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| b. 14 August 1777 - d. 8 November 1830 |
Eternal rest grant unto His Majesty, O Lord and let perpetual light shine upon him. May his soul, and the souls of all the faithful departed, through the mercy of God, rest in peace. Amen
November 8, 2026
Remembering King Francesco I of the Two Sicilies
November 7, 2026
Feast of San Prosdocimo di Rieti
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| San Prosdocimo di Rieti, ora pro nobis |
Little is known with certainty about his life, and the surviving accounts are drawn largely from traditions surrounding the earliest spread of Christianity in Italy. His name is also associated with Padua, where he is honored as the city’s first bishop. Evviva San Prosdocimo di Rieti!
In celebration of his feast, we offer this prayer:
Grant, we beseech Thee, almighty God, that the example of St. Prosdocimus of Rieti may effectually move us to reform our lives; that while we celebrate his feast, we may also imitate his actions. Look upon our weakness, almighty God, and since the burden of our own deeds weighs heavily upon us, may the glorious intercession of St. Prosdocimus protect us. Through Christ our Lord. Amen.
November 6, 2026
Art Collecting on a Pauper’s Budget
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| Corrado Giaquinto's Magnanimity and Peace, currently listed for auction at Sotheby’s |
Every so often, I indulge in a little window shopping, browsing the websites of auction houses like Sotheby’s to see what works of art I might acquire if my bank account were considerably more accommodating. Alas, my taste in art has always exceeded my financial means.
Among the treasures that recently caught my eye are two paintings by the Molfettese Rococo master Corrado Giaquinto (1703–1766), Magnanimity and Peace, currently listed for auction at Sotheby’s. Both are beautiful examples of European allegorical painting I find so appealing. Bidding for both works closes on November 17, 2026.
While these masterpieces remain well beyond my reach, perhaps some of my more prosperous readers will find them worthy of consideration. As for me, I shall have to content myself with admiring them from afar. ~ Giovanni
New Book — Roman Copies, Collecting, and Culture in the Bay of Naples and Beyond: Papers in Honor of Eugene J. Dwyer
• Roman Copies, Collecting, and Culture in the Bay of Naples and Beyond: Papers in Honor of Eugene J. Dwyer by Sinclair W. Bell and Brad Hostetler
Publisher: Archaepress Archaeology
Pub. Date: October 22, 2026
Paperback: $49.00
Language: Bilingual English/Italian
Pages: 188
Read description
Click here to see more books
Listing does not imply endorsement
Robed in Splendor – Mourning at the Hofkapelle
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| Posthumous portrait of Emperor Matthias painted by Hans von Aachen in 1625, housed in the Rijksmuseum of Amsterdam |
The Parish Church of St. Andrew
311 North Raymond Avenue
Pasadena, CA 91103.
Free parking in the lot diagonally across from St. Andrew’s.
Sunday, November 15, 2026 at 4 P.M.
Orange County
Venue will be announced soon.
Musica Transalpina is proud to present the first known modern performance of an extraordinary Requiem Mass composed by Christoph Straus in October of 1621. Straus was chapel master to the notoriously incompetent Emperor Matthias, who showed a preference for the baroque musical styles emerging in Italy, and Christoph Straus was among the first to compose music for the Habsburg court in the elaborate new concertato style. When Emperor Matthias died in 1619, Straus was replaced by the much more fashionable Italian composers that the new emperor, Ferdinand II, brought with him from his home in Graz, whose court far outshone Vienna in splendor. Strauss was retained in a bureaucratic capacity in the Imperial household, so it is most likely––considering the month that this Requiem setting was composed––that it was intended for the All Souls’ Day observances held at the chapel royal on November 2, 1621.
This Requiem Mass is extraordinary for specifying distinctions between vocal and instrumental passages within each of the parts, which is remarkable considering the early date of its composition. It is composed in ten independent parts divided across two choirs, with voices alternating with instruments in order to create primitive obbligato passages, effectively doubling the scope of this work to twenty parts. Christoph Straus became chapel master at S. Stephen’s Cathedral in 1626, and died in 1631, the year that this setting was published by Christoph’s son, Matthias Straus.
