Revolutionary Abstraction

Scène de Juillet 1830 (Les Drapeaux), 1830, Léon Cogniet, Musée des
Beaux-Arts d’Orléans. Painted to glorify the July Revolution, Cogniet
portrays the white Bourbon flag pierced, bloodied, and reborn as the
French Tricolour. The artist intended to celebrate the revolution's
victory. I see the painting instead as a vivid record of its assault
on monarchy, tradition, and the historic symbols of France.

“The tricolor! Tricolor indeed! They fill their mouths with these words, the rascals. What does that ugly geometric sign, that aping of the French mean, compared to our white banner with its golden lily in the middle? What hope can those clashing colors bring them?” — Giuseppe Tomasi di Lampedusa, The Leopard (Il Gattopardo)

Not long ago, someone offered me a complimentary Italia shirt emblazoned with the Italian Tricolor. I thanked him for the gesture but politely declined. Puzzled, he insisted that I take it anyway, as though I had not understood the offer. When I refused a second time, his confusion turned to irritation, and he became increasingly determined to press it into my hands. Only when I finally replied that I would not be caught dead wearing that rag did he abandon the effort and storm away in a fit of indignation. The exchange reminded me just how differently people can view a flag. To many Italian Americans, the tricolor is an unquestioned emblem of heritage and ethnic pride. To me, it represents something altogether different.

Few symbols leave me as cold as the tricolor. Not merely the Italian tricolor, but the entire family of tricolors that swept across Europe in the wake of revolution. Whenever I see them, I think less of nations than of ideologies: republicanism, egalitarianism, and the deliberate rejection of the older order.

The banners of kingdoms spoke a different language. They bore dynastic arms, sacred emblems, ancient crosses, lilies, eagles, lions, and crowns. They proclaimed continuity rather than rupture and inheritance over construction. A royal standard represented a people shaped through centuries of history, faith, and tradition.

The tricolor, by contrast, symbolizes the triumph of universal abstractions over inherited patrimonies and of utopian ideals over civilization. From one republic to another, their three interchangeable bands differ little except in whether they are tierced in pale or in fess.

I recognize that millions look upon these flags with sincere patriotism, and I do not question their affection. Yet I cannot share it. My allegiance belongs to older symbols: the Bourbon lilies, the imperial eagle, the Cross of Burgundy, the crowned escutcheon, and the heraldic language that once clothed Europe in visible memory.

To me, a flag should evoke more than a state. It should remind us that a nation is an inheritance rather than a political project, a sacred trust received from our ancestors rather than an experiment devised by legislators and ideologues. That is why, whenever I see a tricolor fluttering in the wind, I cannot help but feel that something immeasurably older, richer, and more beautiful was lowered from the mast to make way for it.

~ By Giovanni di Napoli, September 2nd, Feast of the Holy Martyrs of September

Further Reading:
L’Italia non esiste. «Una d’arme, di lingua, d’altare»? Considerazioni sull’identità italiana pre- e post-risorgimentale, Anales de la Fundación Francisco Elías de Tejada, Year XXV (2019).

She: A Haunting Vision of Lost Worlds

“Often I sit alone at night, staring with the eyes of the mind into the darkness of unborn time, and wondering in what shape and form the great drama will be finally developed, and where the scene of its next act will be laid.” ~ H. Rider Haggard, She

I have become increasingly frustrated, and frankly disgusted, with the state of modern fantasy and science fiction films. So much of it feels soulless and derivative, overwhelmed by spectacle, ideology, and subversive messaging at the expense of mystery, imagination, and wonder. As a result, I have taken to watching and re-watching old favorites and classics, returning to an era when filmmakers still understood that the fantastic should transport us somewhere strange, beautiful, and beyond the ordinary.

She (1935) is a wonderfully atmospheric tale, based on H. Rider Haggard’s celebrated 1887 novel She: A History of Adventure, one of the great works of Victorian imaginative literature. Filled with peril, adventure, and the supernatural, the film blends romance, archaeology, and the arcane.

