A Hunger Artist

It was impossible to fight against this lack of understanding, against this world of misunderstanding.

It was impossible to fight against this lack of understanding, against this world of misunderstanding.

Then a toast was proposed to the public, which was supposedly whispered to the impresario by the hunger artist, the orchestra confirmed everything with a great fanfare, people dispersed, and no one had the right to be dissatisfied with the event, no one except the hunger artist — he was always the only one.

"But we do admire it," said the supervisor obligingly.

"because I couldn't find a food which I enjoyed. If had found that, believe me, I would not have made a spectacle of myself and would have eaten to my heart's content, like you and everyone else."

This noble body, equipped with everything necessary, almost to the point of bursting, also appeared to carry freedom around with it.

And when once in a while a person strolling past stood there making fun of the old number and talking of a swindle, that was in a sense the stupidest lie which indifference and innate maliciousness could invent, for the hunger artist was not being deceptive — he was working honestly — but the world was cheating him of his reward.

"I always wanted you to admire my fasting," said the hunger artist.

People went straight past him.

Try to explain the art of fasting to anyone! If someone doesn't feel it, then he cannot be made to understand it.