A Reflection on the Day of the Legitimate Monarchy

Reading Riccardo Pasqualin’s article, Prepariamoci per il Giorno della Monarchia Legittima (Let Us Prepare for the Day of the Legitimate Monarchy), on Ernesto il Disingannato introduced me to a Carlist observance previously unknown to me. I was intrigued to learn that November 4, the Feast of St. Charles Borromeo, is also a day when Carlists honor their legitimate dynasty.

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

A Change of Plans: The Siren City Will Have to Wait

The embossed leather dust jacket for my
new journal, adorned with the Three Graces

Well, it seems my return to Napoli was not meant to be, at least not this time. The trip was canceled at the last minute, but thankfully, nothing serious was amiss; it was merely an unexpected change of plans.

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.

Vespers for the Dead at Good Shepherd Parish in Hopelawn, New Jersey

The Siren Calls: Returning to Parthenope

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

This time for work, I’m off to Napoli for just a few days. My writing and correspondence may slow down a bit while I’m away, but I hope to find some time between obligations to wander its ancient streets and revisit a few familiar places.

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!

Photo of the Week: Satyr Playing the Flute, Vatican Museum

Photo by New York Scugnizzo

Feast of St. Charles Borremeo at the Metropolitan Cathedral of Saint Mary of the Assumption in San Francisco, California

Requiem Mass at the Church of the Blessed Sacrament in New Rochelle, New York

Unbowed

To Arms! (1888), Edmund Blair Leighton

I had an interesting encounter the other day with an annoying little fellow, a self-important blowhard who loves the sound of his own voice. I would hardly call him a friend, though our paths frequently cross because we move in some of the same circles.

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

All Souls' Day at Our Lady of Sorrows Church in Jersey City, New Jersey

All Souls' Day at the Oratory of St. Josaphat in Bayside, Queens

A Brilliant Darkness: Tea With Naglowska (A Halloween Tale)

"La Sophiale de Montparnasse"

The dream is the small, hidden door in the deepest, most intimate sanctum of the soul. ~ Carl Jung

I had the most surreal dream the other night.

After her talk on Joanna I of Naples, Maria de Naglowska crossed the crowded marble floor of the opulent banquet hall and slipped into my half-circle booth. She wore sheer black lace and sat composed, almost statuesque. I lit her cigarette, and the smoke curled around her shoulders, softening the boundary between body and air. At her nod, I poured strong black tea into a glass nestled in an ornate podstakannik. Grey Osetra caviar waited between us, uneaten. Its briny perfume was sharp and distinctly Caspian.

As though continuing a conversation from another lifetime (or another dream), we spoke of Botticelli’s Birth of Venus. She echoed my own reaction when I first saw it at the Uffizi. Prints and online reproductions do it no justice, and its reputation only becomes intelligible in person. Strangely, her voice sounded a lot like Natasha Fatale, the lanky Transylvanian femme fatale from The Rocky and Bullwinkle Show. What surprised me more was not the resemblance, but her familiarity with the internet.

Behind a heavy velvet drape, a hidden choral ensemble unfurled the dissonant madrigals of Carlo Gesualdo da Venosa, voices colliding and parting, beautiful and wrong. The Stile Floreale room breathed luxury, with mirrors threaded with gold veins, and cigarette haze thick as felt. It was a cultural crossroads crowded with artists, intellectuals, and nobility, though I could not say why I had been admitted.

"The Temptress of St. Tropez"

The evening honored a newly discovered painting of the Queen of Naples, long shadowed by rumor, unveiled here for the first time. As dreams are wont to do, the image changed its likeness. Instead of an early Renaissance portrait by an unknown hand, the painting looked uncannily like the pin-up of a young Brigitte Bardot I once kept in my high-school locker.

Touching my neck with her satin-gloved hand, Maria leaned closer and murmured, "Let’s get out of here, darling," languid and indulgent, her tone now pure Zsa Zsa Gabor.

The incongruity finally roused me. I was at my desk. My study was dark save for the green glow of the antique Emeraldite lamp. Gesualdo's madrigals still played, my playlist caught on repeat. Beneath my hand lay an old copy of Mystical Symbolism: The Salon de la Rose+Croix in Paris, 1892-1897. Loose tea leaves clung to the bottom of my cup of Russian Caravan. For a moment, before the room fully settled into itself, I could still smell smoke and brine and feel the faint brush of satin fingers on the back of my shaven pate.

