The Bluestocking 2022-23

Leyao Xiao | Grade 12 Tarrare Again and again, he kept coming back. The man with an insatiable appetite and an iron stomach. Tarrare. He ate, and ate, and never stopped. After twenty pies and twenty cakes, he would ask for more. Once the pies ran out, he would ask for spoiled food from the trash. Once the spoils ran out, he would eat the rest of the trash as well. The only things he didn’t eat were coins, for he would run into the bakery clutching them tightly and come out moments later with his eyes bright and his cheeks more stuffed than usual. People found him disgusting. How could he eat all that? They would say. He’s more animal than human. Someone should lock him up. Yet they still crowded around him, watching with horrified rapture as he swallowed a rat whole. A bird next, a snake next! The worst things a person could get their hands on, and he would still eat it gladly. Everyone was so terribly curious: exactly how far would he go? Alas, I saw a different side of Tarrare. Although his never-ending hunger was real, in truth, his iron stomach was not so sturdy. Every few weeks, Tarrare showed up at the hospital on his hands and knees, clutching at his belly. The other doctors learned to direct him to me, as I was the only one still willing to peer into Tarrare’s unpleasant insides. I’ve removed all sorts of curious objects, from screws and copper to fur and scales. Some days, after the operation, I’d ask him why he lived in such a manner. But I can never remember his answer. Yesterday, he showed up looking worst of all. More worrying was what Tarrare said: “I want to be fixed.” I was shocked. His ability to eat had defined his entire life. The only times Tarrare was not stuffing his face were when he was moaning in pain on my surgical table. But I eagerly accepted his request. It was a doctor’s dream to work on a subject like this. Tarrare stayed in the patient wing for the next week, sitting restlessly as I fed him pills, liquor, rotten eggs. But nothing stopped his gnawing hunger. At night, I would catch Tarrare sneaking back into his room with crumbs around his mouth and looking much grimier than he had been that morning. My most recent attempt at curing Tarrare was to fast him out. On the first day, I gave him one slice of bread and a glass of water, and before I could even explain what the diet was, he had already downed both (crockery and all!). Still, I thought this must be

the cure. Tarrare seemed unsure, but agreed to the diet. “I do want to be fixed,” he insisted. “I’ll do what you say.”

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