The sky was as black as ink and we could scarcely see the lights of the disappearing port. A chill, damp wind whistled, yet we felt stifled by the heavy rain clouds above us. The crew had trooped onto the lower deck to draw lots. Ribald jokes were exchanged to the accompaniment of loud, drunken laughter; someone was crowing like a cock. I was shivering. It was as if cold, small shot were pouring down my naked body.
Follow Literary Review on Twitter
'In the summer of 1942, convoy escort ships sank four times as many U-boats as in the month before.'
'But how do any of us please our mothers?': my review of Deborah Orr's memoir Motherwell is in the next @Lit_Review #deborahorr #motherwell @Leanne_O_
'The poem leads us, but no person takes us by the hand. It is not like Virgil or Homer, whose poems start with invocations to a muse.'
Michael Schmidt on the Epic of Gilgamesh.