~ By Giovanni di Napoli, October 30th, Feast of Sant'Angelo d'Acri

Also see:
• The Toll of the Corbies (A Halloween Tale)

Claesz’s Vanitas: A Meditation on Death

Still Life with a Skull and a Writing Quill, 1628, oil on wood, Pieter Claesz

Among the many treasures at the Metropolitan Museum of Art, I repeatedly return to Still Life with a Skull and a Writing Quill (1628) by the Dutch master Pieter Claesz, currently on view as part of Layered Narratives: The Northern Renaissance Gallery. Somber and haunting, the composition depicts a gap-toothed skull, an overturned glass, a writing quill, and an oil lamp whose dying flame evokes the inevitable extinguishing of life. Rendered in muted grays and earthy browns, these humble objects possess an unsettling beauty.

A striking example of the European vanitas tradition, the painting embodies the ancient admonition memento mori, “remember that you must die.” Far more than a morbid fascination with death, such works served as solemn reminders of the futility of worldly pursuits, the fleeting nature of earthly pleasures, and the certainty of divine judgment.

As Hallowtide begins, with its ancient associations with death and the departed, the painting seems particularly fitting. Beneath its macabre imagery lies a profound spiritual truth. No wealth, beauty, or worldly achievement can spare us from the grave. Yet to remember death is also to remember how one ought to live. Happy Halloween!

~ By Giovanni di Napoli, October 30th, Feast of Sant’Angelo D’Acri

All Souls at Our Lady of Sorrows Church in Jersey City, New Jersey

Why This Sci-Fi/Fantasy Fan Refuses to Watch Sci-Fi/Fantasy

No, I’m not making this up. This is an actual promo for The Rings of Power, season three, showing the teenage children of Prince Durin and Princess Disa

“If you are such a big science fiction and fantasy fan, why didn’t you watch Watchmen,* Lanterns, or The Boys?” For precisely the same reason I didn’t watch Peacemaker, Supergirl, or The Odyssey: I’m a big science fiction and fantasy fan.

I respect the lore and the genre, and expect high-quality storytelling. I also have enough self-respect and brains to reject the ideological slop Hollywood churns out to ridicule, humiliate, and alienate the very fanbase that made these properties valuable in the first place.

Generally, I refuse to knowingly subject myself to this garbage, though in recent years I have made a couple of exceptions for Red Sonja and The Rings of Power because Robert E. Howard and J.R.R. Tolkien are my absolute favorites. While the chain-bikini-clad iteration of Red Sonja is technically not a Howard character, she inhabits his Hyborian Age, and I grew up reading Roy Thomas' stories.

Controversial among my friends, and a point we argue incessantly, I would even go so far as to say I slightly prefer Howard to Tolkien. So, when Netflix’s plan for a live-action Conan the Barbarian series was abandoned back in 2020, we didn’t realize how lucky we were. As I wrote in The Witcher and Elric of Melniboné, I’m now genuinely relieved they skipped this opportunity to drag Howard's masterful creations through the mud.

Professor Tolkien, unfortunately, was not so lucky. His Middle-earth did not escape the clutches of these fell fiends. No exaggeration, The Rings of Power may be my most hated television series of all time, and I watched Briganti.

With season three scheduled for release this November, I can’t wait to argue again with the dullards in my office who actually like the show. Hard to believe, I know, but fans of this garbage do exist. Alas, the weirdos and mattoids we encounter on social media are all too real.

~ By Giovanni di Napoli, October 29th, Feast of San Gaetano Errico

* I actually liked the Watchmen (2009) movie, but had absolutely no interest in the 2019 TV series.

Spooky-Scary!

Waffles and Sammy

Famous for its spectacular “Dyker Lights” Christmas displays, Dyker Heights is also home to the lesser-known “Dyker Frights” Halloween decorations. Though admittedly a little less elaborate than in years past, plenty of houses are still decked out for the occasion, ready to welcome all the little ghouls and goblins roaming the neighborhood in search of treats.

