At the Edge of November: Among the Dead, Awaiting the Dawn

November dies hard in the North. In rural upstate New York—where I now find myself spending long stretches of time for a project that has unexpectedly become something of a spiritual retreat—the land turns austere. The trees stand stripped to their bones, the ground stiffens under frost, and the air itself feels thin, as if the world were exhaling its last breath before winter’s long hush. Out here, silence does not merely fall; it descends, settling over the hills like a burial shroud.

It is fitting that Holy Mother Church has long dedicated this month to the Poor Souls—those forgotten, suffering spirits in Purgatory who await the full vision of God. As November draws to a close, one feels their nearness more keenly. The forests seem haunted, not with terror but with memory. Every gust through the branches whispers of our ancestors who walked these same cold paths, who lived, dreamed, and died as we will. The liturgical calendar and the natural world speak with one voice: memento mori. Remember death, so that you may remember life rightly.

The Church does not flinch before the presence of the dead. She prays for them, intercedes for them, acknowledges their plight and their dignity. In this way, we remain a people bound not only by blood but by the mystery of the Communion of Saints. We live with the dead; our ancestors walk beside us always. And as the month of the dead approaches its final dusk, the heart is called to introspection. What have we done for those who can no longer help themselves? What have we done to prepare our own souls for the judgment that awaits?

Advent breaks upon the horizon—a new liturgical year, a new beginning, born from darkness. Before the angelic trumpets and shepherds’ glad cries of Christmas, before the candles blaze and the Gloria returns to our lips, there is a period of deliberate austerity. Advent is not a premature Christmas, no matter how our culture insists on decking the halls in early November. It is a penitential season, a time of watchfulness, of holy longing. It is the night vigil before the dawn.

No one loves Christmas more than I do, but to skip Advent is to ignore the aching silence that makes the Incarnation thunderous. To rush into celebration is to forget the weight of history, the groaning of humanity awaiting its Redeemer. The Church, in her wisdom, asks us first to sit with the dead, with our own mortality, and with the humility of expectation. Only then can we truly grasp the miracle of God made flesh.

And so, as November ends and Advent begins, we do well to pause. To pray for the forgotten souls. To remember the ancestors whose faith shaped our own. To let the starkness of the season carve away our illusions. To stand in the cold, beneath the bare trees, and feel the nearness of both the grave and the manger.

For in this dark threshold between seasons, the veil grows thin, and eternity draws close. Here, surrounded by the memories of the dead and the promise of a coming Savior, the soul learns again how to hope.

~ By Giovanni di Napoli, November 29th, the Vigil of Saint Andrew the Apostle and Feast of St. Saturninus of Toulouse

Autunno (Autumn) by Cav. Charles Sant’Elia

Autunno

Ll’autunno è d’’e cumpagne,
Nuttate senza fine,
Cammenate e chiacchiarate,
Butteglielle pe quatto, cinco o seje,
Vermicielle e pane sereticcio,
‘O riesto ‘e sciampagna e mieze sigarre
Pe tuttequante,
Stórie nove e ricorde ‘e tanno,
Resate e silénzie.

Ll’autunno è d’’e cumpagne,
Na réfola ‘e viento a Montmartre,
Na prummessa ‘e n’appuntamiento,
Ll’addore ‘e cena ncopp’’e Quartiere,
Na speranza mmocca,
‘A luce eléttrica d’’a Metropolitana,
‘O fummo blù ‘o’ ponte
Ll’ore longhe ca spárteno
‘A fine d’’a fatica d’’o principio sujo.

Ll’autunno è d’’e cumpagne,
Voce mmigrante e suonne antiche,
Programme suspirate
Int’’e tramm’a mmuro int’’e palazze,
Mille penziere nziste
‘E nu dimane, n’ammore nuovo,
Na telefonata a casa
Comm’’e finte e zuppa ntiemp’’e guerra,
«Mamma nce ‘aggi’’a fatto…»

Ll’autunno è d’’e cumpagne,
Pe chi nun nce sta cchiù,
Pe chi sta fora, pe chi sta nchiuso,
Pe chi sta a ll’atu munno,
Pe chi mo è sulo na canzona,
Nu brínnese appriesso a n’ato
Attuorno a sta tavulella
Sott’’e parasole scarfante,
‘O patrone nce tene mente
Cu ritratte ‘e giuventù int’a ll’uocchie
E nun nce caccia.