Helen Gahagan as Queen Hash-A-Mo-Tep
in She (1935), wearing the regal costume
and headdress that would influence the
appearance of Disney's Queen Grimhilde in
Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs (1937)

In this adaptation, the immortal Ayesha, known as “She-who-must-be-obeyed,” becomes Queen Hash-A-Mo-Tep, portrayed unforgettably by Helen Gahagan with an imperious beauty and otherworldly presence. Her striking appearance would later serve as a model for Disney's Evil Queen in Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs (1937). The film’s lavish visual design and dreamlike imagery bring this Gothic epic vividly to life.

The novel’s vision of an ancient civilization hidden from the modern world helped establish many of the conventions of the lost-world genre and has inspired generations of writers and artists. The 1935 adaptation captures the author’s fascination with forbidden places, the mysterious past, and the allure of immortality.

One of the film’s most significant departures from the novel is its shift from the remote interior of Africa to the frozen reaches of Muscovy. Beyond the forbidding Shugal Barrier lies the forgotten Kingdom of Kôr, a mythical land seemingly cut off from the known world and the course of history.

The change opened a new frontier while giving the picture a haunting atmosphere of glaciers, savage troglodytes, and an ancient kingdom concealed beneath snowbound mountains. It also helped distinguish the 1935 version from earlier adaptations, transforming Haggard’s tropical lost world into a strange, subterranean realm. Although far removed from the novel’s geography, the Siberian setting preserves the essential idea at the heart of the original story: an arduous expedition into a place seemingly untouched by time.

My two editions of H. Rider Haggard's She

Rewatching She only deepened my appreciation for the film. The magnificent sets, elaborate costumes, evocative cinematography, and Max Steiner’s sweeping musical score create a sense of grandeur and enchantment that I find sorely missing from so much modern filmmaking. Nearly a century later, She remains a captivating relic of Hollywood fantasy at its most imaginative and romantic.

I also enjoyed the smaller details: the way people spoke, carried themselves, dressed, and interacted with one another. There is a formality and courtesy even in ordinary exchanges that belongs to another world as surely as the film’s lost kingdom does. Watching She was therefore more than an escape into fantasy. It was also, in its own way, an escape into the past, and for a little while I was happy to lose myself in both.

~ By Giovanni di Napoli, September 1st, Feast of Sant’Egidio 

The Decollation of St. John the Baptist

Salome with the Head of John the Baptist,
ca. 1876, Gustave Moreau (1826-1898)

On August 29th, the Church commemorates the Passion of St. John the Baptist, the beheading of the voice that cried out in the wilderness.

John had rebuked Herod Antipas for his unlawful union with his niece and sister-in-law, Herodias, and for this he was cast into prison. At Herod’s birthday feast, Salome, the daughter of Herodias, danced before the court and so pleased the ruler that he rashly promised to grant whatever she desired. Prompted by her mother, she asked for the head of John the Baptist upon a platter.

I have always been struck by the terrible contrast of the scene: the revelry of the palace and the solitude of the prison, the weakness of Herod and the steadfastness of John. One man possessed a kingdom yet could not master himself. The other possessed nothing, not even his freedom, yet remained unafraid to speak the truth.

The sword silenced the herald of Christ, but it could not silence what he had proclaimed. Evviva San Giovanni! 
 
~ By Giovanni di Napoli, August 28th, Feast of Sant’Agostino di Ippona

Dreaming Into the Woods

Into the wood, into the wood inside, let it go
~ Roma Amor, Into the Wood

By day, New York City drowns the soul beneath glass, concrete, deadlines, and endless noise. By night, its towers glow like electric monoliths, illuminating a weary civilization that mistakes perpetual motion for life. One walks among millions and yet remains profoundly alone.

Beneath the starless canopy, the city seems incapable of silence. Even in the darkest hours, its lights burn and its machinery hums. Yet amid that tumult, I sense another realm, not a place of comfort, but of freedom.

Jünger understood that the forest is not merely a landscape but a condition of the soul. Long before one flees outward, one must withdraw inward. The first forest is entered without taking a single step.

Perhaps that is why I don't dream of cottages or pastoral tranquility, but of primeval woods where forgotten paths disappear beneath twisted oaks, Cyclopean stones rise from the moss, and eagles wheel above verdant valleys. Every shadow hints at something ancient and forgotten.

