A Second Look at Raphael: Sublime Poetry

Head of an Angel in Profile View (Cartoon Fragment for the Expulsion of Heliodorus from the Temple, Stanza di Eliodoro), ca. 1512, charcoal, black chalk, traces of white gouache highlights, outlines pricked for transfer of the design, on two glued sheets of paper; with restoration

See Part I, Part III

Following my earlier reflections on Raphael: Sublime Poetry at the Metropolitan Museum of Art, this second set of images offers a return to the work of the Urbinese master.

The exhibition continues to reward attention. What may seem immediately clear at first glance deepens on a second look—there is a quiet order and balance that becomes more apparent the longer one lingers. These works do not overwhelm; they draw the viewer in steadily, almost imperceptibly.

(L) Heads of Two Apostles ("Auxiliary Cartoon" for the Oddi Altarpiece), ca. 1503-4, black chalk drawn freehand over pounce marks (spolvero underdrawing), with unrelated designs in pounce marks (spolvero, on paper, Raphael. (R) Head of an Apostle (Saint James; "Auxiliary Cartoon" for the Oddi Altarpiece), ca. 1503-4, black chalk drawn freehand over pounce marks (spolvero underdrawing), on paper, Raphael

(L) Studies for the Battle of Anghiari Cartoon and the Proportions of the Head, ca. 1490-95; 1503-5, pen and two hues of brown ink (lighter color later reworked with black-brown ink), over traces of preliminary stylus work, soft black chalk, and red chalk, on paper, Leonardo da Vinci (1452-1519). (R) Composition Sketches for the Virgin Adoring the Christ Child, with and without the Infant Saint John the Baptist; Diagram of a Perspectival Projection, ca. 1482-85, silverpoint, partly reworked by the artist with pen and brown ink on paper prepared pink; lines ruled with metalpoint, Leonardo da Vinci (1452-1519)

(L) The Virgin and Child with the Infant Saint John the Baptist (Studies for the Madonna of the Meadow), ca. 1506, brush and brown wash, highlighted with white gouache (partly oxidized), over preliminary stylus underdrawing; red chalk (sketch at upper left; over a faint grid marked with compass or caliper points, on paper, Raphael. (R) The Virgin and Child with the Infant Saint John the Baptist (Study for the Madonna of the Meadow); Fragmentary Studies of Drapery, ca. 1506, red chalk over preliminary stylus underdrawing, on paper, Raphael

(L) Psyche Presenting the Phial of Water to Venus (Study for a Pendentive in the Loggia di Psiche, Villa Farnesina), ca. 1517-18, slightly purplish red chalk over extensive stylus underdrawing, on paper, Raphael. (R) The Phrygian Sibyl (Early Idea for the Chigi Chapel, Santa Maria della Pace), ca. 1511-13, red chalk over preliminary stylus underdrawing, some black chalk, on paper, Raphael

(L) Mother and Child (Study for the Madonna della Seggiola), ca. 1512-15, metalpoint, highlighted in white gouache, on paper prepared gray; outlines stylus-incised by a later hand, Raphael. (R) Bust of a Seated Young Woman in Profile, ca. 1503, black chalk over preliminary stylus underdrawing, slight retouching by another hand in pen and brown ink, with traces of white gouache highlights, on paper, Raphael

(L) Young Woman in Half-Length, ca. 1503-5, black chalk on paper, Raphael. (R) Study of a Female Saint in Half-Length (Saint Catherine?), ca. 1504, black chalk over preliminary stylus underdrawing, on paper, Raphael

(L) The Heads of the Virgin and Child (Sheet from the "Pink Sketchbook"), ca. 1507-9, probably two types of metalpoint on paper prepared pink, Raphael. (R) Head of a Young Woman in Three-Quarter View, Looking Down (Study for the Figure of Charity, Sala di Costantino), ca. 1519-20, charcoal, soft grayish black chalk, and denser black chalk, slight accenting of deep shadows with wetted black chalk, with traces of white gouache highlights (now sunken) and fine stylus-incised outlines, on beige paper, Raphael