Among the more memorable sights, at least for me, were what I believe to be Sammy the Crab from The Mighty Boosh and the ghost of Waffles, the ferocious Hound of Doom. Best of all, after a hiatus of several years, the legendary 79th Street House of Horror, between 11th and 12th Avenues, has returned! Though considerably scaled back from its former glory, it’s good to see this neighborhood favorite back from the dead.

As always, I look forward to handing out candy and seeing which costume proves most popular this year. Wishing you all a happy, safe, and frightfully fun Halloween! ~ Giovanni

(Above & below) The 79th Street House of Horror has risen!

Remembering Joseph-Louis Guérin

Portrait of the "little Zouave," Joseph-Louis Guérin, circa 1860

“Blood is necessary to appease the anger of God; I will give mine” *

In memory of Joseph-Louis Guérin (b. 5 April, 1838 — d. 30 October 1860), Papal Zouave who died defending the Papacy from the Piedmontese at the Battle of Castelfidardo in le Marche, we pray for the happy repose of his soul.

Eternal rest grant unto him, 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.

* Quoted from Papal Zouave History

Also see:

• The Papal Zouave Saint? The Story of Joseph-Louis Guérin

Feast of All Saints at Our Lady of Sorrows in Jersey City, New Jersey

A Prayer for Toledo

Virgen del Sagrario, ora pro nobis

Our thoughts and prayers go out to the victims of the tragic train collision in the province of Toledo, Spain, and to their grieving families and loved ones. We are deeply saddened by the loss of life, the suffering, and the devastation. May San Ildefonso, Santa Leocadia de Toledo, Santa Casilda de Toledo, and the Virgen del Sagrario intercede for all those affected by this tragedy and bring them comfort and peace.

Heavenly Father, You are our refuge and our strength, our light in times of darkness. In this hour of sorrow and suffering, we humbly ask that You grant us peace through Your boundless love and divine guidance. Help us bear our grief with faith and courage, and never allow us to lose hope. Remind us that even amid tragedy, You remain with us, as You always have. In our darkest moments, Lord, may Your presence comfort the afflicted, strengthen the suffering, and console those who mourn. For Your infinite mercy and enduring love, we give You thanks.

In Search of Aleister Crowley in Cefalù with the Ghost of the Count of Sciancato

As Halloween approaches, In Search of… with the Ghost of the Count of Sciancato ventures into the strange, the macabre, and the uncanny, exploring mysteries where history and legend blur and conjecture begins. What follows suggests possible explanations, though not the only ones.

Aleister Crowley in Cefalù: The Abbey of Thelema

On the northern coast of Sicily, where the Tyrrhenian washes the shore, and the great rock of Cefalù rises like an antediluvian altar, an Englishman once declared himself the herald of the Aeon of Horus. His name was Aleister Crowley, poet, mountaineer, occultist, and, to some, the wickedest man in the world.

Aleister Crowley, 1934

In 1920, Crowley established what he called the Abbey of Thelema in Cefalù, a crumbling villa that he transformed into a communal magical laboratory. There, he and his followers pursued ritual magic, esoteric study, and what Crowley termed True Will. Walls were adorned with lurid murals and arcane symbols drawn from ancient Egypt and modern imagination alike.

Neighbors whispered, newspapers sensationalized, and stories spread of strange rites, nocturnal ceremonies, and moral transgression. When a young English follower, Raoul Loveday, died of a fever in 1923 after a brief illness, scandal hardened into outrage. Crowley was accused of ritual depravity and dark influence.

In 1923, Benito Mussolini’s government expelled him from Italy, and the Abbey was eventually abandoned. Locals soon whitewashed the murals, and the building stood empty for decades.

Crowley died in England in 1947, far from the Sicilian coast that briefly held his grandest experiment. Yet the Abbey, weathered and scarred, lingers in cultural memory, a place where modern occultism sought Mediterranean rebirth.

Did the self-proclaimed Beast find illumination on that rocky shore?

Or did Cefalù simply absorb him, as Sicily has absorbed conquerors, mystics, and madmen before, folding his legend into its long, sun-struck history?

……………………………………

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.

Requiem Mass at St. Mary of Mt. Virgin in New Brunswick, New Jersey

In Search of the Ghost of Joachim Murat in Pizzo Calabro with the Ghost of the Count of Sciancato

As Halloween approaches, In Search of… with the Ghost of the Count of Sciancato ventures into the strange, the macabre, and the uncanny, exploring mysteries where history and legend blur and conjecture begins. What follows suggests possible explanations, though not the only ones.