Autumn

Autumn is of friends,
Endless nights,
Walks and chats,
Little bottles for four, five or six,
Vermicelli and stale bread,
Leftover champagne and half cigars
For everyone,
New stories and memories of back in the day,
Laughter and silences.

Autumn is of friends,
A breeze in Montmartre,
A promise of a date,
The fragrance of dinner up in the Quartieri Spagnoli,
A hope in the mouth,
The electric light of the Métro,
Blue smoke on the bridge
The long hours that divide
The end of work from its begining.

Autumn is of friends,
Migrating voices and old dreams,
Plans whispered
In the elevators of the buildings,
A thousand stubborn thoughts
Of a tomorrow, a new love,
A telephone call home
Like wartime fake substitutions and soup,
"Mamma I made it…"

Autumn is of friends,
For those who are no longer here,
For those abroad, for those inside,
For those in the netherworld,
For those who are now just a song,
A toast one after another,
Around this little table
Beneath the heating towers,
The café owner watches us
With portraits of youth in his eyes
And doesn’t boot us out.

Simple Pleasures: A Neapolitan Touch for Christmas

During a visit to the Italian American Emporium in Little Italy, New York, I came across a charming batch of terracotta figurines—tiny, expressive hands frozen in il gesto del carciofo, the classic pinched-fingers gesture, imported straight from San Gregorio Armeno in Naples. Their warmth, humor, and unmistakable cultural flair struck me immediately, and I realized they’d make perfect stocking stuffers for Christmas: small tokens of Southern Italian spirit, crafted with the same wit and artistry that have defined Naples for centuries.

Simple Pleasures: A Chance Encounter with the Man of La Mancha

At a garage sale, half-hidden between dusty frames and forgotten trinkets, I stumbled upon a small plaster relief plaque depicting the knight-errant Don Quixote and his faithful squire Sancho Panza—an unexpected tribute to Miguel de Cervantes in so humble a setting. The piece, worn but dignified, seemed to beckon from the pile, as if the pair were once again setting off on an unlikely adventure. The discovery was a reminder that beauty and meaning often await us in the most unassuming places.

Another Important Work Brought to Light

Once again, Gianandrea de Antonellis has performed a service to all who care about the long-suppressed, often-distorted, and routinely neglected history of the old Kingdom of the Two Sicilies. With La reazione d’Isernia del 1860 (Alta Terra di Lavoro), he brings to public attention a work whose documentary wealth and moral clarity cut straight through generations of Risorgimento myth-making.

Francesco Bax's La reazione d’Isernia del 1860, as introduced by de Antonellis, is a scholarly contribution of rare honesty. By assembling forgotten documents and refusing to bow before the dictates of “official history,” Bax reminds us that the past is not a fixed monument but a contested field in which truth demands courage. The volume, as presented here, should be read by anyone seeking to understand not only what happened in 1860, but how nations construct—and enforce—the stories they prefer to tell about themselves.

From the Foreword*:

It is a difficult undertaking to succeed in telling the truth when the regime imposes upon the writer its own version, punishing transgressors. Whether it is the Mancino Law (25 June 1993, no. 205 and subsequent expansions) in Italy, the Gayssot Law (13 July 1990) in France, or the ‘Law for Historical Memory’ (Law 52 of 26 December 2007, later evolved into the ‘Law on Democratic Memory,’ no. 20 of 19 October 2022), all these state impositions not only punish a mere opinion crime, but force historians to conform to what is politically established, even when documentary research may demonstrate the opposite of what the legislator has decreed.

In the nineteenth century, the idea of turning historiographic reconstruction—or, in the case of very recent events, chronicle writing—into a matter of law had not yet occurred to anyone. But since history is written by the victor, and in order for it to become common lore, to be instilled from the earliest age into the minds of children, it must be protected from any contamination—especially when such contamination tells a truth contrary to what must be the official truth.

