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

Remembering Giacinto de' Sivo

b. Maddaloni, Kingdom of Naples, 29 November
1814—d. Rome, Papal States, 19 November 1867

In memory of Giacinto de' Sivo, Neapolitan legitimist, historian and politician, 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

Feast of St. Catherine Laboure at St. Catherine Laboure Church in North Middletown, New Jersey

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

Feast of Saint Catherine of Alexandria at Our Lady of Good Counsel Church in Township of Washington, NJ

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

Photo by New York Scugnizzo

Requiem Mass at St. Aidan Church in Williston Park, New York

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

Remembering Maria Clementina of Austria, Queen of the Two Sicilies

24 April 1777 — 15 November 1801

In memory of Maria Clementina of Austria, Queen of the Two Sicilies, we pray for the happy repose of her soul. Viva ‘a Reggina!

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

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

Vespers for the Dead at St. Joseph's Church in West Milford, New Jersey

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

Guillermo del Toro’s Frankenstein: A Requiem for the Dead, the Damned, and the Neapolitan Dawn of a Monster

Only monsters play God.

It feels strangely fitting that Guillermo del Toro’s Frankenstein (2025) premiered in November, the Church’s month of remembrance for the Poor and Forgotten Souls in Purgatory—and yet, at the same time, it's hauntingly odd that it did not open in theaters on Halloween. Perhaps that was by design. Del Toro’s reimagining is not about jump-scares and shrieks, but a lament for the lost—a requiem for the restless dead. It belongs to November’s cold breath, not October’s masquerade.

Del Toro, a master of the macabre, conjures a world where beauty festers and sorrow gleams. Every shot feels carved from marble and shadow. His creature—stitched together from ambition, grief, and the daemonic impulse to play God—is less a monster than a soul suspended between heaven and hell. Watching him stumble through his creator's ruins is like gazing into Purgatory itself, where love and sin burn side by side in the same flame.

Visually and audibly, the film is a triumph. The performances are uniformly superb, and the sets are grand yet desolate. The costumes seem woven from mourning veils and funeral silks, each rich with texture and sorrowful grace. The score hums with dread and pity, echoing like a hymn from a ruined chapel. Few recent films have looked or sounded so hauntingly beautiful.

There's a striking symmetry—almost providential—in this return to Frankenstein’s origins. Though conceived in Geneva, Mary Shelley’s novel gives life to its eponymous protagonist—the true monster—in Naples (a detail not depicted in del Toro's film), an ancient city where the sacred and profane share the same breath, where death is no stranger, and the stones seem to whisper with ghosts. Shelley was deeply inspired by the city’s vitality and decay, its charnel houses and shrines, its proximity to both beauty and oblivion—and it's said Naples helped influence her vision of life torn from death.

Naples, no stranger to monsters, is even said to cradle the bones—and perhaps the restless spirit—of Vlad Tepes, the Prince of Wallachia, whose dark legend would one day cast the shadow of Dracula. It's a city where resurrection feels possible, even perilous. Del Toro’s gothic sensibility seems to draw from that same well—the city’s volcanic heartbeat, its mingling of death and divinity.

Reanimated across genres and generations, the creature refuses to die

As someone who has loved Shelley’s masterpiece since childhood, I’ve spent a lifetime chasing its many incarnations across screen and shadow. I’ve seen Frankenstein reanimated in every form imaginable: humorous, as in Young Frankenstein; erotic, in Lady Frankenstein; set in the Wild West, in Jesse James Meets Frankenstein’s Daughter; reborn as kaiju terror, in The War of the Gargantuas (the sequel to Frankenstein vs. Baragon); and rendered with tragic grandeur in gothic science fiction like Bride of Frankenstein.

But none of those countless incarnations prepared me for del Toro’s vision. Though it's not a faithful retelling, his film stays true to Shelley’s original spirit—its anguish, its wonder, its holy terror at the act of creation. His Frankenstein isn't just an adaptation but an exhumation—it digs into myth and memory, unearthing the moral bones Shelley buried two centuries ago.

It might not have been released on Halloween, but perhaps that is just as well. Halloween delights in shadows; Frankenstein listens to the voices that linger within them. In November’s fading light, del Toro’s creature stirs—not to terrify, but to remind us that even the dead dream of mercy and forgiveness.

~ By Giovanni di Napoli, November 11th, Feast of San Martino di Tours

Dedication of the Basilicas of Sts. Peter and Paul at Sacred Heart of Jesus Church in Rockaway, New Jersey

Remembering the Fallen — A Prayer for Veterans Day

Photo by New York Scugnizzo

In honor of Veterans Day I’m posting a Prayer for Deceased Veterans. The accompanying photo of the Sixty First District Memorial was taken at Greenwood Playground, my childhood stomping ground, located at the corner of East 5th Street and Greenwood Avenue, Windsor Terrace, Brooklyn. Dedicated on November 11, 1922, the classical bronze relief by Charles Keck commemorates the 47 men of Draft Board District 61 who made the ultimate sacrifice in WWI.

