes. There’s a military band playing. Then two beautiful women turn up to assist the fragile Artist out of his cage…

My fascinating musings are (I’m afraid) cruelly interrupted at this point by the untimely arrival of Solomon Tuesday Kwashi, who charges into the living room clutching a host of newspapers and bellowing something incoherent about how the Beach Boys only play ‘music for Jocks’.