Thus, during the Risorgimento, the fable of the popular and spontaneous uprising of the inhabitants of the former Kingdom of the Two Sicilies against the Bourbon government (naturally, inherently corrupt and hated by all) must not be altered by even the slightest criticism of the Piedmontese regime, of its stifling bureaucracy (far worse than the Bourbon one!), of its oppressive taxation, of the violence of the Garibaldian troops, and of the brutality of the Bersaglieri corps and the Piedmontese in general (whom Carlo Alianello, not by chance, called ‘the SS of 1860’). [1]

Preceded by an imposing propaganda “war machine” (fueled, it must be admitted, by many Neapolitan exiles from 1848), the Italian invasion crushed every attempt at criticism—however mild—of the new regime. One example is the journal La Tragicommedia, directed by Giacinto de’ Sivo, whose printing press was destroyed by red-shirted squadristi (at least metaphorically), [2] or the newspaper Il Trovatore, whose issues were often seized and whose editor, in February 1869, was subjected to a month of preventive arrest without any charge being filed against him. [3]

In this climate of cultural terrorism (and not only cultural), direct criticism was clearly impossible. One had to resort to irony (as in the case of the two publications mentioned, though with limited success, especially the first), or else adopt a “mask,” like the one apparently used by the clever author of the first of these memoirs […].

Notes

[1] Carlo Alianello, La conquista del Sud. Il Risorgimento nell’Italia meridionale, Rusconi, Milan 1972, ch. XIX, Giustizia è fatta, p. 261:

“Let us stop defining ourselves the ‘good guys’ of Europe; and let none of our northern brothers come complaining about Nazi massacres. The SS of 1860 and the years that followed were called, at least by the inhabitants of the former kingdom, the Piedmontese. So let us stop rolling our eyes, opening our mouths to howl, clenching our fists, and straining our necks to denounce the violence of others in this or other continents. Let ours suffice, to feel a single shiver of shame. We were capable of doing more—and worse.”

[2] Cf. Giacinto de’ Sivo, La Tragicommedia. L’unificazione dell’Italia vista dalla parte del Sud, ed. Francesco Maurizio Di Giovine and Gabriele Marzocco, Il Giglio, Naples 1996, second edition.

[3] Cf. Lo Trovatore carcerato, editorial of 16 March 1869.

Those interested can purchase Francesco Bax’s La reazione di Isernia del 1860. Nel racconto di tre testimoni (D’Amico, 2025) at www.damicoeditore.com

~ By Giovanni di Napoli, November 24th, Feast of San Giovanni della Croce

*Translations are my own

Photo of the Week: A Telamon in the Forum Baths, Pompeii

Photo by New York Scugnizzo

New Book — History of Naples: The Eternal Port of Culture and Conflict

A new title that may be of interest to our readers. Available at Amazon.com

• History of Naples: The Eternal Port of Culture and Conflict by Kings Sketch

Publisher: Independently published
Publication date: October 18, 2025
Softcover: $10.99
Kindle: $5.99
Language: English
Pages: 71

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The Lure of Light: Turner and Companions at the Met

The Lake of Zug, 1843, watercolor and bodycolor with reductive
techniques over graphite, by Joseph Mallord William Turner

Learning from a friend that several lesser-known works by Joseph Mallord William Turner (1775–1851) were currently on view at the Metropolitan Museum of Art in New York City, another friend and I decided to make a day of it. Part of Allegory and Abstraction: Selections from the Department of Drawings and Prints (Gallery 690), these works—shown alongside pieces by Thomas Girtin (1775–1802), Joachim Lüchteke (active 1595), George Romney (1734–1802), and others—are on view through December 9th.

Our appetites whetted, we wandered through the 19th- and Early 20th-century European Paintings and Sculpture Galleries, pausing before Jean Auguste Dominique Ingres (1780–1867), Théodore Rousseau (1812–1867), Franz von Stuck (1863–1928), Auguste Rodin (1840–1917), and others along the way. In Gallery 808, we encountered Turner’s inimitable Venice, from the Porch of Madonna della Salute (ca. 1835) and Whalers (ca. 1845).

A few days too early for the museum’s Annual Christmas Tree and Neapolitan Baroque Crèche, which opens Tuesday, November 25, we are already planning our return to this venerable institution.