The metropolis demands conformity, while the forest—indifferent, austere, and uncompromising—demands character.

I return each morning to elevators, meetings, flashing screens, and crowded trains. Outwardly, nothing has changed. Yet in my mind I see roots cracking the pavement, while vines steadily climb toward the water towers and spires. The forest has already begun its reclamation, not of the city, but of the soul. Until then, I continue dreaming into the woods.

~ By Giovanni di Napoli, August 27th, Feast of San Baccolo di Sorrento

My Beloved Patroness

Santa Patrizia di Constantinopoli, ora pro nobis

Among the many saints who have accompanied me since my reversion, few have affected my life as profoundly as Santa Patrizia di Constantinopoli.

Years ago, on the night of her feast, Santa Patrizia appeared to me in a vivid dream, urging me to return to the Church. I have never doubted that it was through her intercession that I found the courage to take those first steps.

Each year, her feast reminds me that God’s grace often comes through the guidance of the saints. We do not always recognize their presence until we look back and discern how faithfully they have accompanied us. For that reason, Santa Patrizia will always remain, for me, the saint who led me home. Evviva Santa Patrizia!

Prayer to St. Patrizia

O wondrous Virgin, St. Patricia, mine advocate and protectress, who in the last moments of thy life didst obtain from Jesus counsel and divine protection for all who seek refuge in thee: obtain for me from Almighty God health of soul and body, victory over the Devil and over the passions. Drive away the adversities that surround me on all sides; in this present tribulation, console me. Obtain for me the pardon of sins and entrance into the heavenly kingdom. Be thou a haven of safety unto sailors and a safeguard unto our city. Spread forth thy special patronage over me and over all thy devoted children, that the most holy Name of God may be ever blessed, glorified, exalted, and praised by all unto the ages of ages. Amen.

~ By Giovanni di Napoli, August 24th, Feasts of Sant’Audeno, San Bartolomeo, and Santa Giovanna Antida Thouret

The Stone Legacy of Washington Heights

Castle Village, Washington Heights, 1938. Contemporary architectural
rendering depicting the redevelopment of the former Paterno estate

Every time I travel north out of the city along the Henry Hudson Parkway, my companions’ eyes are almost always drawn to the left, where the Hudson River stretches toward the majestic Palisades. It is a breathtaking vista, to be sure. Yet I often find myself looking in the opposite direction. Rising from the hillsides of Washington Heights are cyclopean retaining walls, graceful stone arches, terraces, and masonry of astonishing scale. They possess a permanence that makes even the tallest modern glass-and-steel buildings seem fleeting by comparison. Rather than imposing themselves upon the landscape, they seem to grow from the cliffs themselves, honoring the genius loci of the Heights and preserving the rugged character that makes it unlike any other neighborhood in New York.

Washington Heights is one of the city’s great monuments to stone. Around the Met Cloisters, through the wooded paths of Fort Tryon Park, and beneath the towering approaches to the George Washington Bridge, the exposed Manhattan schist gives the setting much of its distinctive character. The Billings Arcade, pedestrian underpasses, and steep stepped streets appear almost organic, as though they had always belonged to the hills themselves.

It is easy to admire this remarkable setting while forgetting the men who created it. Long before modern machinery made such work routine, innumerable laborers, a great many of them Southern Italians, drilled, blasted, hauled, and set these enormous stones by hand. Quarrymen, masons, and subway sandhogs endured punishing conditions to transform the rugged ridge into streets, parks, and neighborhoods that continue to serve generations of New Yorkers. Their labor became part of the very foundation of the city.

Dr. Charles Vincent Paterno

Among the visionaries who recognized the potential of the region was Dr. Charles V. Paterno, born Canio Paternò on August 4, 1878, in Castelmezzano, Basilicata. Perhaps it is no coincidence that a man born among the dramatic stone peaks of Castelmezzano should later feel at home among the rocky heights of northern Manhattan.

Trained as a physician but remembered as one of New York’s most innovative developers, Paterno refused to flatten the landscape to suit his ambitions. Instead, he worked with the terrain, pioneering architectural solutions that embraced the natural contours of the cliffs. His hillside developments, including the Paterno Castle, the Colosseum, Hudson View Gardens, and the Pumpkin House, demonstrated that engineering and beauty could coexist, allowing architecture to emerge from the rock rather than obscure it.

