“In recent decades, interest in the art of hunger has clearly declined. If in earlier times the organization of such performances could bring a considerable sum, then now there is no reason for it. Other times. Then, it happened that the whole city was buzzing about him, the hunger striker, more and more people came from day to day; everyone wanted to look at him at least once a day; Finally, they opened subscriptions for those who wanted it, so that they could sit in front of a small lattice cage from morning to evening. Even at night, excursions were conducted by torchlight for greater effect; on clear days the cage was taken out into the air, and then the children were brought in to admire it; for adults it was just fun that had become fashionable, and children stared with their mouths open, with all their eyes open, holding their hands out of fear, gawking at how he, pale, in black tights, with protruding ribs, sat, neglecting the chair, on a scattering of straw, bowing politely, trying to answer questions, extending his hands through the bars so that anyone could verify his thinness. Then he again retreated into himself, paid no attention to anyone else, not even to the striking of the clock, the only object in his cage, but only looked with half-closed eyes in front of him, sipping water from a tiny glass to wet his lips...”