~ By Giovanni di Napoli, November 22nd, Feasts of Blessed Salvatore Lilli and Santa Cecilia

Lake of Thun, Plate 15 from Liber Studiorum (Book of Studies), etching, drypoint, and mezzotint; first state of three, June 10, 1808, designed and etched by Joseph Mallord William Turner, engraved by Charles Turner (1774-1857)

Swiss City on the Rhine, Basle, Plate 5 from Liber Studiorum (Book of Studies), etching and mezzotint; first state of six, June 11, 1807, designed and etched by Joseph Mallord William Turner, engraved by Charles Turner (1774-1857)

Lindisfarne Castle, Holy Island, Northumberland, 1796-97,
watercolor and bodycolor, by Thomas Girtin

(L) A Nymph Dancing with a Tambourine, ca. 1776, brown ink and wash over graphite, by George Romney. (R) Allegory of Art, 1595, pen and black ink, brush and colored washes, heightened with white, over red chalk, by Joachim Lüchteke

The Forest in Winter at Sunset, ca. 1846-67,
oil on canvas, by Théodore Rousseau

The Tempest, marble, carved before 1910, Auguste Rodin

Inferno, 1908, oil on canvas, by Franz von Stuck

(L) Head of St. John the Evangelist, oil on canvas, laid down on wood, by Jean Auguste Dominique Ingres. The study may date from 1818-20. It is also possible that it was painted or reworked in 1841, and touches may have been added as late as 1841. (R) The Virgin Adoring the Host, 1852, oil on canvas, by Jean Auguste Dominique Ingres

Approaching the Turner paintings in Gallery 808

Venice, from the Porch of Madonna della Salute, ca. 1835,
oil on canvas, by Joseph Mallord William Turner

Whalers, ca. 1845, oil on canvas, by Joseph Mallord William Turner

Annual Angel Tree and Neapolitan Baroque Crèche at the Metropolitan Museum of Art

November 25, 2025 through January 6, 2026

Metropolitan Museum of Art

1000 Fifth Avenue

New York, New York

Exhibition Overview

On view in the majestic Medieval Sculpture Hall, this beloved holiday tradition features a 20-foot blue spruce adorned with 19 cherubs, 59 angels, and an additional 71 figures that evoke 18th-century Naples Nativity scenes.

The installation is set in front of the eighteenth-century Spanish choir screen from the Cathedral of Valladolid in Gallery 305.

For more info, visit www.metmuseum.org

New Music: Napoli Inedita

Forthcoming music that may be of interest to our readers.

• Napoli Inedita performed by Xavier Sabata, Ignacio Prego, Alicia Amo

Label: Aparte
Release Date: December 12, 2025
Audio CD: $18.29
Number of Discs: 1

Available at Amazon.com

Read description

New Book — La reazione di Isernia del 1860. Nel racconti di tre testimoni

A new title that may be of interest to our readers. Available at damicoeditore.com

• Francesco Bax, La reazione di Isernia del 1860. Nel racconti di tre testimoni

Publisher: D’Amico Editore
Publication date: January 1, 2025
Paperback: €15,00
Language: Italian
Pages: 154

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In Femminili Spoglie ad Irpino

Sydney or Megan: A False Dichotomy

Charlie's Angels: Jaclyn Smith, Kate Jackson, and Farrah Fawcett

“Love does not consist in gazing at each other, but in looking outward together in the same direction.” ~ Antoine de Saint-Exupéry

Two “content creators” stopped me on the street the other day, phones in hand and faces lit up with that manic enthusiasm particular to people who film everything. “Sydney or Megan?” one of them asked. I think those were the names.

“Excuse me?” I said, caught off guard.

“Sydney or Megan?” they repeated, as if that clarified anything.

Even though I had no idea who they were talking about, I quickly realized it must be some internet trend, so I decided to mess with them. “Mary Ann over Ginger,” I said, knowing full well the reference was lost on them. Seeing their blank faces, I rattled off a couple more for good measure: “Bailey over Jennifer,” and, getting even more esoteric, “Kate over Jaclyn and Farrah.”

Naturally, the jokes didn’t land. They blinked in confusion, probably thinking I was having a stroke, then wandered off to bother someone else. I never did find out what they were trying to accomplish, but I doubt it was anything profound.

I’m not exactly up to date with pop culture, and judging by those names alone, I doubt I’d have picked either one of them. Give me an Annunziata, a Pasqualina, or a Topazia any day. To be fair, I doubt Sydney or Megan, or whoever they named, would’ve chosen me.

Still, the whole encounter got me thinking about beauty standards, how drastically they’ve changed, and how, in some sense, they haven’t. My own tastes are fairly consistent: I’ve always been drawn to Mediterranean women, dark, gracile, a certain quiet confidence in their bearing. That doesn’t mean I can’t appreciate other kinds of beauty; it just means this is where my compass naturally points.