Whenever I pass through Washington Heights, I cannot help but think of the Southern Italians who left an indelible mark on these hills. They brought more than resilience and determination; they brought generations of stoneworking knowledge, refined over centuries in the mountains and villages of the Mezzogiorno. Here, that ancient tradition found a new expression, shaping one of the most distinctive urban landscapes in New York City.

The neighborhood remains one of the city’s unsung masterpieces. Its enduring masonry speaks not only of engineering skill but of vision, sacrifice, and craftsmanship. In an age increasingly defined by soulless architecture, every arch, terrace, arcade, stone stairway, and weathered wall stands as a tribute to the Southern Italian workers who built them and to pioneers like Dr. Charles V. Paterno, whose vision helped transform the Heights into one of New York’s most beautiful and monumental works of art.

~ By Giovanni di Napoli, August 20th, Feast of San Bernardo

A Tempting Birthday Gift

Finding a birthday gift for a friend whose massive book collection, particularly when it comes to the Kingdom of the Two Sicilies, puts mine to shame is no easy task. Yet while perusing his shelves recently, I noticed something genuinely surprising: he did not already own a copy of Giacinto de’ Sivo’s Storia delle Due Sicilie dal 1847 al 1861.

I managed to find a beautiful 1964 Arturo Berisio edition published in Naples: two volumes bound in the publisher’s cloth with gilt lettering and ornamentation, transparent dust jackets, sixteen plates, and the original color-illustrated slipcase, all in fine condition. De’ Sivo’s monumental history is unapologetically pro-Bourbon and remains one of the most important contemporary accounts of the fall of the Kingdom of the Two Sicilies.

I have to admit, after seeing the set in person, I was seriously tempted to keep it for myself. Such are the sacrifices we make for friendship. And, for obvious reasons, I waited until after giving it to him before publishing this. I wasn’t about to ruin the surprise.

~ By Giovanni di Napoli, August 18th, Feast of Sant’Elena of the Cross

Under the Mantle of the Glorious Pilgrim

San Rocco di Montpellier, ora pro nobis

Each year, as the Feast of the Assumption yields to the Feast of San Rocco, I find myself returning in gratitude to the graces God has bestowed through the intercession of the glorious Pilgrim of Montpellier.

This year marks the third anniversary of the heart attack that forever changed the course of my life. What I first received as a second chance has become something greater: a call to live more prayerfully and more attentively to the things of God. The joy that filled me in those early days has never faded. If anything, it has deepened into lasting peace.

First among my patrons, San Rocco has long occupied a privileged place in my devotions. For the past decade, I have been entrusted with safeguarding one of his holy relics, a responsibility I carry with reverence through daily prayer, burning candles, and incense. In contemplating his life as a pilgrim and healer, I have found a companion whose example continually calls me away from distraction and toward charity, humility, and trust in Divine Providence.

For those of us whose roots lie in Southern Italy, devotion to San Rocco is more than inherited custom. Devotion to the great saint has long united villages, families, and the faithful in prayer, hope, and charity. To honor him is to remain connected not only to our ancestors, but also to the enduring Catholic civilization that formed them.

God willing, I will once again have the privilege of joining my confratelli of the San Rocco Society in carrying the saint through the streets of Little Italy, just as generations before us have done. It is a small act of devotion, but one offered in thanksgiving for graces received, for vows faithfully kept, and for the undeserved gift of being granted another year beneath the mantle of the glorious Pilgrim. Evviva San Rocco!

~ By Giovanni di Napoli, August 15th, Feast of the Assumption of the Blessed Virgin Mary

The Tears of St. Lawrence

San Lorenzo, ora pro nobis

Unable to sleep, last night I crept into the backyard with a glass of absinthe and looked toward the heavens. The Perseid meteor shower was nearing its peak, and the new moon promised unusually favorable conditions. I had already gone searching for them on August 10th, La Notte di San Lorenzo, the Night of St. Lawrence, but the weather was less accommodating. Pontarlier in hand, I waited in the darkness in the vain hope of catching even a fleeting streak of light across the summer sky.