(L) The Seated Virgin and Child, ca. 1501-3, pen and brown ink over abundant, soft grayish black-chalk underdrawing, on paper, Raphael. (R) Composition Study for the Holy Family with Saints and a Pomegranate, ca. 1507-8, pen and brown ink over leadpoint underdrawing, squared in red chalk, on paper; upper portion of the sheet outlined like an arch, with the field colored in blue gouache, Raphael 

8e centenaire du sacre de Saint Louis (1226-2026)

Au Puy-en-Velay

In the Presence of Raphael: A Visit to “Sublime Poetry”

Processional Banner of the Confraternity of the Santissima Trinità, Città di Castello: The Holy Trinity with Saints Sebastian and Roch (obverse); The Creation of Eve (reverse), ca. 1497-99, oil on canvas (obverse and reverse now framed side by side), Raphael

See Part II, Part III

After attending the Traditional Latin Mass on Sunday, we made our way into Manhattan to finally see Raphael: Sublime Poetry, the exhibition currently on view at the Metropolitan Museum of Art through June 28th.

I have said it before, but it bears repeating: there is nothing like seeing great works in person. No reproduction—whether in print or digital—can fully capture their presence. I appreciated Raphael before, but I did not truly understand his genius, his divine gift, until I stood before these works myself.

The portraits alone are extraordinary: La Fornarina, Baldassarre Castiglione, and Bindo Altoviti reveal a depth and humanity that is difficult to describe. His Madonnas and Child, angels, and saints possess a serenity and grace that seem to transcend the material. The small Madonna of the Pinks, in particular, is utterly enchanting.

Beyond the paintings, the exhibition includes an astonishing range of works: drawings in charcoal and pen and ink, tapestries, ceramics, engravings, marble and terracotta reliefs, books, and bronze medallions. In total, over 170 masterpieces and rarely seen pieces—many from private collections and seldom displayed together—fill the galleries.

As the first comprehensive exhibition of Raphael’s work in the United States, it naturally draws large crowds—so be prepared. More than usual, it was encouraging to see so many families, especially those with young children, taking the time to introduce them to these works. I was especially struck by the strong presence of East Asian families, whose children seemed genuinely attentive and engaged.

It is difficult not to feel some sadness that many Westerners do not show the same level of reverence for their own artistic and cultural inheritance. Standing in those rooms, surrounded by such beauty, one is reminded of what has been achieved—and what is at risk of being forgotten.

~ By Giovanni di Napoli, May 4th, Feasts of St. Monica and St. Florian

(L) Portrait of Bindo Altoviti, ca. 1515-16, oil on wood, Raphael.
(R) Portrait of Baldassarre Castiglione, 1514-16, oil on canvas, Raphael

(L) Angel in Bust-Length (Fragment from the Baronci Altarpiece), ca. 1500-1501, oil with gold highlights on canvas, transferred from wood, Raphael. (R) Saint Sebastian in Half-Length, ca. 1502-3, oil and tempera grassa with gold highlights on wood, Raphael

(L) Copy after Leonardo's Standing Leda and the Swan, 1515-30, oil and tempera grassa on poplar wood, Sixteenth-century Lombard artists near Cesare da Sesto (1477-1523). (R) Portrait of the Nude Fornarina (La Fornarina), ca. 1518-20, oil on wood, Raphael and Giulio Romano (Giulio Pippi, 1499? -1546)

(L) The Virgin and Child in a Landscape (The Small Cowper Madonna), ca. 1505, oil on wood, Raphael. (R) The Virgin and Child (The Niccolini-Cowper Madonna; or, The Large Cowper Madonna), 1508, oil on wood (probably poplar), Raphael

(L) The Virgin and Child in an Interior (The Madonna of the Pinks), ca. 1506-7, oil on wood (yew), Raphael. (R) The Virgin and Child with the Infant Saint John the Baptist and Saints Elizabeth and Joseph (The Madonna del Divino Amore), ca. 1516-18, oil on wood, Raphael and Giulio Romano (Giulio Pippi, 1499?-1546) [Everything is related to Naples: Museo e Real Bosco di Capodimonte, Naples]