For more information, visit: https://musicatransalpina.org/
November 5, 2026
Mistaken for My Celebrity Doppelgänger, Again
Having been mistaken for the Grammy Award-winning musician more times than I care to admit, I can recall two particularly memorable encounters.
The first occurred at a bar, where a tall blonde bought me a drink, convinced I was him. After I cleared up the misunderstanding, she stayed, and we enjoyed a few more drinks together.
Somehow, our conversation drifted from music and life to a rather peculiar revelation. She had a deep dent in her skull and, I kid you not, wanted me to put my finger in her divot. Needless to say, I retreated hastily.
The only time a man mistook me for Mr. Joel was on a subway platform. A Black fellow kept circling me, staring intently. Expecting the worst, I was getting ready to throw down.
After walking around me three times, he finally approached with a broad smile, extended his hand, and asked if I was Billy Joel.
Relieved, I shook his hand and jokingly replied, “No, we White guys all look alike.” He burst out laughing.
Personally, I always fancied myself a more rugged, better-looking version of Bruce Willis or Jason Statham, but who would have guessed the Piano Man was such a babe magnet?
~ By Giovanni di Napoli, November 4th, Feast of San Carlo Borromeo
November 4, 2026
A Pilgrimage Postponed: Sant’Uberto and the Casina Vanvitelliana
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| Michael Martin's Mythologies of the Wild God, resting on the tanned hide of a deer hunted by my father |
For this is the season of the hunt
And when the moon is quite full
All the forest is washed white with her milk
And the crisp air kisses the skin
Delicate as a faerie’s wing.
~ Michael Martin, “The Huntsman,” Mythologies of the Wild God
Knowing my devotion to Sant’Uberto di Liège and Sant’Eustachio, the patron saints of hunters, a friend had generously promised to take me to the magnificent Casina Vanvitelliana on November 3rd, the feast of Sant’Uberto. Built in 1782 by Carlo Vanvitelli at the behest of King Ferdinando IV di Borbone, this exquisite Rococo hunting lodge stands on a tiny islet in Lake Fusaro, near Bacoli, connected to the shore by a wooden bridge.
The visit was intended as a pilgrimage of sorts, an opportunity to honor the memory of my forefathers, who were avid hunters, and reflect upon a tradition that has long held both spiritual and ancestral significance for me. Alas, with my trip to Napoli canceled, this excursion, too, has been postponed.
Though I couldn't make the journey, I still devoted time to prayer and meditation, accompanied by Michael Martin’s Mythologies of the Wild God (Angelico Press, 2024), a collection of poetry I had originally packed for the trip. While the pilgrimage must wait, prayer, remembrance, and the obligations we owe our ancestors need not. Evviva Sant’Uberto!
~ By Giovanni di Napoli, November 3rd, Feast of Sant'Uberto di Liège
Name Day of the Grand Master
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HRH, Prince Charles of Bourbon-Two Sicilies |
Ant. Domine, salvum fac principem nostrum Carolum: et exaudi nos in die, qua invocaverimus te.
Oremus
Protende Domine famulo tuo Carolo supremo ordinis nostri magistro dexteram caelestis auxilii, ut tua protectione munitus, perpetuo sit justus, fortis, pius, providus ac indefessus hujus sacri ordinis rector, infidelium expugnator, justitiae cultor, meritorum, et demeritorum remunerator: Ecclesiae tuae sanctae et catholicae fidei defensor ad decus, et laudem tui nominis gloriosi, et post diuturnam felicitatem in terris, aeterna beatitudine, te largiente perfruatur in caelis. Per Dominum nostrum Jesum Christum Filium tuum, qui tecum vivit et regnat in unitate Spiritus Sancti, Deus, per omnia saecula saeculorum. Amen.