In Catholic tradition, the Perseids are known as Le Lacrime di San Lorenzo, the Tears of St. Lawrence, their falling light recalling the tears shed for the martyred deacon. Another tradition sees in their fiery descent the glowing embers of the flames upon which he was roasted.

Though no celestial fire revealed itself to me that night, I made my annual wish beneath the obscured heavens, trusting the old custom even without a shooting star to carry it.

Whether I saw them seemed almost beside the point. Simply keeping vigil beneath the firmament, meditating on the martyr whose blazing embers return to us every August, was enough. Somewhere beyond my sight, the Tears of St. Lawrence were falling. Evviva San Lorenzo!

~ By Giovanni di Napoli, August 13th, Feast of Sant’Ippolito Martire

Among the Shelves: Treasures in a Friend’s Library

Il Blasone in Sicilia (The Blazon in Sicily),
presented in its protective clamshell box

Recently, I had the pleasure of exploring a friend’s private library. I know several people whose collections far surpass my own, and I always enjoy seeing the paths their interests have taken them and the remarkable volumes they have managed to acquire over the years. Every collection reflects the interests and passions of its owner, making the experience of browsing another person’s library a pleasure in itself.

Among the highlights was I Borbone delle Due Sicilie (The Bourbons of the Two Sicilies), the magnificent Scripta Maneant edition limited to just 399 copies. Accompanied by five commemorative medallions bearing the portraits of the Bourbon Kings of the Two Sicilies, it is as much a work of art as it is a historical publication.

Equally impressive was Il Blasone in Sicilia (The Blazon in Sicily) by Vincenzo Palizzolo Gravina, Baron of Ramione. Originally published in Palermo between 1871 and 1875, this monumental work remains one of the foundational references for the study of Sicilian nobility and heraldry. Its detailed histories of noble families, descriptions of coats of arms, and beautiful chromolithographic plates make it an enduring treasure for anyone interested in the history and genealogy of Southern Italy.

On a more personal note, I was delighted to find a copy of Ciri-Biri-Bin by Mel Silverman, a book I loved as a child. Published in 1957, it captures the warmth and vitality of Italian-American neighborhood life through Silverman’s bold, woodcut-inspired illustrations. Centered on a young boy named Mario and culminating in the excitement of a neighborhood feast reminiscent of San Gennaro, it remains a charming celebration of family, community, and the joyful spirit of Italian America.

~ By Giovanni di Napoli, August 13th, Feast of Sant’Ippolito Martire

(L) Gilt-stamped coat of arms of the Kingdom of the Two Sicilies on the leather-bound cover of Il Blasone in Sicilia (The Blazon in Sicily). (R) Autographed photo of the Royal House of Bourbon-Two Sicilies. The personal dedication from HRH Prince Carlo has been digitally removed to protect the owner's privacy

(L) Ornate clamshell box for I Borbone delle Due Sicilie (The Bourbons of the Two Sicilies). A Kennedy Half Dollar is shown for scale. (R) I Borbone delle Due Sicilie (The Bourbons of the Two Sicilies) housed within its protective box

Five commemorative medallions bearing the portraits
of the Bourbon Kings of the Two Sicilies

Double-Page Spread featuring an antique map of the Kingdom of Naples

Double-Page Spread featuring a detail of the
ceiling in the Teatro di San Carlo, Naples

(L) Cover of Carlos III: Majestad y Ornato. (R) Recto
featuring a portrait of HM King Carlos III

(L) Slipcover for Ruggero II d'Altavilla. (R) Gilt-stamped cover

(L) Recto featuring the mosaic of Roger II of Sicily being crowned by Our Lord Jesus Christ in the Church of Santa Maria dell'Ammiraglio, Palermo. (R) Cover of Cerimonial dei Borbone di Napoli (1734-1801)

Double-page spread from Cerimonial dei Borbone di Napoli (1734-1801) featuring the portraits of King Carlo of Naples and Sicily and his consort, Maria Amalia of Saxony 

(L-R) Covers of Francesco II di Borbone: Immagini,
documenti, testimonianze and I Briganti di Sua Maestà

Cover of Cinque Borbone

(L-R) Covers of Cuore a Sud and Diario di Francesco II di Borbone (1862-1894)

(L-R) Rectos from Diario di Francesco II di Borbone (1862-1894)
featuring portraits of HM King Francesco II di Borbone
and HM Queen Maria Sofia of Bavaria

(L-R) Covers of Carlo III and Un Cardinale Condottiero 

(L-R) Covers of Ferdinando IV: Re di Napoli and Un
regno in America per Francesco II di Borbone?

