‘That’s his style.’ Bly rolls her eyes. ‘That’s his trip. And maybe–bottom line–you just don’t get the joke. Or perhaps what he’s doing is more complicated than you think. Maybe it’s the very multi-layeredness of the whole thing which is putting your back up. He’s confusing you. He’s challenging your preconceptions. You don’t like that.’
I sneeze. She ducks.
‘We’re all such rugged bloody individualists lately,’ she murmurs, searching in her bag for something: ‘The ex I was just telling you about–he was a perfect case in point. And the people on that site you showed me, the stay-awake bullies, they all think they’re standing out from the crowd, that they’re defending something, that they’re really cutting a dash…’
She hands me a tissue: ‘But they’re not individuals at all. They’re just deluded conformists.’
‘How so?’
I cover my nose and blow.
‘Well this guy–my ex; his name was Steve–was completely obsessed by his Landcruiser. He lived in Stratford, for Chrissakes, and the parking was a nightmare. But he loved that car…’
I blow again.
‘…Because it was big, for starters, and utilitarian-looking, and tough, and it made him feel like an outsider, like someone who would drive over the pavement if he needed to–bend the rules a little, you know? He felt armour-plated in that thing, like an urban warrior.’
I look around for a bin to throw my soggy tissue in. There’s one by the lift. She follows me over.
‘I mean this guy was so anti-corporate–in his own mind–hated what he liked to call “The McDonald’s Mentality”, saw the rest of the “developed” world as burger-munching imbeciles. And there he was, standing out from the slavish crowd in his magical 4x4, guzzling his petrol, “up-grading” his tyres, threatening local schoolkids with his repulsive crash bars…’
‘You’re right. That is wack,’ I say, and press for my floor.
‘But the hypocrisy of these people! The ignorance! They think that just by owning something, by buying into something–a car, an idea, a certain type of boot, a Boxfresh jacket…’ She slaps at the open flap of my coat with her free hand…
Oi! Watch it!
‘…that they’re defining themselves against “the system”. But the system is all about people defining themselves through certain objects, or fads, and summarily rejecting others. That’s capitalism at its zenith. That’s the disease which consumes us…’
She pauses, dramatically. ‘And which we, in turn, consume.’
(Think this girl might have a future in politics?)
I gently remove the flaps of my jacket from her slapping orbit by zipping them up.
‘Jesus,’ I murmur, ‘I mean didn’t these fools even watch The Matrix?’
The lift arrives. We climb in.
‘Those Wakedavid people share that exact-same mentality,’ she sighs. ‘They honestly think they’re defining their mental toughness, their sacred individualism, their righteous Englishness, against something which–if they just stopped and thought, and took a proper look–is actually much more honest and individual and vulnerable and subversive than they could ever be…’
‘Too bloody true,’ I say.
‘Their hatred is just jealousy,’ she splutters.
‘Hear hear,’ I incant.
The lift stops. The doors open. I step out. She stays in.
‘See ya.’ I wave.
She nods, reaching out her hand distractedly for the fifth floor button. ‘He was right about the arm, though,’ she mutters ominously, ‘“Ethical Squatter” or not…’
(Ah. So she was listening…)
Then she suddenly frowns, peers into her bag, begins patting at her pockets, glances up.
‘Did I actually finish my ciabatta before?’
I nod.
The doors start closing.
‘Did I eat the whole thing without even noticing?’
I shrug, then nod again.
The doors close. Her voice is very muffled…
‘Are you sure?’
I mean where’s the trust between a man and a woman?
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–t
hey 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’.
‘Repressed meat-heads,’ he thoughtfully elucidates, before turning it off with an extravagant flourish.
Then, ‘What the fuck you doing out of bed?’ he asks.
‘Reading,’ I say.
‘Are you leaving sweat marks on my sofa?’
He lifts one of my legs and inspects underneath. I unleash a spitfire of coughs. He retreats.
‘What’s with all the papers?’ I ask.
‘Rasket,’ he says (That’s teen-dream, urban-music-meister Dizzee Rascal to you and me).
‘What about him?’
‘So get this…’ Solomon rages (one to ten on the furyo-meter in just a fraction under two seconds- th
is guy’s ‘fight or flight’ mechanisms are second to none),- ‘they give him the fucking Mercury…’ (Mercury Music Prize- remember?)
‘…and it’s such a radical choice, it’s such a brave choice…’
‘And you’re absolutely livid about it, as I recollect…’ I interject (perhaps unwisely).
He stares at me, blankly: ‘Rasket deserve him prize,’ he says.
‘Nobody’s denying that,’ I backtrack.
‘Him problem is whitey’s agenda…’ Solomon hisses, ‘Whitey want to castrate him Rasket. He want to make safe him music.’
Fine, fine…
‘But him need to uncover this Rasket weakness, to have him his power…’
Okay…
‘So what did they do?’ I ask.
Solomon throws his clutch of papers on to the floor.
‘The music teacher!’ he bellows.
Wah?
‘Take a look!’ Solomon shrieks, ‘they find their weasly, white access to Rasket through his school music teacher.’
‘Rasket had a music teacher?’
(Why am I so surprised by this?)
‘Yeah. Mr Smith or Mr Jones or somebody…’ Solomon growls: ‘Now them feel safe with him Rasket: they take him bomb, yeah? And them slowly defuse it.’
I stretch out a wobbling hand towards the papers.
Solomon squats down and snatches up the top tabloid himself–the Mail or Express…
He rips it open and flashes a page at me.
There, smiling out of a photo, is a benign, respectable-looking, middle-aged white man sitting next to some kind of convoluted, computerised keyboard-style thingummy. Next to him (in cut-out form) is an ominous image (he don’t do no other kind) of the be-capped, be-hooded, be-baggy-panted kid-gangsta, Rasket.
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