(L) The Virgin and Child with the Infant Saint John the Baptist in a Landscape (The Esterhazy Madonna), ca. 1508, oil and tempera grassa on poplar wood, Raphael. (R) The Virgin and Child with the Infant Saint John the Baptist in a Landscape (The Alba Madonna), ca. 1509-11, oil on canvas, transferred from wood, Raphael

(L) The Ecstasy of Saint Cecilia with Saints Paul, John the Evangelist, Augustine, and Mary Magdalen, ca. 1515-16, oil on canvas, transferred from wood, Raphael. (R) The Holy Family with the Infant Saint John the Baptist (The Madonna of the Rose, or Madonna della Rosa), ca. 1517-18, oil on canvas, Raphael

(L) Deësis (Christ in Glory with the Virgin Mary and Saints John the Baptist, Catherine, and Paul), ca. 1519-20, oil and tempera grassa on wood, Giulio Romano Giulio Pippi; 14992-1546. (R) The Vision of Ezekiel, ca. 1515-16, oil on wood, Raphael

Our Lady of Fatima at Saint John Vianney Church in Colonia, New Jersey

Feast of Beata Sandra Sabattini

Beata Sandra Sabattini, ora pro nobis

May 4th is the Feast of Blessed Sandra Sabattini, a young Italian laywoman whose brief life reflected extraordinary faith, charity, and moral clarity. Sandra Sabattini was born on August 19, 1961, in Riccione, Emilia-Romagna, and raised in a devout Catholic family closely connected to the Community of Pope John XXIII, founded by her uncle, Father Oreste Benzi.

From an early age, she demonstrated a deep concern for the poor, the disabled, and those on the margins of society. She volunteered tirelessly, especially among individuals struggling with addiction and hardship, approaching each person with dignity and compassion. Though she pursued studies in medicine, her true vocation lay in service—living out the Gospel not in grand gestures, but in daily acts of self-giving.

Sandra kept a spiritual journal that revealed both her interior struggles and her unwavering desire for holiness. She sought not recognition, but transformation, striving to conform her life entirely to Christ.

On October 2, 1984, at just 23 years old, she was struck by a car while on her way to a community gathering and died a few days later. Her example endured, and she was beatified by the Church in 2021.

Blessed Sandra Sabattini remains a powerful example of holiness in ordinary life: a young woman who proved that sanctity is not reserved for the extraordinary but is forged in fidelity, humility, and love.

Evviva Beata Sandra Sabattini!

In celebration of her feast, we offer this prayer:

Prayer to Blessed Sandra Sabattini

We thank You, O God—Father, Son, and Holy Spirit, for the gift of Blessed Sandra Sabattini to Your Holy Church. Sandra deeply welcomed the joy of Your revelation and the loving gaze of Mary; she recognized Your presence in the poor and needy; she shared her life with those You placed in her path with humility and kindness; she constantly sought You in prayer and contemplation and allowed herself to be guided with confidence by the Holy Spirit; and she rejoiced in building fraternal and loving relationships.

Grant us, Father, through the intercession of Sandra, according to Your will, the grace we implore (here mention your request).

May Sandra always remain a model of holiness in Your Church and in the Communion of Saints, helping us to carry out Your loving plan. Amen.

Blessed Sandra Sabattini, pray for us!

A Quiet Rival to Grandeur

Portrait of a Young Woman in Three-Quarter
View, inspired by Leonardo's Mona Lisa, ca.
1504-5, two types of metalpoint on paper
prepared greenish gray, Raphael

Amid grander, more celebrated works at the Met’s Raphael: Sublime Poetry exhibition, I found myself drawn—almost unexpectedly—to this small drawing. I stood there longer than I meant to, captivated by the mysterious, haunting beauty of the woman.