(L-R) Covers of A Tavola Con I Borboni and Ciri-Biri-Bin

The Sphinxes Shall Keep Their Watch

After nearly a decade of legal battles, protests, and uncertainty, the fight to save the Elizabeth Street Garden appears finally to be coming to an end. The beloved sculpture garden in downtown Manhattan had long faced demolition, with the city seeking to raze it for affordable housing. Now, according to several sources, the city is expected to step back from those plans, bringing an extraordinary reprieve to a place whose survival had seemed increasingly uncertain.

I am especially pleased by the news because this little refuge has long been a favorite haunt of mine. Tucked away from the commotion of the surrounding streets, it is one of those increasingly rare corners of Manhattan where the city seems to recede. I often stop there with a cup of coffee, finding a shady place among the greenery and old stone where I can gather my thoughts and enjoy a little peace in its tranquil environs.

Much of the garden’s peculiar charm comes from the architectural fragments, statues, columns, urns, and weathered monuments scattered throughout the grounds. The place possesses something of the atmosphere of an old European garth, where nature and antiquity intertwine.

Of all its silent inhabitants, I am especially fond of the twin stone sphinxes. Reclining enigmatically among the foliage, they often invade my thoughts as I sit nearby. There is something wonderfully incongruous about encountering those ancient forms in Nolita, silent guardians of mysteries transplanted into a small garden between tenements.

The preservation of the Elizabeth Street Garden is about more than saving a patch of greenery. The city is crowded and dirty, and it needs more green spaces, not fewer. It also needs places that serve no immediately measurable purpose beyond beauty, contemplation, memory, and repose. The garden is one of those rare places. God willing, I will continue to sit there with my coffee, gathering my thoughts beneath the trees while the two sphinxes keep their inscrutable watch.

~ By Giovanni di Napoli, August 12th, Feast of Santa Chiara d’Assisi

Ghost of Princesses in Towers

It is curious how the mind works. Whenever I walk through Central Park and catch sight of the stark glass-and-steel skyscrapers rising above the trees, my thoughts wander elsewhere. For a fleeting moment, they cease to be office buildings. They become lonely towers standing over a forgotten kingdom, their highest windows concealing princesses imprisoned by dark sorcerers and guarded by fire-breathing dragons, awaiting the arrival of some knight-errant.

As a boy, I often dreamt of riding beneath storm-filled skies with a sword at my side, like Sigurd of old, seeking ancient Hindarfjall, where noble Brynhild, bound by dark enchantments, lay asleep behind a wall of shields and a ring of fire. I knew, with the unwavering certainty of childhood, that somewhere there were dragons to be slain, curses to be broken, and black keeps where fair maidens awaited deliverance. The world seemed vast enough to contain such wonders.

That world has changed, or perhaps only our imagination has grown dim. We live in an age that deconstructs and subverts tales of valiant knights and damsels in distress, reducing them to outdated, childish fancies unworthy of serious men. I cannot help but pity such disenchantment. A society that no longer dreams of heroes is, I think, poorer for it. Though such longings have become unfashionable, I cannot abandon them.

Thankfully, the dreaming boy remains. Whenever those towers rise above the trees, some forgotten part of me still believes that behind one high window a candle burns, a princess waits, and a knight, though long delayed, is still riding through the darkness.

~ By Giovanni di Napoli, August 12th, Feast of Santa Chiara d’Assisi

Restoring Pietas in the Age of Iron

The Great Chain of Being, 1579,
copperplate engraving, from
Rhetorica Christiana, Diego Valadés

Tradidi quod et accepi.
~ I Corinthians 15:3
(I handed on what I also received.)