November 3, 2026
A Reflection on the Day of the Legitimate Monarchy
Pasqualin draws a sharp contrast between the Carlist commemoration and the Italian Republic’s Day of National Unity and the Armed Forces. While the republic celebrates the military victory of 1918 and the ideal of national unity, Carlists reaffirm their fidelity to the legitimate monarchy. For Pasqualin, these observances represent two opposing worldviews, “one founded upon usurpation, the other upon fidelity.” His argument challenges the notion that political legitimacy can be established through popular approval, military victory, or the mere possession of power.
Especially compelling is his insistence that “the true conflict is not between one set of borders and another, nor does it concern the fetish of nations and nationalisms.” Rather, “the struggle is, and will remain, between legitimacy and usurpation.” It is a distinction too often lost on those who mistake traditionalism for nationalism.
The article finds its most powerful expression in the declaration, “We celebrate fidelity.” As Pasqualin reminds us, “legitimacy is neither acquired through a plebiscite nor lost through defeat.” These words affirm a principle that transcends the fortunes of any particular dynasty or political regime.
Having discovered this meaningful tradition, I shall join the Carlists in spirit this November 4, honoring the legitimate monarchy and remembering the struggle against usurpation.
Viva Cristo Re! Viva la Monarchia Legittima!
~ By Giovanni di Napoli, November 3rd, Feasts of Sant’Uberto di Liegi and St. Winfred
My Encounter With the Not-So-Abominable Snowman
On this Election Day, I thought I would share a curious encounter I had recently, which turned into an unexpected lesson in the hidden workings of our world.
While enjoying a romantic getaway up north with my lady friend, Livia, I went out to the shed to fetch some firewood for our hearth. As I rummaged through the woodpile, a large log came tumbling down and struck me squarely on the head.
Drifting in and out of consciousness, I vaguely remember being lifted off the ground and carried back to the cabin.
I cannot say how long I was unconscious, but when I awoke on the sofa, Livia was leaning over me, gently wiping my forehead with a cold, damp towel. Behind her stood a hulking brute, covered from head to toe in surprisingly well-groomed, long brown fur.
Noticing the astonishment on my face, Livia calmly explained, “This is Cecil. He’s a friend.”
I must be dreaming, I thought.
“He brought you inside,” she added.
In perfect English, the creature politely inquired whether I was feeling better. Still bewildered, I managed to thank him.
The fire was roaring in the hearth, suggesting I had been unconscious for some time. Apparently, Cecil had also been kind enough to bring in the firewood. Livia poured me a steaming cup of tisane, a restorative infusion of roots and herbs Cecil had gathered in the forest.
I sat upright, still a little woozy, though the pain had begun to subside. Naturally, I had a million questions.
“Where did you come from?” I asked.
“I’m an interdimensional being,” he replied casually. “My people have been visiting your world for thousands of years, but we’ve been hunted to near extinction here since the Last Glacial Maximum. Our pelts were highly prized, and our organs were harvested for medicinal remedies and virility potions. These days, we mostly remain in our own dimension, though occasionally we venture into your plane of existence on a lark, seeking amusement or adventure.”
He paused, sniffing the fragrant stew simmering over the fire.
“Besides, we rather enjoy Italian food.” Pressing his index finger to his cheek and twisting it back and forth, he added, "The aroma of Livia's coniglio alla cacciatora is what drew me to you."
“Why did you help me?” I asked.
“We’re not Reptilians,” he replied, as though that explained everything. “I saw someone in trouble and simply came to his aid.”
I nodded, immediately regretting the movement as the room began to spin.
“Reptilians?” I repeated.
“Yes, the humanoid shapeshifters who secretly govern human society,” he explained matter-of-factly. “Not to be confused with the Morlocks or the savage mole men, of course. The latter are descendants of the ancient Lemurians, survivors of the great cataclysm, only to be enslaved by the Sumerians. The Reptilians are your run-of-the-mill democratic elites, international financiers, and European Union bureaucrats.”
His pleasant expression suddenly darkened.