The medium itself contributes to the effect. The lines are light, almost hesitant, as if the figure might dissolve if pressed too firmly. And yet, within that restraint, a sense of inner life emerges. Her expression resists certainty. The smile barely gathers at the lips, while the eyes seem to register your presence without fully meeting it. It is an attempt to render the subtle movement of feeling beneath stillness, an idea closely associated with Leonardo da Vinci. The pose recalls the quiet revolution set in motion by the Mona Lisa, yet Raphael’s treatment feels more intimate, less resolved, something closer to a thought still forming.

Surrounded by masterpieces that proclaim their greatness, this small work unsettles by suggestion. It does not overwhelm. It draws you in and stays with you.

More from the exhibition to come.

~ Giovanni di Napoli, May 3rd, Feast of the Madonna di Castello

Literary Caprices: Vignettes and Other Indulgences III

See Part I, Part II 

These small pieces are fragments—moments tied to place, memory, and chance encounters, often anchored by a meal, a drink, or a passing ritual. Some are drawn from childhood, others from later years, but all linger for the same reason: they capture something that resists explanation, yet remains unmistakably real.

Chinatown, Then and Now

Exploring Chinatown the other day—on what would have been my late father’s birthday—brought back a flood of memories.

For as long as I can remember, he took us there for the Lunar New Year. We would have lunch in one of the many small, unassuming eateries, and he would quietly pay the waiter for a window seat. From there, we had a perfect view of the dragon dance—colorful figures, pounding drums, and firecrackers echoing through the streets.

As we grew older, we ventured further, wandering through markets and narrow shops, especially the spice and apothecary stores he liked best. I was always drawn to the Tibetan and Nepalese antique shops, where I could lose myself among the trinkets and statuary. I still have some of the small keepsakes my parents bought me over the years.

One day in particular stays with me. After a heavy meal, we decided to walk it off by crossing the Brooklyn Bridge and back again—the only time I ever did that with him. I still regret that I can’t find the photos.

After he passed, I inherited a cast-iron teapot I had bought him in Chinatown. Every time I drink oolong, it brings back a small, funny moment: I had picked up some loose tea from a market, but the directions were in Chinese, and we didn’t know how to prepare it. So he ordered Chinese food, and when the delivery driver arrived, we invited him in and asked him to show us how to make it. He did, and we shared a proper cup of tea together before he returned to work.

Chinatown, like much of New York City, has changed. But not entirely. Some of the small shops and old trading companies remain—quiet reminders of what once was.

Summers at Coney Island

Growing up in Brooklyn, summer meant family trips to Coney Island. We would walk the boardwalk, enjoying the ocean breeze beneath the iconic Parachute Jump, play games, and ride the attractions—especially the world-famous Cyclone, built in 1927. Some days we went to the aquarium or the sideshow, but we always stopped at Nathan’s for hot dogs.

Every time it was our turn to order, my uncle would ask the guy at the counter if he had frog legs. When the answer was yes, he’d say, “Then hop over there and get me some hot dogs.” It made me laugh every time. Even now, I can’t walk past Nathan’s without thinking of my uncle and those family trips.

My First Beer at McSorley’s

When I turned twenty-one, my father took me to McSorley’s Old Ale House—the oldest Irish saloon in New York City—for my first legal beer.

We drove in from Brooklyn and found a spot right out front in under fifteen minutes—something unthinkable today with the traffic. There was no line, no crowd, nothing like the tourists I see today stretched down the block.

Inside, with sawdust on the floor, I took a seat at a communal table while my father ordered. He came back with four mugs of ale—two for each of us, the way they serve it—and a pair of liverwurst and onion sandwiches on rye with mustard.

We drank, ate, and talked. He told me stories—how women were once barred from entering, along with other bits of the place’s lore. After a while, we finished up and left.

We were home almost as quickly as we had arrived. I never went back, but I don’t need to. I was there once, with my dad.