Prayer for Deceased Veterans

O God, by whose mercy the faithful departed find rest, look kindly on your departed veterans who gave their lives in the service of their country. Grant that through the passion, death, and resurrection of your Son they may share in the joy of your heavenly kingdom and rejoice in you with your saints forever. We ask this through Christ our Lord. Amen.

New York Purgatorial Society Annual Solemn Requiem Mass at St. Vincent Ferrer Church in New York City

Il Portastendardo di Civitella del Tronto (n. 53 - Novembre 2025)

Photo of the Week: Detail of Fountain Outside the Basilica di Santa Trofimena, Minori

Photo by New York Scugnizzo

Solemn Requiem Mass at Annunciation Parish in Crestwood, New York

Back Among the Ruins: Reflections After the Woods

“Be still, and know that I am God.” — Psalm 46:10

The morning after returning from the woods, the city seemed louder than ever. The subway’s groan, the blaring horns, the reckless scooters careening down the sidewalk, the polyglot chatter of strangers—all of it crashed in at once, like a tide against the mind. After the silence of the forest, the noise felt invasive—almost painful. Yet soon enough, one remembers the rhythm again: coffee, train, work, conversation, distraction. The machinery of modern life resumes its ceaseless motion.

And yet, as much as I love the woods, I cannot leave the city. My life, my work, my duties bind me here. Its energy, its pace, its sheer immediacy still stir something in me—though it comes at a cost. The stillness of the forest lingers only faintly here, often drowned beneath the clamor.

Even so, something within resists. The quiet I found among the turning leaves still rustles beneath the surface, faint but insistent, like a prayer remembered between errands. Once, city life carried a kind of rhythm—hurried, yes, but not yet hostile. It felt alive, not frantic. Now, amid the incessant din, the lurid temptations, the steady decline of living standards, and the increasingly frequent altercations, I find myself asking what it all amounts to.

In the woods, life had seemed ordered—each falling leaf fulfilling its purpose, each breeze whispering of transience and renewal. Here, in the city, we chase permanence through motion, as if busyness could substitute for meaning. But grace, I think, is not found in movement but in awareness—the ability to see eternity flickering even in the mundane.

The saints worked, prayed, and walked among the same noise we endure, yet they carried the silence of contemplation within them. Perhaps that is the task now: to let the stillness of retreat shape the noise of return, to find a chapel not only in the forest but in the crowd. The meaning of life is not hidden in some distant refuge; it waits, quietly, in the midst of our daily grind, asking only to be noticed.

And so, until the day comes when I can retire to the woods, even here among the ruins, the task remains the same—to order life toward the Cross, and to carry its silence within the noise.

~ By Giovanni di Napoli, November 8th, Feast of the Four Holy Crowned Martyrs

Memorie Ritrovate

Narrazioni dal Fondo storico della Biblioteca Civica di Belluno e oltre

Twenty-Third Sunday After Pentecost at St. Michael's Church in Staten Island, New York

A Serene Discovery at Bear Cottage

It was on a quiet day in the woods of upstate New York that we found Bear Cottage—a quaint art studio, antique shop, and Marian shrine tended by a delightful Sicilian couple. Tucked beneath the maple and chestnut trees, it breathed of linseed oil and Sunday ragù, the mingled scents of atelier and hearth.

Inside, the artist’s workshop brimmed with curiosities: portrait paintings, carved figures, and relics of forgotten crafts. Amid the sunlight filtering through old glass panes, one piece caught my eye—a weathered ceramic jug topped with a whimsical cork in the form of a naked lady. Somehow, it felt meant for me.

I left the cottage with my newest addition in hand, my belly full, my heart light, and the lingering warmth of new friends and fading afternoon light among the pines.

~ By Giovanni di Napoli, November 7th, Feast of San Prosdocimo di Padova

Feast of the Four Holy Crowned Martyrs

The Martyrdom of the Four Holy Crowned
Martyrs attributed to Francesco Trevisani

Præsta, quǽsumus, omnípotens Deus: ut, qui gloriósos Mártyres fortes in sua conessióne cognóvimus, pios apud te in nostra intercessióne sentiámus. Per Dóminum nostrum Jesum Christum. Fíllum tuum. qui tecum vivit et regnat in unitáte Spíritus Sancti, Deus, per ómnia sǽcula sæculórum.

November 8th is the Feast of the Four Holy Crowned Martyrs—Claudius, Nicostratus, Simpronian, and Castorius—who lived in Rome during the reign of Emperor Diocletian (early 4th century). These Christian sculptors were commanded to carve idols of pagan gods but refused, boldly professing their faith in Christ. For their steadfastness, they were scourged and put to death.

Renowned as patrons of sculptors, stonemasons, and craftsmen, they embody the sanctification of labor and the courage to uphold truth against worldly demands. Their relics rest in the Basilica of Santi Quattro Coronati in Rome, where they have been venerated for centuries.

Four Holy Crowned Martyrs, orate pro nobis.

In celebration of his feast, we offer this prayer:

Grant, we beseech Thee, O almighty God, that we, who have known the fortitude of the glorious martyrs in bearing witness to Thee, may experience the fruit of their intercession with Thee. Through our Lord Jesus Christ, Thy Son, Who lives and reigns with Thee In the unity of the Holy Spirit, God, forever and ever.