“They control your governments, banks, and militaries. Nearly every institution of consequence is under their influence, from finance and warfare to information.”
“But why?” I asked. “What could they possibly want?”
“They are descendants of the Nephilim, the monstrous offspring of the Egrḗgoroi, the Fallen Angels known as the Watchers. Driven by an ancient hatred of mankind, they have waged war against the Children of God ever since.”
I stared at him, uncertain whether the throbbing in my skull had anything to do with the surreal nature of what I was hearing. “Aren’t you concerned I’ll expose your existence?”
Cecil smiled, revealing an impressive set of teeth.
“Not particularly. Who would believe you?”
Before I could respond, the room began to dissolve into a haze. Cecil’s enormous silhouette blurred, the firelight flickered, and everything went black.
When I awoke, he was gone.
Livia was sitting beside me, holding a cold compress against my forehead.
I looked toward the hearth. The fire was still burning, and beside it sat a neatly stacked pile of fresh firewood.
~ By Giovanni di Napoli, November 2nd, Il Giorno dei Morti
Drifting in and out of consciousness, I vaguely remember being lifted off the ground and carried back to the cabin.
I cannot say how long I was unconscious, but when I awoke on the sofa, Livia was leaning over me, gently wiping my forehead with a cold, damp towel. Behind her stood a hulking brute, covered from head to toe in surprisingly well-groomed, long brown fur.
Noticing the astonishment on my face, Livia calmly explained, “This is Cecil. He’s a friend.”
I must be dreaming, I thought.
“He brought you inside,” she added.
In perfect English, the creature politely inquired whether I was feeling better. Still bewildered, I managed to thank him.
The fire was roaring in the hearth, suggesting I had been unconscious for some time. Apparently, Cecil had also been kind enough to bring in the firewood. Livia poured me a steaming cup of tisane, a restorative infusion of roots and herbs Cecil had gathered in the forest.
I sat upright, still a little woozy, though the pain had begun to subside. Naturally, I had a million questions.
“Where did you come from?” I asked.
“I’m an interdimensional being,” he replied casually. “My people have been visiting your world for thousands of years, but we’ve been hunted to near extinction here since the Last Glacial Maximum. Our pelts were highly prized, and our organs were harvested for medicinal remedies and virility potions. These days, we mostly remain in our own dimension, though occasionally we venture into your plane of existence on a lark, seeking amusement or adventure.”
He paused, sniffing the fragrant stew simmering over the fire.
“Besides, we rather enjoy Italian food.” Pressing his index finger to his cheek and twisting it back and forth, he added, "The aroma of Livia's coniglio alla cacciatora is what drew me to you."
“Why did you help me?” I asked.
“We’re not Reptilians,” he replied, as though that explained everything. “I saw someone in trouble and simply came to his aid.”
I nodded, immediately regretting the movement as the room began to spin.
“Reptilians?” I repeated.
“Yes, the humanoid shapeshifters who secretly govern human society,” he explained matter-of-factly. “Not to be confused with the Morlocks or the savage mole men, of course. The latter are descendants of the ancient Lemurians, survivors of the great cataclysm, only to be enslaved by the Sumerians. The Reptilians are your run-of-the-mill democratic elites, international financiers, and European Union bureaucrats.”
His pleasant expression suddenly darkened.
“They control your governments, banks, and militaries. Nearly every institution of consequence is under their influence, from finance and warfare to information.”
“But why?” I asked. “What could they possibly want?”
“They are descendants of the Nephilim, the monstrous offspring of the Egrḗgoroi, the Fallen Angels known as the Watchers. Driven by an ancient hatred of mankind, they have waged war against the Children of God ever since.”
I stared at him, uncertain whether the throbbing in my skull had anything to do with the surreal nature of what I was hearing. “Aren’t you concerned I’ll expose your existence?”
Cecil smiled, revealing an impressive set of teeth.
“Not particularly. Who would believe you?”
Before I could respond, the room began to dissolve into a haze. Cecil’s enormous silhouette blurred, the firelight flickered, and everything went black.
