Two longest stories of this small collection are 'The Hunger Artist' and 'Josephine the Singer, or the Mouse Folk'. Both of them about the relationship between the artist and the audience, both were the last stories written by Kafka before his death, both end with either the death or disappearance of the artist.
You can hear bitter irony and hopelessness in the author's voice, but his narrator, as usual, seems casual and detached, so the real suffering and tragedy are deeply under the surface.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------
'Many days went by once more, and this, too, came to an end. Finally the cage caught the attention of a supervisor, and he asked the attendant why they had left this perfectly useful cage standing here unused with rotting straw inside. Nobody knew, until one man, with the help of the table with the number on it, remembered the hunger artist. (...) “Just look at you,” said the supervisor, “why can’t you do anything else?” “Because,” said the hunger artist, lifting his head a little and, with his lips pursed as if for a kiss, speaking right into the supervisor’s ear so that he wouldn’t miss anything, “because I couldn’t find a food which tasted good to me. 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.” Those were his last words, but in his failing eyes there was still the firm, if no longer proud, conviction that he was continuing to fast.
“All right, tidy this up now,” said the supervisor. And they buried the hunger artist along with the straw.'
('The Hunger Artist')
------------------------------------------------------------------------------
'As regards Josephine there’s no hope left, her time is over and I’m already able to see the last word regarding her existence, the last dying whistle of her tune as it fades into silence. She’s merely a
small episode in the never ending saga of our folk, a bit of history, and we’ll be able to rise above our loss, our folk shall continue on. But then, it won’t be that easy—how are we to assemble together in total silence? Indeed, we weren’t all that silent even when she was with us, was her actual whistling louder and more lively than our memory of it, am I saying anything in posing such a riddle? And was it ever anything more than a memory even when she still lived, rather isn’t it much more the case that our folk in its wisdom, our folk rated her song so highly even due to this, because it was something that bespoke what is immortal, something that we’d never lose. Perhaps then, indeed, we won’t be missing her all that much.'
('Josephine the Singer, or the Mouse Folk')