Of course, attraction isn’t the whole story. Beauty may catch the eye, but character keeps the heart. Commonality, trust, loyalty—these things matter more than lip filler, fashion trends, or any other fleeting trait they wanted me to choose between. In the end, all that surface glitter fades. What remains, if you’re lucky, is someone you can laugh with, pray with, and grow old beside.

Instead of “Sydney or Megan,” they should’ve asked something that actually mattered, or was at least remotely interesting, like whether I preferred commitment to convenience or meaning to novelty. Or they could’ve gone with something at least more universal, so even us old folks could play, like blondes, brunettes, or redheads, or, for that matter, naughty or nice. Maybe I would’ve given them a real answer, but more likely, I’d have told them to mind their own business and kept walking, which doesn't make good content.

~ By Giovanni di Napoli, November 19th, Feast of St. Elizabeth of Hungary

A Disquieting Apathy Amid Rome’s Ruins

During my recent trip to Rome, I stopped beside a massive tuff-stone and brick ruin incorporated into a building on Via Giosuè Carducci. While chatting with a man who worked there, I asked him about it. I expected a story, or at least a hint of pride. Instead, he shrugged.

“I don’t know,” he said.

I assumed he must be new to the area or the job. But no—he told me he’d worked there for over thirteen years.

“In all that time,” I asked, “you never once wondered what it was?”

“No,” he replied flatly. “And I have no interest.”

Perplexed, I turned back to the ruin—an austere fragment of some forgotten glory—and noticed a small placard beside it. I pointed it out and invited him to come read it with me.

“No,” he repeated, sterner this time. “I have no interest.”

I thanked him for his time, wished him a good day, and went to explore the ruin alone. According to the placard, it was a section of the Servian Walls on the Quirinal Hill, dating from the late period of the Kings (578–535 B.C.).

We Americans often lament our ignorance of our own heritage—and rightly so—but this encounter startled me. I never expected such indifference in the Eternal City itself. It was eye-opening, and one of the few disappointments in an otherwise overwhelmingly joyful trip.

~ By Giovanni di Napoli, November 18th, Feast of the Dedication of the Basilicas of the Apostles Peter and Paul

Review: “Bourbon and Anti-Spanish?”

From Gianandrea de Antonellis’s Carlismo per Napolitani

In one of the most brilliantly incisive chapters of Carlismo per Napolitani (Solfanelli, 2022), Gianandrea de Antonellis turns his attention to what he calls the “paradox” of Neapolitan traditionalism: how could one be Bourbon and anti-Spanish at the same time? The question, posed with rhetorical precision in the chapter’s title—“Borbonico e antispagnolo?”—goes straight to the heart of a long-standing historical distortion that, in his view, continues to shape Southern Italian consciousness.

“Returning to Neapolitan and Bourbon writers such as Giacomo Marulli,” de Antonellis begins, “one may ask: is it possible to stand against the Risorgimento (as nostalgic for bygone times) while at the same time accepting one of the main cultural weapons (not to say falsehoods) of that very Risorgimento?” This opening question sets the tone for the entire chapter.

The author identifies anti-Spanish sentiment—long embedded in Italian historiography—as one of the most effective tools used by the liberal Risorgimento to fabricate a sense of national unity “from the Alps to Sicily in the name of the struggle against the foreigner.” He writes:

“How was it possible not to recognize in anti-Spanish sentiment a tool used to cement the rather fragile hypothesis of an ‘Italian nation’ that was to be unified from the Alps to Sicily in the name of the struggle against the foreigner? How could one be pro-Bourbon and anti-Spanish—especially when, at the time Marulli was composing his historical tales, the Bourbons—though no longer the Habsburgs of the Siglo de Oro and ‘imperial Naples’—sat upon the throne of Spain?”

For de Antonellis, the contradiction reveals something more than mere confusion; it exposes the extent to which even those sympathetic to the Bourbon cause had internalized the ideological premises of their adversaries.

Francisco Elías de Tejada 

“Certainly,” he concedes, “some authors would justify the apparent paradox by considering the Bourbons to be more French than Spanish.” He cites Francisco Elías de Tejada—one of the great twentieth-century theorists of Hispanic traditionalism—who “even maintained that it was in fact a Spaniard—the Duke of Rivas—who helped to spread the ‘black legend’ of Masaniello’s revolt as an anti-Spanish uprising.”

