From the first draft of chapter two of Hunger the Giant. This bit of writing is so dense that the revised extension of the ideas and imagery will likely span twenty pages.
In the high lonesome grasslands Ikka and Anders fed mostly on joy. What else did they have? Writ of deed. Money on credit. Deer at the flesh of an aborted orchard. Soil turned against their seed. Early frost, late frost, hail. Neighbors more distant than clouds with hearts hard as red winter wheat.
The settlers swarmed the plains possessed by a greed they had come to call hope. Any man cut away from his homeland is by necessity an opportunist and a thief. Anders’ people had worked their thin Nordic valley for more than a thousand years; Ikka’s lineage ranged far older still. Every corner of that world was filled with stories; in that earth lay all the bones of their ancestors. In Hunger’s inconsolable hours, when Ikka looked at Anders with the panicked eyes of a snake-bit mare and Anders stared back with the blue exhaustion of ice-melt, where were his grandmother’s practiced hands, the mellowing smoke of his grandfather’s pipe, or the rough camaraderie of his cousins? Gone as never was. Revenants. Memories. The continent was conquered thus. The southlands humid with the blood of flayed slaves, the northlands choking on the acrid kindling smoke of its workers, and all of them asking the tribes to choose between swindle and massacre before giving them both. The westland settlers were flung from that horror like spittle on a madman’s chin. Anders was among the best of this lot: a romantic and a fool. When, in the enormous ignorance he explained as bad luck, the north wind took Anders’ hay or the chickens got opossumed, he hoped for an Indian raid. Let my scalp fly from my head and arrows tie me to my fields. Let them carry off Ikka and raise the boy red. But then he’d slide hangdog into the dugout at dusk and lay eyes on mother and child naked in their nest of beaver fur, cotton, and silk. For three more visions like that Anders figured he’d fight to live forever and began to wonder like everyone else where the railroad would run. Ikka’d see these thoughts on his leaf-broad features, tell him to throw more sod and chips in the cracked iron stove and, when he’d undressed, set Hunger square on his chest. And so Ikka and Anders fed mostly on joy. It felt like redemption but it wasn’t. These debts would be paid down through the generations.
Hunger fed mostly on milk.