His is a force more penetrative than all the bogus machismo of Hemingway.
‘Hunt writes with brio, the visceral often blooming into the mystical.’
‘Oh, how I love it!’
‘Immigration has become a physical thing, like a tumor inside us, between us.’
‘Time cannot erase my memories of fear and shame.’
‘Climate change, I realise, is already here. Not the drama of it, not yet, but in the mundane.’
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