P. V. Glob (1911–1985)

Professor Glob is better known for The Bog People: Iron-Age Man Preserved , about bodies preserved in the acidic conditions of Denmark's peat bogs. These bodies were those of sacrificial victims. The people whose lives Glob reconstructs in "The Mound People" are from the Bronze Age, and were buried with all their finery in oak coffins under burial mounds. The same acidic conditions which preserved Tollund Man and Grauballe Man preserved these older bodies, but less completely, so we are spared the unsettling and at times gruesome images which haunt one from the other book.

Some of the mounds were excavated in the 19th century, others more recently. Glob describes the excavations and collates the finds, which include beautifully preserved clothing as well as the hair of the deceased, and puts them together with metal ritual objects and Danish rock art to build a picture of the life and fertility-obsessed religion of the culture. The illustrations, though in black and white, are excellent, presented as a series of full-page "plates" distributed in a logical order through the text.

The book is fascinating both for this depiction of Bronze Age life, and for the tale it tells of archaeology in the infancy of the discipline. The writing is clear and easy to follow even through the technical detail. Glob writes with delicacy and humour and his humane spirit shines through at all times. A very enjoyable read for anyone with an interest in archaeology.… (altro)

“ . . . when she has had her fill of the society of mortals.”


I meant this to be a break from the absurd, horror, and roman-era literature I’d been researching for upcoming projects. Well, true to form, this turned out not to be a respite from the grind, exactly, but added more fuel to my ever-burning fire for invention. Forever restless, forever kicking those legs under the desk, never giving the brain enough time to drift into twilight’s murk. Maybe I’m just bored with inactivity.

So, it served as a treasure trove for the third story in my upcoming short story collection—literally four published projects out. I know, I know, restless brain syndrome. That’s why I drink at the beginning of every writing session; it slows me down, allows me to punch into the mindstream with the least amount of obstruction. Or maybe I’m just trying to preserve my own body in beer and bog-watered imagination. Hopefully no one tries to bury me under layers of peat when they find me passed out on the office room floor . . .

The ingenuity of humans always astounds me—whether from the Late Iron Age or present-day Silicon Valley; through torturous ritual to mind-numbing entertainment; under duress of invented deities who require murderous propitiation and over grief from failed Call of Duty missions. We humans seem tireless at creating mountains out of peat bogs and take offense at any one else’s lack of appreciation. “You’ve pissed off Nerthus. Throw a rope around the fucker’s neck and hang him from the old oak tree.” “Step on the crucifix.” “That goddamn Harrier’s wrecking my Netflix and chill.” “I want to be the first insect politician.” “My torc’s heavier than your torc.” “Showcase what's important to you by adding photos, pages, groups and more to your featured section on your public profile.”

What’s any of this got to do with the book? Nothing and everything. I’d imagine the first people to dredge up those preserved humans freaked the hell out. They’d called the authorities. Hints at recent murder and an unsurprising lack of belief in murder that could’ve been pickled and presented two thousand years later in sharp detail. The hair on the chin, the weave in fabric, the coiled pig tails on the top of the head, the fingerprints . . . down to the eyelashes, millennia apart, those past humans were once very much like us—only the tools were more primitive. The designs and employ and results were more similar than maybe we’d care to recognize.

Murder. Horror. Ceremony. Combs made of horn. Gods carved of wood. Stabbed hearts and staked bodies. All that invention suspended in time—throughout time—time after time after time. The echoes, like the frozen screams on a crushed bog body, rebound. That history will not be denied. No matter how deep you’ve dug and planted that horror.… (altro)