Barbara Joan Scott’s novel The Taste of Hunger is in a sense a quiet book, in which narrative threads are revealed gradually, unhurriedly, but this doesn't mean for one second that the book lacks power. The novel opens in 1926 Saskatchewan, when a Ukrainian family’s circumstances force their 15 year old daughter Olena into marriage to a man twice her age. She must leave one homestead for another, and her view of life is drastically changed. As a girl, “she had seen the ever-receding horizon as freedom, possibility,” but now, she must “come to accept the bitter truth that endless space was a more effective enclosure than any prison wall.”
At the new homestead, more isolated than the last, and with her husband often absent, Olena will raise two daughters, June, and May. Their poverty is acute: “Every so often a man or boy showed up at their door, hat in hand, asking for work or food. Sometimes they stopped mid-sentence when they saw Olena’s and June’s and May’s dresses, all faded to the same uniform grey, the cotton so thin you could see light through it if the sun was bright through the windows.”
Women in this time and place are bound by duty to the land and their husbands, and the duty to oneself--to grow, to sate one’s desires--is forced aside. In The Taste of Hunger the hungers—for life experience beyond the empty drought-ridden prairie landscape that keeps its inhabitants on the edge of despair, for sensory pleasure, for friendship, for food—are deep, and strong.
When, a few years hence, the family moves into town, Olena’s life can change: one day, her senses are reawakened when she hears beautiful music pouring from a hotel window, and the Italian’s singing is “as liquid as the music itself, pouring around her like a stream, tumbling over and around a rock. It became the slickness between her breasts and thighs, part of her rhythmic movement against herself. Olena’s lips parted and the opening of her mouth was only the smallest part of the opening blooming inside her.” And so yes, characters can sometimes find the promise of satiation, openly or in secret, though so much conspires against them.
As we move through time—three generations, through 1926-1949, and space—homesteads, small prairie towns, and a TB sanatorium—readers will be struck by Scott’s tender, nonjudgmental engagement with and affection for her characters, enabling us to rejoice when, so rarely, their hungers are satisfied. For example, consider this: “She had not known until this moment how hungry she was, how tired of being always hard, always cold…..[He] slid into her like a hot knife into butter, her melting vulva slick and smooth around him…. So this is what it means to have a body, she thought, before all thought stopped.” WHEW! And Scott’s descriptions of such sensory pleasures heighten the stark and abiding contrast between drought and abundance. The experiences both good and bad that we have vicariously are heightened by Scott’s concise, meticulous prose, and yet we are not ever distracted by the beauty of the language, but rather are more enthralled.
Barbara Joan Scott is not only a writer, she is also a fine musician and gourmet cook. The exacting attention she pays to her pursuits, her close attention to the details of sights, sounds, rhythms, smells, and tastes are found in quiet abundance in this fine novel, The Taste of Hunger.