De Antonellis acknowledges that this claim “may seem surprising at first, but not overly so, if we consider that it is perfectly logical for a liberal to regard a traditionalist as his natural and principal enemy—even if of the same ‘nation.’” What follows is one of the chapter’s sharpest insights: that the liberal worldview, in both Spain and Italy, defines itself not by fidelity to country or faith, but by hostility to tradition. “Thus,” he continues, “despite sharing the same homeland, the liberal Spaniard views every traditionalist, monarchist, and Catholic Spaniard as an adversary.”

This ideological fratricide, he argues, was mirrored in Italy, where “the traditionalist Spaniard became the perfect example of an external enemy—one to be blamed for every real or imagined backwardness of the Italian Peninsula.” The irony, of course, is that even devout Catholics were swept up in the liberal wave: “against whom to unite the hatred of all, even of those who should have appreciated the religious values inherent in Spanishness—such as the Catholic, yet liberal, Manzoni.”

De Antonellis is most compelling when contrasting the imperial Spain of the Siglo de Oro—“Catholic (but intransigent), monarchic, and traditional”—with the “liberal-progressive world” that found these virtues “abhorrent.” From this point onward, he argues, the myth of Charles of Bourbon as the savior of Naples from the “ill-regarded viceroyal government” became a foundational myth of modern Italian liberalism:

“The exaltation of Charles of Bourbon as the one who had managed to revive the Kingdom from a supposed ‘ill-regarded government’ marks the starting point for the spread of anti-Spanish propaganda (which was, in truth, as already said, anti-traditional and anti-Catholic) promoted by liberal culture from the Risorgimento onward. To attack the Church head-on could often prove, if not dangerous, counterproductive; to attack the ‘viceroyalty,’ on the other hand, carried no such risks.”

This was not merely an episode of historical myth-making, he insists, but the beginning of an enduring propaganda effort. “The outcome—still advancing—is the current historiography, especially popular but not exclusively so, which prefers to recycle the errors (or falsehoods) of past historiography rather than undertake deeper studies.” Reading this, I realized that even I had once fallen for the same illusion—though in my case it was aimed more at the Austrian viceroyalty than the Spanish.

The chapter reaches its tragic climax with a quotation from Francis II of the Two Sicilies himself, taken from his proclamation upon leaving Naples. Even the last Bourbon king, de Antonellis laments, echoed the liberal trope he should have resisted:

“In it, the monarch (even if he did not write but merely signed the text) could find nothing better than to present himself as ‘a descendant of a dynasty which for 126 years reigned in these continental lands, after having saved them from the horrors of a long viceroyal government.’”

For de Antonellis, this line represents the final irony of the anti-Spanish narrative—that even its victims had learned to speak in the language of their oppressors. “This statement,” he concludes, “is a sign, probably less of historical ignorance than of outright subservience—whether through habituation or deliberate expedience—to the anti-traditional propaganda of which, paradoxically, Francis II himself was at that very moment the most illustrious victim.”

The final sentence distills the whole argument into a devastating aphorism:

“Bourbon and anti-Spanish, then? No—worse: Bourbon and anti-Spanish.”

In these few words, de Antonellis encapsulates a century of internalized defeat—a spiritual capitulation to the liberal narrative that sought to erase both the Catholic and the Hispanic foundations of Neapolitan identity.

As a chapter, “Bourbon and Anti-Spanish?” is exemplary of de Antonellis’s broader method: a synthesis of Carlist political theology and Southern Italian historiography. His prose, clear and forceful, recalls the intellectual vigor of Elías de Tejada and the indignation of a scholar intent on reclaiming forgotten truths.

For readers unfamiliar with the deeper cultural continuity between Spain and the Kingdom of Naples, this essay is revelatory. For those steeped in the received narratives of the Risorgimento, it is a challenge—a reminder that what passes for “national history” is often the echo of an old propaganda war.

~ By Giovanni di Napoli, November 17th, Feast of San Gregorio Taumaturgo

*Translations are my own

Photo of the Week: Statue of Apollo as an Archer in the Temple of Apollo at Pompeii

Photo by New York Scugnizzo

Ponderable Quote from “Carlismo per Napolitani” by Gianandrea de Antonellis

Bourbon and anti-Spanish?