The Ghost of Joachim Murat: The Restless Usurper in Pizzo Calabro

Along La Costa degli Dei, where the sea breaks against the cliffs of Pizzo and the old Aragonese castle overlooks the water, the ghost of a fallen usurper is said to linger. His name was Joachim Murat, a French cavalry officer, marshal of Napoleon, and puppet king of Naples.

In October 1815, Murat landed at Pizzo with a small band of followers, hoping to reclaim the kingdom he had lost. Napoleon's empire had collapsed, and Ferdinand IV of Bourbon had recovered his throne. Yet Murat, unwilling to accept his defeat, imagined that the people of Southern Italy would rise to welcome his return. Instead, he was met with hostility, seized, and imprisoned in the fortress.

The Execution of Joachim Murat
by Edoardo Matania (1847–1929)

Tried by a military commission, Murat was condemned to death and executed by firing squad on October 13, 1815. His body was buried in an unmarked grave beneath the Church of San Giorgio, where his remains are believed to rest.

But death, it seems, did not entirely silence the former king. According to local legend, Murat’s restless spirit, chained and cloaked in royal finery, still wanders the castle, unable to find peace. Some claim to have glimpsed his apparition within the old stronghold, condemned to haunt the place where his ambitions ended.

For years, it was said that violent storms around the anniversary of his downfall, known as 'A tempesta i Giacchinu (Joachim’s Tempest), were attributed by some to Murat’s restless spirit crying out for vengeance.

Perhaps the ghost of Pizzo is nothing more than a storm or a trick of the mind. Yet when thunder rolls across the sea, it may be the lingering vanity of a defeated usurper, condemned to wander the shores of a kingdom that was never rightfully his.

……………………………………

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.

When the Hunter’s Moon Rises

My jack-o’-lantern illuminated from within, its mischievous grin piercing the darkness beneath the Hunter’s Moon

I drew her down on me
I drew her with a smile
~ PJ Harvey, "Yuri-G"

While stargazing with a friend late Sunday night, I had the pleasure of witnessing the magnificent Hunter’s Moon, traditionally associated with the height of the autumn hunting season. Enormous and luminous, it dominated the heavens, with Saturn shining nearby.

Over a bottle of Aglianico del Vulture, our conversation turned to Halloween and my plans to attend a party. My companion seemed surprised by my enthusiasm for the holiday, having assumed that my faith would make me opposed to such festivities.

Quite the contrary. I have little patience for puritanical gatekeepers who regard drinking, dancing, music, art, and other earthly pleasures with suspicion. There is a place for fasting, penance, and reparation, all of which I practice, just as there is a place for rejoicing in God’s gifts. Halloween, after all, belongs to the ancient Christian observance of Hallowtide, when the Church remembers the saints and our dearly departed.

Nor do I dismiss the things that haunt the darkness. I believe in demons, witches, ghosts, and magic. As for goblins and zombies, I encounter them on the subway almost daily. My ancestral Irpinian blood and peculiar affinity for La Bella Luna leave me equally convinced that werewolves still prowl beneath her pale light.

And every year, as All Hallows’ Eve approaches and the veil between the living and the dead grows thin, I hear my late mother’s voice calling my name in the black of night. Strangely, I never hear my father’s.

Of course, there are those who profane and corrupt the occasion, but what human endeavor is immune to such abuses? The corruption of a tradition is no reason to abandon it.

So when All Hallows’ Eve descends and wandering souls draw near, I shall greet the trick-or-treaters with cheer and candy before enjoying my ossa dei morti and amaro while the waning moon keeps watch. Happy Halloween!

~ By Giovanni di Napoli, October 26th, Feast of San Gaudioso di Salerno

Fiore Marro Honored for His Lifelong Dedication to Southern Italy's Heritage and Future

Premio Eccellenze 2026 awarded to Fiore Marro

On October 22, 2026, Fiore Marro, National President of the Comitati delle Due Sicilie (CDS), received a prestigious recognition at Montecitorio in Rome for his decades-long efforts to preserve and promote the historical and cultural heritage of Southern Italy. Throughout his life, Marro, a businessman and journalist, has conducted research, published books, and organized conferences and heritage trips to promote a fuller understanding of the history of the regions that once constituted the Kingdom of the Two Sicilies.

