I don’t like nuclear apocalypses. They’re too apocalyptic.
my son
Author: Jennifer Mugrage
Matt Walsh speaks Neanderthal
Here is Matt Walsh’s impression of Joy Reid’s understanding of how the average American experiences inflation:
I guess she thinks we were all wandering around the grocery store, grunting at the shelves:
“Me see prices go up in the sky like a bird. Me not have enough dollars.”
Why I Love the Spanish Language
- You can name your son Jesus
- You can have a name like “John Ascension Hope of the Cross”
- You can say stuff like “It enchants me” and call your wife “my dove” with a straight face
- Other people are “those of more” and toes are “fingers of the foot”
- Only one word per tense/voice/mood. Nothing of this “about to” “lookin’ at” “would” “might could”
- Probably a bunch of other stuff that I don’t know about
A Woman Underground by Andrew Klavan

February, month of Posts of Stuff I Love, continues with the category “novels by Andrew Klavan” for 500. What I didn’t anticipate was the way that putting title and author together would make the author sound a bit like a serial killer. Anyway … onward!

Here is Andrew Klavan, known by some as “hot Gandalf.” (No, I’m not kidding.) Ironically, given that he is a fiction writer, my first discovery of Andrew Klavan came through his autobiography, The Great Good Thing, where he chronicled his journey from tough, noir-loving Jewish kid from Long Island to tough, Jesus-loving Jewish geezer from California. Klavan always loved the old-school tough-guy private-eye stories and aspired to write more of them. He got really good at tension, pacing, and action scenes. He’s also good at psychology, and particularly loves stories where the character isn’t sure he can trust his own mind.
Now, in his golden years and arguably at the peak of his art, Klavan is finally writing a mystery series. (His other novels have been stand-alones, plus movie scripts and a fantasy trilogy.)
The hero of this series is Cameron Winter, a former poor little rich boy and former spook whose Apollonian good looks and tweedy job as an English professor do a poor job of hiding the fact that he is still a dangerous man. Because this is by Klavan, about 30% of each novel is spent in Winter’s shrink’s office, where we find out through a series of sessions about different aspects of Winter’s tragic past. In the very first book, we heard that Winter’s childhood crush was Charlotte Schaefer, the daughter of his German-immigrant nanny. Winter has been looking back on Young Charlotte as his feminine ideal, and kind of not really growing up partly as a consequence of the Ghost of Charlotte. In this book, Winter finally has to deal with that. He has to go to the aid of the real Charlotte. But time has been flowing for her, too, of course, and Real Charlotte has her own ghosts.
(By the way, A Woman Underground is book 4 in the series, but I had to go crawling on my hands and knees to Amazon to find this out. Please, Mysterious Press, put the book numbers in a prominent place both on the spine and on the title page!)
I won’t give anything further away, but like all Klavans, the book weaves through time, giving us satisfying action in several different forms: international spy games, local mystery that is really none of Winter’s business, sentimental looks at the way things used to be … or did they? Plus a psychologically satisfying twist at the end.
You may wonder, since this is a series, do you have to read the earlier books first? No, you don’t, because Klavan does a fine job making each book work on its own. However, just in case you want to, here they are:
- #1 When Christmas Comes
- #2 A Strange Habit of Mind
- #3 The House of Love and Death
So, what do you think? Do these sound like something you would like? Are you also in favor of book numbers being put on spines? Let me know in the comments!
…rather like Miller’s book, in fact
AXES
They would rather row out to Rathlin Island,
they would rather quarry the difficult
mountain over any easier spot
that happened to house the same stone. Demand
made the axes better, as did the withdrawn,
the journeyed-to, the arduous and removed.
—Tim Miller, Bone Antler Stone, p. 45
Fun thing to Do in February: AI Scavenger Hunt
Remember how, when AI first came out, it couldn’t make human hands? And how now, it can?
This fun activity may quickly become obsolete as AI continues to improve, so enjoy it now, in this golden era.
This is something my son and I figured out is good for a laugh together.
- Start scrolling through pictures of beautiful cottages and tiny houses – say, on Pinterest.
- Find one that’s AI generated.
- How will you know?
- The first impression will just be, “Beautiful house, maybe not very practical though!”
- But as you look closer, you will find things that don’t make sense.
- What is that giant spool of thread doing embedded in that step?
- Why is that one step so tall?
- How did the flower from the flower bush get on the nearby pine tree?
- Is that an arch or a window?
- Hey, the shutters don’t have a window or door near them!
- That’s not a table with flowers on top … it’s a hoop on legs with tall flowers coming up all the way through it!
- What even is this object? It appears to be the sort of thing that AI thinks humans are likely to have lying around.
- Keep doing this until you are in hysterics.
- Wonder why you did not see all this stuff on the first glance.
Have fun!
You Guys! A Book of Poems about Prehistoric Burials!