In the terminal stage of secular-materialist decadence, the concept of pietas, that primordial, vertical axis binding man to what is above, behind, and beyond him, appears not only forgotten but repugnant. Yet it is precisely in this wasteland that its resurgence becomes both possible and essential as an act of inner rearmament.

For the ancients, pietas was neither sentiment nor social utility. It signified a disciplined fidelity to the transcendent order, an unwavering sense of belonging to a world imbued with sacred hierarchy. It was the Romans’ submission to divine law, to the patria as a metaphysical principle, and to the bloodline not just as biology, but as spiritual continuity. To possess pietas was to live within the Great Chain of Being and to accept one’s station with dignity.

In contrast, the modern individual, uprooted and cynical, frantically asserts his “freedom” from all inherited forms. He has become formless and unbound, cut off from the divine, estranged from his ancestors, and detached from the soil. His rebellion against authority, masked as liberation, is truly a flight from responsibility, continuity, and reverence. He dismisses the sacred and bows to the profane. Thus he becomes prey, pliant before the Reign of Quantity, conscripted into the tyranny of the impersonal, only fit to serve the very nihilism he helped conjure.

Yet the figure of the sovereign man remains, one who, from within the ruins, guards the inner citadel, the unshakable fortress of the self. For him, pietas is not a social norm to be revived, but a secret flame to be protected. He maintains ancestral devotions not to revive a dead past but to affirm his participation in a timeless order. He bows not to public opinion but to the living God. In silence and discipline, he realigns his being with the Axis Mundi, Christ Himself, the true center of the world, where heaven and earth meet.

Restoring pietas is not about moralizing or social reform. It is a conversion of the heart, a return to the source, a spiritual war against the entropy of the age. It means reawakening the memory of sacred origins, reestablishing the vertical tension between man and the divine, and living one’s life as ritual, as an offering.

For those still attuned to the ancient echoes, the message is clear: cultivate fidelity, honor what exceeds you, and bear the weight of the past like a crown. This is pietas, and it is the path of return.

~ By Giovanni di Napoli, August 6th, The Feast of the Transfiguration of the Lord

The Eyes That Still Wonder

The wild still has a way of speaking to those willing
to listen (from the author's personal archive)

My recent trips upstate have brought countless reminders that the wonder I knew as a child has never left me. Few sights still fill me with such joy as seeing deer in the wild.

That love was instilled in me by my parents, who cherished the outdoors, and especially by my father, a hunter whose respect for nature ran far deeper than the pursuit of game. From them I learned to look closely, to appreciate the beauty of the natural world, and to understand that every encounter with wild creation is a gift from God.

Whenever I see deer, a soaring hawk, an ancient forest, or a landscape that seems untouched by time, I feel a happiness that is difficult to describe. It reminds me that there is still mystery, beauty, and order in the world. For a brief moment, everything else fades away.

In an age that so often rushes past the miracles of creation, I remain grateful that the sight of a deer stepping from the trees can still fill me with the same wonder I knew as a child. Some things are simply too beautiful to outgrow.

~ By Giovanni di Napoli, August 5th, Feast of the Madonna della Neve

The Wan Muse

Madame X (Lady Unknown), ca. 1907, marble, Auguste Rodin. Gerald Cantor Sculpture Gallery (Gallery 800), Metropolitan Museum of Art

“This is doubtless the perfected image of that idea of which the peoples of the earth have had an intuition from the beginning, and which artists have unceasingly invoked in poems, in symphonies, on canvas, in clay. Everything in her is expressive, everything is a symbol.” ~ Gabriele D’Annunzio, The Virgins of the Rocks 

Some people visit the museum in search of great works of art. I find myself returning instead to a ghost.

Though I admire John Singer Sargent’s celebrated portrait of Madame X (Virginie Amélie Avegno Gautreau) at the Met, I am more often drawn to Auguste Rodin’s Madame X (Lady Unknown). My friends know the ritual well. Nearly every visit ends with me leading them to the Gerald Cantor Sculpture Gallery, where she waits in pale silence.

There is something unsettling about her. Her face, drained of life, seems to hover at the edge of oblivion, as though she had emerged from a dream, only to discover that the world which had summoned her had long since disappeared.