When I awoke, he was gone.
Livia was sitting beside me, holding a cold compress against my forehead.
I looked toward the hearth. The fire was still burning, and beside it sat a neatly stacked pile of fresh firewood.
~ By Giovanni di Napoli, November 2nd, Il Giorno dei Morti
A Change of Plans: The Siren City Will Have to Wait
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| The embossed leather dust jacket for my new journal, adorned with the Three Graces |
So my hopes of strolling down Via Toledo once again, paying homage to Virgil and invoking my Muse at his tomb, will have to wait. I had also looked forward to indulging in a little people-watching over coffee at the legendary Gran Caffè Gambrinus. I imagined myself sitting in that magnificent nineteenth-century Belle Époque café with my new journal, surrounded by the ghosts of the literary and artistic greats who had passed through its doors before me.
Disappointing, of course, but Napoli has waited for me before, and I suspect she will again. The siren’s call has not grown any fainter. Only my return has been postponed.
November 2, 2026
The Siren Calls: Returning to Parthenope
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| Me beneath the statue of the Holy Roman Emperor Federico II di Svevia, sculpted by Emanuele Caggiano, in a niche on the western façade of the Palazzo Reale di Napoli, in 2007 |
Still the capital in my heart, Napoli remains a city of extraordinary beauty and history. From its Greek foundations to the splendor of the Bourbon monarchy, its past is never far from view. Beneath the bustle of modern life, the old city still bears the unmistakable character of a place that has witnessed centuries of triumph and tragedy.
There is never enough time in Napoli, but I intend to make the most of whatever time I have.
Ce verimmo!
November 1, 2026
Unbowed
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| To Arms! (1888), Edmund Blair Leighton |
While arguing with someone else, he turned to me and blithely asked, “Wouldn’t you agree that all people over fifty become more inactive and unreliable?”
I shot him down immediately. “I am over fifty, and I am on a mission. Never in my life have I been more inspired, determined, or driven. I possess a lust for life I only wish I had known in my thirties and forties.”
Granted, I am not as physically strong as I once was, but what I have lost in strength I have more than made up for in resolve. I work harder, demand more of myself, and refuse to surrender whatever time remains to idleness or resignation.
Perhaps it is the fear of death, the specter of failure, or the burden of unfinished business. Maybe it is guilt over wasted years and squandered opportunities. Whatever the reason, I am a man possessed. There are books to read, battles to fight, places to see, and things to build. My ambitions have only grown as my time has diminished. I do not have enough years left to accomplish everything I intend to do, and that realization has made me more militant, not less.
This is not to say I don’t recognize the sort of people he was describing. I know plenty of older men who have surrendered their ambitions, grown complacent, or simply withdrawn from the struggle. But I also know young men who have accomplished nothing and are content to keep it that way.
What I suspect my tiresome acquaintance really meant was that fewer people are willing to answer his calls to action. In my estimation, the problem is not their age but his failure to inspire them. People eventually tire of fighting the same battles, listening to the same speeches, and repeating the same empty gestures without witnessing any meaningful results. A broken record is not a battle cry.
I, too, have withdrawn from certain activities and causes that once commanded my attention. Not because I have grown indifferent or unreliable, but because I have become more disciplined about where I direct my energies. I no longer allow myself to be sidetracked or dragged into another man’s quarrels at the expense of my own. My time is too precious, my objectives too numerous, and my determination too fierce to squander what remains on fruitless endeavors.
There is a profound difference between abandoning the fight and choosing one’s battles. I have not laid down my arms. I have merely stopped marching under every banner waved in my direction.
If anything, the advancing years have sharpened my sense of purpose. I have no intention of growing old quietly, retreating into comfortable irrelevance, or apologizing for ambitions that others have long since abandoned. Let others resign themselves to decline, make peace with mediocrity, and surrender their convictions. I have work to do, and I am not finished yet.
~ By Giovanni di Napoli, October 31st, All Hallows' Eve
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