Technique

I met Colette at Bleecker Bob’s while thumbing through the flip bins on the center island. Already holding a few albums, she asked—in a soft French accent—who I was looking for. I said, “The new New Order.” She smiled and glanced at the records in her hand. “This?”—holding up Technique. We started talking, and I asked if she wanted to grab a coffee around the corner at Caffè Reggio.

Seated at a small table near the antique espresso machine, we talked about music, movies, her impressions of America, and the usual things that pass for plans at that age. She was from Toulouse, studying film. After a while, she asked if I wanted to go back to her dorm to listen to the record, and I walked her to her residence hall.

Her room was tidy, aside from the bed. The walls were covered with movie posters—A Clockwork Orange, Suburbia, and L'Homme qui aimait les femmes. We listened to the record twice before her roommate came home. “Love Less” became ours. We kissed goodnight.

After that, we saw each other regularly—shows, movies, museums. For nearly two years, we were rarely apart. On Halloween, she humored me, dressing as Red Sonja one year and Vampirella the next. She wore both well.

When she graduated, she moved back home, and I never saw her again. She left me the album. I don’t have it anymore, but I still think of her whenever I hear it.

One Drop of Wine

A few years ago, I had dinner with some colleagues at a Lebanese restaurant—good food, wine, and belly dancing. We ordered a couple of bottles to go with the meal. A Turkish friend of a friend who joined us made a show of dipping his finger into his glass, flicking a drop aside, and saying, “That’s the one drop of wine I cannot have.”

It caught me off guard. In Islam, wine is considered strictly haram—unlawful—so the gesture seemed contradictory.

Later, I learned that the custom is sometimes associated with the Bektashi, a Sufi order known for its unorthodox practices. It is said to come from a story in which the leader of the sect, in the presence of the Ottoman Sultan, cited the injunction against consuming “one drop” of alcohol—then flicked a drop from his goblet before drinking.

Whether apocryphal or not, the gesture stayed with me—half ritual, half defiance, and entirely memorable.

~ By Giovanni di Napoli, May 3rd, Feast of the Finding of the Holy Cross by St. Helena

Photo of the Week: Roman Marble Sarcophagus Depicting a Dionysian Procession, Vatican Museum

Photo by New York Scugnizzo

The Lesser Rogations at the Shrine Church of the Blessed Sacrament in Raritan, New Jersey

In Search of Alaric I with the Ghost of the Count of Sciancato

In Search of… with the Ghost of the Count of Sciancato explores mysteries where history and legend blur and conjecture begins—along with the strange, the macabre, and the uncanny. What follows suggests possible explanations—though not the only ones.

Alaric I: The King Beneath the River

In the fading years of empire, when marble cracked and legions thinned, a foreign king rode through the gates of the Eternal City.

Sack of Rome by the Visigoths
by Joseph-Noel Sylvestre (1890)

His name was Alaric.

In 410 AD, his Visigothic warriors entered Rome—not as traders or mercenaries, but as conquerors. For three days they looted palaces, stripped gilded statues, and carried away treasures that had glittered since the age of Augustus. Rome had been sacked before in distant antiquity, but not in living memory, and to many it felt like the beginning of the end.

Alaric did not linger to build a throne among the ruins. He marched south, perhaps dreaming of Sicily and Africa’s grain fields. Instead, he died—some say of fever, others of exhaustion, and a few of divine judgment.

What followed is stranger still.

Near the city of Cosenza, by the banks of the Busento River, his warriors are said to have performed an extraordinary feat. They diverted the river from its course and, in the dry riverbed, dug a tomb for their king, laying him to rest with the spoils of Rome—gold, silver, sacred vessels, perhaps even relics taken from ancient temples. Then the waters were returned to their path.

And the captives—so the Gothic chronicler Jordanes records in his Origins and Deeds of the Goths (Getica)—were slain, so that none could betray the secret.

The Burial of Alaric in the Bed of the Busento River, 1895
The Cyclopedia of Universal History by John Clark Ridpath

A king buried beneath flowing water—his tomb sealed not by stone but by current.