Returning to Neapolitan and Bourbon writers such as Giacomo Marulli, one may ask: is it possible to stand against the Risorgimento (as nostalgic for bygone times) while at the same time accepting one of the main cultural weapons (not to say falsehoods) of that very Risorgimento? How was it possible not to recognize in anti-Spanish sentiment a tool used to cement the rather fragile hypothesis of an “Italian nation” that was to be unified from the Alps to Sicily in the name of the struggle against the foreigner? How could one be pro-Bourbon and anti-Spanish—especially when, at the time Marulli was composing his historical tales, the Bourbons, though no longer the Habsburgs of the Siglo de Oro and “imperial Naples,” sat upon the throne of Spain?

Certainly, some authors would justify the apparent paradox by considering the Bourbons to be more French than Spanish. Among them, as already mentioned, was above all Francisco Elías de Tejada, who even maintained that it was in fact a Spaniard—the Duke of Rivas—who helped to spread the “black legend” of Masaniello’s revolt as an anti-Spanish uprising.

This claim may seem surprising at first, but not overly so, if we consider that it is perfectly logical for a liberal to regard a traditionalist as his natural and principal enemy—even if of the same “nation.” Thus, despite sharing the same homeland, the liberal Spaniard views every traditionalist, monarchist, and Catholic Spaniard as an adversary (one need only think of the brutal violence of the Popular Front during the Second Republic). We know, after all, that the creation of an enemy “other than oneself” has always been—and always will be—a fundamental means of uniting one’s forces under a single banner and avoiding internal fragmentation.

It is therefore no surprise that, for the anti-religious progressives (as most Italian risorgimentali were), the traditionalist Spaniard became the perfect example of an external enemy—one to be blamed for every real or imagined backwardness of the Italian Peninsula, and against whom to unite the hatred of all, even of those who should have appreciated the religious values inherent in Spanishness—such as the Catholic, yet liberal, Manzoni.

The imperial Spains of the Siglo de Oro, by contrast, are Catholic (but intransigent), monarchic, and traditional—all traits that make them abhorrent to the liberal-progressive world.

Moreover, the exaltation of Charles of Bourbon as the one who had managed to revive the Kingdom from a supposed “ill-regarded government” marks the starting point for the spread of anti-Spanish propaganda (which was, in truth, as already said, anti-traditional and anti-Catholic) promoted by liberal culture from the Risorgimento onward. To attack the Church head-on could often prove, if not dangerous, counterproductive; to attack the “viceroyalty,” on the other hand, carried no such risks.

The outcome—still advancing—is the current historiography, especially popular but not exclusively so, which prefers to recycle the errors (or falsehoods) of past historiography rather than undertake deeper studies.

Perhaps the highest point—the culmination, given its source—of the propagation of the anti-Spanish narrative can be seen in the Proclamation of Francis II of the Two Sicilies upon leaving the capital. In it, the monarch (even if he did not write but merely signed the text) could find nothing better than to present himself as “a descendant of a dynasty which for 126 years reigned in these continental lands, after having saved them from the horrors of a long viceroyal government.”

This statement is a sign, probably less of historical ignorance than of outright subservience—whether through habituation or deliberate expedience—to the anti-traditional propaganda of which, paradoxically, Francis II himself was at that very moment the most illustrious victim.

Bourbon and anti-Spanish, then? No—worse: Bourbon and anti-Spanish.

* Translated from “Borbonico e antispagnolo?” in Carlismo per Napolitani, Gianandrea de Antonellis (Chieti: Solfanelli, 2022), pp. 82-85

Help Save the Robert E. Howard Museum—The Home of a Legend

Photo courtesy of the Robert E. Howard Museum

“Know, O prince, that between the years when the oceans drank Atlantis and the gleaming cities, and the years of the rise of the Sons of Aryas, there was an age undreamed of, when shining kingdoms lay spread across the world like blue mantles beneath the stars…” ~ The Nemedian Chronicles, Robert E. Howard

Robert E. Howard

The Robert E. Howard Museum in Cross Plains, Texas—the humble home where the creator of Conan the Barbarian, Bran Mak Morn, and Solomon Kane dreamed his immortal worlds into being—is in need of our help. More than a museum, it’s the birthplace of modern heroic fantasy and the beating heart of sword-and-sorcery itself.

For me, Robert E. Howard was one of the great shaping forces of my imagination. Alongside the artwork of Frank Frazetta, his stories fired my adolescent mind as much as the Matter of Britain, the Matter of France, and the ancient myths of Greece and Rome. His heroes were larger than life yet deeply human—fierce, fatalistic, and alive with the tragic poetry of struggle.