Remembering King Francesco I of the Two Sicilies

b. 14 August 1777 - d. 8 November 1830

In memory of King Francesco I of the Two Sicilies, we pray for the happy repose of his soul. Viva ‘o Rre!

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

A Luna Reverie

A Nocturnal Meditation in the Passenger Seat

Homeward I rode as a passenger beneath the cool breath of night, the road winding through hills that once echoed with the tread of wolves. Beyond the misted glass, Luna kept her silent vigil—waning now, yet undiminished in grace. She drifted in and out of veiling clouds, a tenebrous icon of the Morning Star, half-seen, cloaked in incense and candle smoke, her ethereal light falling upon the serpentine road, like the Virgin’s heel upon the head of the primeval serpent.

Immacolata Concezione
by Bernardo Cavallino

I thought of my forebears—the Hirpini, wolf-men of the Campanian Apennines—who knew these same stars, who prayed to older gods before the Cross rose over the Neapolitan hinterlands. Yet even they, I thought, might have bowed their heads beneath such a sky, where the ancient and the eternal commingle.

Luna, mirror of the Sun Divine, thou art the Virgin’s own emblem—chaste and shining not by thine own power, but by reflection of the greater Light. In thee Mary’s mystery abides: the gentle intercessor who gathers the radiance of Christ and pours it upon the darkened earth. As the moon waxes and wanes, so too does mortal life—death yielding to rebirth, shadow yielding to dawn.

Through the windshield’s dim reflection, I beheld her face once more, veiled and unveiled by the coursing clouds. And in that vision there stirred both memory and longing: for the mountains of my progenitors, for the faith that outlives the flesh, for the wild howl of the spirit still running through my veins and echoing through the valleys of Irpinia.

O Luna benigna, pale shepherdess of souls, guide us through the night’s uncertainty. Shine upon the road that leads us home, and keep thy radiant heel upon the coiling dark—until the Sun of the Resurrection breaks anew upon the hills.

~ By Giovanni di Napoli, November 6th, Feast or San Leonardo di Noblac

Red and Blue Utopias: The Mirage of Modern Belief

Meme depicting Trump as "God Emperor"

By rule, I never punch right. But since I’ve long considered myself the furthest right, and most Republicans to be merely less extreme leftists than their Democratic counterparts—progressives with better manners, better hygiene perhaps—I don’t think I’m breaking my own rule by relating this story.

Most of the people I know support Trump in some form or fashion. They view him as the lesser of two evils. They’re not zealots or cultists; they’re simply tired of being lied to, taxed to death, and treated as enemies in their own country. Whatever their faults, they still strike me as normal people—men and women who go to work, raise families, pay bills, and try to keep their sanity amid the noise.

By contrast, the few Democrats I know tend to live in a state of permanent agitation. They’re emotional wrecks—angry and belligerent about everything and nothing. Obsessed with political mythologies, they refuse to let go of narratives long since debunked. I’m not sure what they’re so upset about, considering we live in an overwhelmingly blue city in a blue state—a world of their own making. They just elected a socialist mayor, for heaven's sake. Politics for them has become a substitute religion, complete with saints, devils, rituals, and heresies.

So when, at the Election Day party I attended (even though I don't vote), I finally met him—the MAGA unicorn, the mythical creature Democrats keep insisting represents the norm—I was genuinely curious. This was the deplorable bogeyman they’d been warning us about: the extremist, the fascist, the racist white male. Except he wasn’t white. He was Puerto Rican.

Friendly enough, he was clearly deep down the rabbit hole. What followed was a torrent of fantastical claims so numerous and wild I could hardly keep track. According to him, Trump was on the verge of unveiling hidden technologies, including time travel, teleportation, secret bases on the Moon and Mars, miracle cures to prolong life indefinitely, and even a new monetary system to liberate mankind from debt. In short, “God Emperor” Trump was not merely going to Make America Great Again—he was going to inaugurate a new golden age for homo americanus.

If the Democrats’ ideology revolves around naïve utopian delusions—egalitarianism, climate hysteria, and the dream of global governance—this was their mirror image: a techno-messianic fantasy dressed in red, white, and blue.

Trump as avatar—the incarnation of God, a strain of Esoteric Trumpism that almost makes the mystical Hitlerism of Savitri Devi and Miguel Serrano seem measured by comparison, though not quite as unhinged as those who believed Biden possessed all his mental faculties while in office.

The difference, perhaps, is only in aesthetics. Both sides crave salvation without repentance, progress without humility, paradise without God.

What struck me more than the fantasies themselves was not the absurdity of his claims, but the hunger behind them. He wanted to believe in something greater than the world we’ve made. Looking around, who could blame him?

~ By Giovanni di Napoli, November 6th, Feast of San Leonardo di Noblac

New Book — Torches Against the Abyss: The Complete Essays of Rev. John A. Perricone

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

• Torches Against the Abyss: The Complete Essays of Rev. John A. Perricone

Publisher: Os Justi Press
Publication date: Sept. 4, 2025
Hardcover: $39.95
Softcover: $24.95
Kindle: $9.95
Language: English
Pages: 594

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