Is it merely legend—a poetic flourish from the twilight of empire? Or does Alaric still lie beneath the shifting bed of the Busento, his treasure undisturbed, the river running over his grave for sixteen centuries?

Archaeologists have searched. Treasure hunters have speculated. Modern surveys have mapped the terrain. No tomb has been found; no golden hoard has been drawn from the mud. Yet rivers move, earth shifts, and secrets do not always remain obedient to time.

When the Busento floods and the waters run dark after heavy rain, some in Calabria still recall the old tale—the conqueror of Rome, hidden where no empire can reach him.

Is Alaric’s watery grave only a story born from Rome’s long decline?

Or does he remain there still, enthroned in silence beneath the restless river?

……………………………………

Sebastiano III, Conte di Sciancato, a minor prince of forgotten Lucania, was said to have loved his wife more than his soul. When his beloved bride, Donna Lucrezia di Nerafiora, died in a tragic accident, he could not accept the will of fate. In his grief, he turned to ancient books and desperate learning, searching for a way to restore her to the world of the living. The attempt cost him his life. The ruins of his torre lie hidden, and when the earth trembles, some whisper he still searches for her.

Remembering El Tres de Mayo

The Third of May, 1808 in Madrid (1814) by Francisco José de Goya

Following the Spanish uprising in Madrid against Napoleon on 2 May 1808 (Dos de Mayo), the brave and loyal sons and daughters of Spain were rounded up on 3 May (Tres de Mayo) and massacred en masse. We pray for the happy repose of their souls. ¡Viva la Contrarrevolución!

Eternal rest grant unto them, O Lord, and let perpetual light shine upon them. May the souls of all the faithful departed, through the mercy of God, rest in peace. Amen.

New Music — Domenico Scarlatti: Sonatas

New music that may be of interest to our readers.

• Domenico Scarlatti: Sonatas performed by Asako Ogawa

Label: First Hand
Release Date: March 19, 2026
Audio CD: $21.99
Number of Discs: 1

Available at Amazon.com

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Feast of the Ascension at Our Lady of Sorrows Church in Jersey City, New Jersey

A Brief Detour at the New York Public Library

The Century Association clubhouse, located at 7 West 43rd Street in Midtown
Manhattan, was designed by Stanford White of McKim, Mead & White in
the Italian Renaissance Revival style and completed in 1891

Arriving early for a lunch meeting at the Century Association—even by my own hyper-punctual standards—I found myself with time to spare. Rather than linger idly, I walked over to the nearby Treasures exhibition at the New York Public Library.

An eclectic assemblage of objects of varying importance, the exhibition’s unevenness is part of its charm. Moving through it, one encounters not a single narrative but fragments of many—scientific, artistic, religious—each briefly illuminated before giving way to the next (see images below).

It is, in the end, less a cohesive exhibition than a cabinet of curiosities. But perhaps that is the point. To pass, in the span of an hour, from medieval chant to Renaissance printmaking to early modern astronomy is to be reminded how much of the past survives—not as a continuous story, but as scattered inheritances, waiting to be noticed.

When I stepped back out onto Fifth Avenue, I had just enough time to make my way to my meeting.

An Afternoon at the Century Association

Every day, I find myself asking a simple question: how does an old, grumpy street urchin from Brooklyn keep ending up in such rarefied places? In the past year alone, I have had an audience with the Pope, dined at the Palazzo Borghese, and met Prince Carlo di Borbone at the Grand Magistery in Rome. None of it quite fits the script I once imagined for myself.

Cufflink with the two-faced god Janus

Just the other day, that question returned as I sat down for lunch at the Century Association, a private social, arts, and dining club founded in 1847 in New York City. I arrived with modest expectations, pleased simply to have an excuse to wear my father’s old Janus cufflinks, unaware of the setting I was about to step into.

Inside, the club revealed itself gradually. On the second floor, an art exhibit by its members was underway, while the stairways were lined with pieces from the permanent collection, left behind by earlier generations. One room in particular stood out: a gallery devoted to the Hudson River School, where a large, luminous landscape by John Frederick Kensett drew the eye. The building itself, styled after an Italian palazzo, was furnished with marble and bronze sculptures, arranged without ostentation.