If Howard’s work ever stirred something in you—if his tales of courage and doom helped you see the world a little differently—please consider supporting the preservation of his legacy. The house still stands in Cross Plains, but it needs champions of its own now.

For more information, visit https://reh.world/articles/museum/

The Neanderthal in 23andMe

Limestone capital with four heads emerging from acanthus leaves,
Apulia, probably Troia, carved about 1230 by Apulian sculptors
working for the court of Frederick II Hohenstaufen (1194-1250)

"In 863 a monk named Theodosius wrote of the grandeur of Palermo, describing it as 'full of citizens and strangers....Blended with the Sicilians the Greeks, the Lombards and the Jews, there are Arabs, Berbers, Persians, Tartars, Negroes, some wrapped in long robes and turbans...faces oval, square, or round, of every complexion and profile, beards and hair of every variety of color and cut.'" ~ Excerpt from the Metropolitan Museum of Art label for the thirteenth-century limestone capital (pictured)

Curious about my ancestry, I submitted my genetic material to 23andMe, hoping to learn something new about my biological makeup—and I did, just not in the way I expected.

Growing up hearing how we Southern Italians were part Greek, Jewish, Albanian, Berber, Arab, Black, Norman, Lombard, and every other group under the sun, almost nothing would have surprised me. So when my results came back with virtually none of these disparate ancestries, I was genuinely surprised.

As expected, I was over 90% European, with almost all of my ancestry originating from Southern Italy. I was impressed by how specific some of the regional matches were: Irpinia, the southern Gulf of Naples, the Campanian Valley, Mount Etna, and the Simeto Basin. Missing, however, were my roots from Messina (Gaggi, to be exact) and Lucania (Melfi). Given that I have my great-grandparents’ birth records from those towns, I expected them to appear.

Also unsurprising was that I was nearly 6% Albanian—my late aunt always claimed we were part Arbëreshë. It was the only group from that long list of peoples we were told we descended from by the self-appointed experts who always seemed to know more about us than we did.

Alternate view of capital

A “scientist” friend tells me that anything under two percent is likely just genetic or statistical noise, so I can’t really claim my Maltese, Andalusian, Castilian, or Asturian roots. Still, it’s nice to think they’re in there somewhere.

What disappointed me most was how vague the results were about my non-European ancestry—nearly 7% of my genome was traced to Western Asia. The largest portion, 3.3%, was labeled “Caucasian, Iranian, and Mesopotamian.” That’s a pretty large region to lump together. Is it all three, or just one? I wouldn’t be surprised to have Armenian ancestry, given their Byzantine-era presence in Southern Italy. If they’re even in there, the Iranian and Mesopotamian traces likely go back much further, to the Neolithic and Bronze Age migrations of Near Eastern farmers.

Next came “Anatolian,” at about 3%. Again—where, when, and by whom? The label could refer to Neolithic farmers, early Greek colonists of Magna Graecia, or the later Byzantine reconquest. Which is it?

At a negligible 0.4%, I apparently also have Levantine heritage. However, none of the tested populations from the Levant (Syria, Lebanon, Palestine, Israel, Jordan, etc.) registered a match. Was this from the same prehistoric migrations, or from later Phoenician or Carthaginian colonization? My guess is the latter, but who knows.

By far the most amusing result: I have 71% more Neanderthal DNA than other 23andMe users. While this accounts for less than 2% of my genome, I prefer to think those genes are dominant. They’re clearly responsible for my toxic manliness, gruff humor, rugged good looks, and, of course, my deep and abiding love for Paleolithic cave art. As we all know, Neanderthals were, as the cool kids say today, base, chad, and fire—which is fitting, since we were striking flint long before Homo sapiens showed up.

Overall, 23andMe left me with more questions than answers.

~ By Giovanni di Napoli, November 13th, Feast of Saint Frances Xavier Cabrini

Simple Pleasures: Rediscovering San Gennaro

I was happy to see an old painting of San Gennaro at the Figli di San Gennaro’s 100th Anniversary Gala, held Sunday afternoon at the El Caribe Country Club. I’d long wondered what became of it after the sale and subsequent destruction of Most Precious Blood Church’s rectory in Little Italy in 2019. Someone told me it was the work of Donatus Buongiorno (1865–1935), though I can’t confirm.

150° anniversario della morte di S.A.I.R. Francesco V Duca di Modena, Reggio, Mirandola, Massa, Carrara, Guastalla, ecc.

In Modena