Hailing from Cervinara, in Irpinia, President Marro founded and continues to lead the Comitati delle Due Sicilie, an organization that unites those seeking to deepen their knowledge of Southern Italy, its history, people, traditions, and place in the broader European and global context. He has helped transform the CDS into an institution capable of bringing historical research from public and private archives, as well as family memories, to a wider audience, creating opportunities for dialogue, cultural exchange, and collective growth.

Fiore Marro receiving his award from
Deputy Cav. Alessandro Caramiello

President Marro is affectionately known as “Mister” by the many young people he has mentored through his years coaching youth soccer leagues in the province of Avellino. His colleagues and readers also refer to him as “Vate,” a title suggesting a visionary or prophetic figure, in recognition of his ability to inspire a collective vision for the South’s future.

He is also the director of Belvedere News and Inviato News, as well as the author of numerous articles and books on Southern history and historical fiction. His published works include Un’anima divisa in due (Giuseppe Vozza Editore, 2007), Uomini del Sud, visti da vicino (Editore Tramontano, 2022), La fine dei vinti (Edizioni L’Aperia), and Briganti e Brigantesse (Capasso Massimo Editore).

President Marro’s strength lies in his unwavering vision for the future and his commitment to academic rigor in the pursuit of historical truth, avoiding mere counterpropaganda, nostalgia, and appeals to victimhood or special concessions. Instead, he invites us to rediscover the immense treasures of our documented history, preserved in the living memory of the people, in local and foreign archives, and in the monuments and buildings that still stand throughout the territory. The South, he maintains, should be understood as any nation would be, with all its complexities, particularities, and contradictions, as well as its remarkable men and women who have distinguished themselves in every field.

The Honorable Alessandro Caramiello, a deputy from Naples, engineer, consultant, and knight of the Sacred Military Constantinian Order of Saint George (SMOCSG), is fiercely proud of his Southern heritage. During the XIX Legislature, he founded the Parliamentary Intergroup for the Development of the South, Fragile Areas, and Lesser Islands. Now comprising 50 members from across the political spectrum, the intergroup also includes a technical committee dedicated to supporting businesses and fostering conditions for sustainable economic growth throughout the regions.

Deeply attentive to his native Campania and the South as a whole, Deputy Caramiello had followed President Marro’s tireless efforts and promptly nominated him for this recognition. He presented the honor during the Eccellenze 2026 conference before an audience of CDS members and citizens from across Southern Italy and the islands who had traveled to Rome for the occasion. Their presence made the ceremony itself a historic moment in the halls of Parliament.

The occasion was a tangible celebration of the unity shared by those who love their ancestral homeland and an important acknowledgment of the need to confront both the positive and negative aspects of their shared history and present circumstances.

President Marro and the Honorable Caramiello spoke about what it means today to provocatively declare oneself Borbonico and embrace the challenge of not only defending one’s true historical identity but also transforming that pride, knowledge, and determination into meaningful action toward future economic and cultural achievement.

All too often, discussions of the South remain trapped in tired stereotypes of criminality, poverty, and emigration, narratives shaped in part by the occupation and forcible annexation of the former Kingdom of the Two Sicilies into the emerging Italian state. Such portrayals overlook the region’s complex history and extraordinary cultural inheritance. Marro’s work has challenged these narratives, offering a broader and more dignified understanding of the South and its people.

The CDS, together with supporters of the Two Sicilies community and its diaspora, extends its heartfelt gratitude to Fiore Marro for leading by example, dedicating his time and personal resources to preserving the memory of our homeland, and continually fostering a sense of shared belonging.

Through his tireless efforts, he has demonstrated how we can remain firmly rooted in our heritage while building a stronger future for generations to come. Above all, he reminds us that the South is not merely a land of nostalgia, folklore, and tourism, but a vibrant homeland of excellence and achievement in every field, capable of continuing to make its mark on the world stage.

~ By Cav. Charles Sant’Elia

Photo of the Week: Roman Statue of "Lycurgus or Lysias," Vatican Museum

Photo by New York Scugnizzo