No photographs were permitted—a small frustration, perhaps—but also a fitting one. Some places are meant to be experienced rather than documented, and to leave with the memory intact, unmediated, is its own kind of privilege.

~ By Giovanni di Napoli, May 1st, Feast of St. Joseph the Worker

De astronomia, attributed to Gaius Julius Hyginus (1st century),
illuminated manuscript, 1475-1480

 Harmonia Macrocosmica, Andreas Cellarius (ca. 1596-1665),
Amsterdam, Johannes Janssonius, 1661

Hunt-Lenox Globe, copper, ca. 1508

(L) "Four scenes from the Life of Daniel," in Part II, Volume 3 of Bible historiale (Historical Bible), illuminated manuscript, ca. 1480. Artist: Associate of Jean Bourdichon (1457-1521). Authors: Petrus Comestor (ca. 1100-1179), and Guyart des Moulins (ca. 1251-ca. 1297). (R) Hypnerotomachia Poliphili, Francesco Colonna (ca. 1453-1517), Venice: Aldus Manutius, 1499

(L) Il Terzo Libro Di Sabastiano Serlio...(The Third Book of Sebastiano Serlio), Sebastiano Serlio (1475-1554), Venetia: Impresso per Francesco Marcolino da Forli, 1540. (R) Book of Medieval Chant Fragments, iron gall ink on paper, 11th-12th centuries

Symphony No. 32 in G Major, K. 318, 1779,
Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart (1756-1791)

Vida de San Felipe de Jesus Protomartir del Japon y Patron de su Patria México, hand-colored engravings, 1801, José María Montes de Oca (1772-ca. 1825)

Frontispiece to the Vedute di Roma (Views of Rome), etching ca. 1748,
Giovanni Battista Piranesi (1720-1778)

Poster for the musical Jumbo at the New York Hippodrome,
color lithograph mounted on board, ca. 1935

Remembering the Dos de Mayo Uprising in Madrid

The Charge of the Mamelukes or The Second of May 1808 by Francisco de Goya

In remembrance of the May 2nd Uprising of Madrid against Napoleon in 1808, we offer a prayer to the brave and loyal people of Spain who fought and died for Dios, Patria, Fueros y Rey. ¡Viva la Contrarrevolución!

Eternal rest grant unto them, O Lord, and let perpetual light shine upon them. May the souls of all the faithful departed, through the mercy of God, rest in peace. Amen.

New Book — The Sicilian Constitutional Insurrection of 1820

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

• The Sicilian Constitutional Insurrection of 1820 by Angelo Grimaldi

Publisher: Dises Centro di Ricerche Giuridiche e Politico-Costituzionali
Pub. Date: April 18, 2026
Paperback: $15.00
Language: English
Pages: 110

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A Quiet Rediscovery of Time: Ernst Jünger’s The Sandglass Book

Sandglasses in a friend's art studio

Time simply accumulates in depth.
~ Ernst Jünger

As a longtime admirer of Ernst Jünger, I was immediately intrigued by this recent translation of The Sandglass Book (released March 25, 2026). I purchased and downloaded a Kindle copy to my device without hesitation.

Having read only the introduction and first chapter thus far, I can already say it captures what has long drawn me to Jünger: a reflective engagement with time, memory, and the inner life as shaped by them. His reflections move from the concrete to the symbolic, touching on images such as Melencolia I and Saint Jerome in His Study, both by Albrecht Dürer, in which the sandglass becomes part of a deeper contemplative world.

The prose moves deliberately, inviting the reader to slow down and consider what modern life tends to rush past.

Rodica Buzescu’s translation is clear and attentive, preserving the contemplative tone while making the text accessible to an English-speaking audience. It unfolds naturally, allowing the reader to arrive at its insights on their own.

If the opening is any indication, this is a work to be read patiently and returned to often. I couldn’t wait to share it.