There’s a reason I’m posting about this book on Feb. 14.
It does something that I want to do with my novels.
It takes the feeling that I get when hearing about bog burials, stone circles, cave paintings — and amplifies it.
Did I mention that I love it?
I’ll be posting quotations from this book throughout the month of February. The one I posted two days ago – To The Air – could have been written about the scene in The Long Guest where the family cremates … well, I won’t give it away. It was trying for the same thing as that scene, or vice versa. But I mostly posted it for that evocative last line.
you died horribly but are beautiful,
sleeping face and pointed cap and perfect feet,
a peat cutter’s slash dug into your back
but preserved as none of your captors are —
though what a price for immortality.
–from Tollund Man, p. 39
If you’ve ever seen a picture of Tollund Man, this is exactly it.
I haven’t yet read every poem in Bone Antler Stone. They require close attention, and some of them are not short. But every so often I’ll dip into it, and find gems like this one:
The sun sets into the sea with a hiss
and rises with the sound of a driven wheel,
the creak of speaking stone, metal and wood.
The sun sets into the sea to simmer
and rises with the sound of stretched leather
and the song of the horse’s chain and bit.
ibid, p. 23
The idea of the solar system as a great big machine, perhaps made of hoops or wheels, that is alluded to in that first stanza is actually very close to how some ancient cultures conceived of the cosmos.
The last poem in the collection shows the author leaving Orkney, where he went to view the burials, with a friend who is named Pytheas for some reason. This poem raises the thought that not everyone is going to “get” a book of poems like this one.
The price to pay for a place like that,
the price to pay for poems like these…
our intensity is terrifying or just tiresome,
and so the dead and the damp doubleback
into just another of our silent, stone secrets.
It the compares the book itself to a barrow burial waiting to be discovered at the right moment:
So Pytheas proceeded in reply,
assuring me that for us, and for ours,
there was only the odd look, the old look, the awed look,
but rarely the real look of revelation,
or the consolation of having communicated.
And so the motive was to make meaning and memory
a kind of barrow burial in bloom
a garlanded grave underground
forged with turf and stone and fire and then forgotten,
until a propitious step or a sudden storm
blows open this book’s binding
and lays each line out in the light again,
shells of syllables dotting the sand.
Well, with a propitious step, I have found it.
It’s Poem Season and I Don’t Know Why
Poems seem to come over me occasionally, like the weather.
Yesterday, I wrote a long poem about death and being embodied that I will probably never post here. Today, I started one called Take Me Instead. And also today, my students and I whipped out a sentimental but serviceable little Valentine’s Day sonnet. Sonnets are easy because you just plug in the iambic pentameter and the rhyme scheme.
Perhaps I accidentally primed the pumped by reading the book I’m about to review tomorrow.
Take care! Watch out for falling poetry!
When You Don’t Bury
TO THE AIR
Not burial at all
but instead a great freeing,
flesh handed over to the
birds and elements,
dead lives widely scattered
and confined to no single ground.
Or the hunger of fire,
earth gods dusted with ashes
and sky gods smudged with our smoke,
the wide circle covered
and all of us everywhere.
–Tim Miller, Bone Antler Stone, 2018, 2024
I didn’t realize bighorn sheep were quite so … big

I mean, look at that thing! It’s almost the size of a cow.
Usually, you see pictures of them poised on a rocky outcrop, looking all delicate.