(Cross-posted at A Curious Singularity.)

Perhaps more than any other author, Franz Kafka embraces absurdity and uses it to reveal facets of society that most people take for granted. He’s an author with a very dry sense of humor, someone who takes comedy so seriously that any pretension of humor can be lost in the translation. The Trial was so absurd, so ridiculous in a “that-could-never-happen” kind of way, but Kafka’s voice is so unsympathetic that it’s difficult not to become infuriated at the inevitability of Josef K.’s trial. Reading Kafka is like watching a toddler chase after a ball at a busy intersection: one feels a sense of a danger, a notion that everything is going to turn out in the worst possible way, but characters seem helpless to change anything and readers can’t help but look on in stomach-churning silence.

In a society where individuality is seen as a virtue, where everyone has his or her own place in the world, Kafka’s reality can be hard to accept. The author’s characters are often imbued with a sense of self-worth, with lofty ideals and misunderstood views that are ultimately lost in the ever-changing flow of society. To be sure, Kafka seems to recognize that everyone matters, but his cynical take on such things—that people are more easily forgotten than remembered—seems more in line with the way the world operates. Artists can be found in every corner of the world, but Kafka seems less interested in art than in the question of why people should care in the first place.

It’s a difficult question, and one that even Kafka isn’t inclined to answer. In “A Hunger Artist,” we’re offered a dry, disinterested account of an insignificant form of “art”: that of fasting. It’s a foolish premise—how is starving oneself considered art?—but this is coming from an author who wrote a novella about a man who turns into an insect overnight. Kafka delights in exaggeration and “A Hunger Artist” is no different: the unnamed artist in the story, who spends weeks in a cage, like an animal, is convinced that he can fast longer than forty days—and perhaps he can—but the real question is, How far would you go for the sake of your art? As far as death? Like The Trial, the ending of “A Hunger Artist” is a foregone conclusion, but Kafka, like most fatalist writers, insists on showing readers that fate is inescapable.

But one of the most interesting aspects of the story is its observations about society. The hunger artist, though he thinks very highly of his “art,” is really nothing more than a novelty. People aren’t interested in his art so much as seeing if he’ll defy their expectations. And like most people, they’re almost disappointed when he succeeds in his self-imposed challenge. Interest wanes and the hunger artist is quickly forgotten. Like the rock star who’s overstayed his welcome, the hunger artist lowers his standards—in this case, by joining a circus, where he’s about as interesting and relevant as the bearded lady—in a bid to continue fasting in front of an audience. But the tragedy is of the hunger artist’s own making: he maintains silence throughout the story, never giving his audience a reason to care about his art.