Hand of Eleonora Duse, ca. 1927, marble, Arrigo Minerbi. Exhibited in Gabriele d'Annunzio: Living Life as a Work of Art (2010), at Casa Italiana Zerilli-Marimò

She has become a kind of muse, joining Anna Cutolo, Rosina Ferrara, Eleonora Duse, and Suzy Solidor among those elusive women who inhabit the borderland between history and chimera. They return unbidden in idle moments, stealing their way into verses that never quite satisfy me and drawings I rarely allow anyone else to see.

Perhaps that is fitting. Some figures remain just beyond reach, drawing us onward because they can never be fully captured.

And so I return to her, content to linger in the company of a beautiful apparition, destined to haunt the imagination rather than the world of the living.

~ By Giovanni di Napoli, August 3rd, Feast of Sant’Aspreno

Rediscovering the Christian Statesmanship of King Ferdinand II Through the Funeral Oration of Monsignor Francesco Saverio Petagna

Gianandrea de Antonellis’ introduction to the 2019 edition of Elogio Funebre alla Pia Memoria di Ferdinando II (1859), subsequently republished on Alta Terra di Lavoro, offers far more than a preface to a nineteenth-century funeral oration. He argues that Monsignor Francesco Saverio Petagna’s address deserves renewed attention, not only as a historical document but also as an expression of the political and religious ideals that shaped the Kingdom of the Two Sicilies.

The introduction opens by situating the funeral oration within the turbulent political climate of Italian unification. De Antonellis explains that one of the principal reasons Petagna was later forced into exile was the solemnity with which he honored King Ferdinand II after the monarch’s death in 1859. This alone illustrates how politically charged even the memory of the Bourbon king had become during the years of Italian unification.

De Antonellis also traces the longstanding mutual esteem between Ferdinand II and Monsignor Petagna. He recounts the anecdote of the King, traveling incognito, attending one of the young priest’s sermons in Naples out of curiosity. Impressed by Petagna’s gifts, Ferdinand later appointed him Bishop of Castellammare and eventually bestowed upon him the Royal Order of Francis I. These episodes underscore the close personal relationship that existed between the monarch and the prelate long before the funeral oration was delivered.

At the heart of the article is Petagna’s portrait of Ferdinand II. Rather than repeating the familiar image found in post-Risorgimento historiography, the Bishop presents a ruler whose Catholic faith permeated both his private life and public duties. Petagna recalls Ferdinand’s devotion to the Rosary, his visits to the Blessed Sacrament, his public recitation of the Angelus, and his reverence toward the Blessed Virgin. Particularly striking is the Bishop’s recollection of the King’s visits to Castellammare, where the faithful witnessed his sincere acts of devotion before the Blessed Sacrament and the relics of San Catello.

The article also highlights Petagna’s rejection of the notion that religion and government belong to separate spheres. One of the most memorable passages declares:

“It is foolish wisdom that would have the interests of the State attended to before those of the Gospel; and it is madness to think that the exact observance of the latter’s precepts is incompatible with the principles of the former. It is to dishonor Religion, says St. Augustine, to believe that she ought not to be consulted in the government of empires.”

Likewise, Petagna argues that political stability ultimately rests upon moral virtue rather than administrative efficiency, observing that Rome itself fell not because it was “crushed by foreign arms, but because it had been consumed by domestic vices.” For Petagna, the decline of civilizations begins with moral decay long before military defeat.

De Antonellis rightly emphasizes that this vision represents a coherent philosophy rooted in both Greco-Roman political thought and Christian tradition. Petagna sees faith as the indispensable foundation of just rule.

The article also draws attention to Ferdinand II’s extensive public works, charitable initiatives, and reforms. Petagna praises the King’s patronage of science, education, commerce, industry, agriculture, and infrastructure, while also emphasizing his restoration of churches, support for religious orders, care for the poor, the establishment of charitable and vocational institutions, and his prompt assistance to those afflicted by hardship. Alongside these charitable works, Petagna notes that Ferdinand introduced “the first railways, steamships, gas lighting, and later the electric telegraph in Italy.” He also points to the mechanical works at Pietrarsa, the Naples dry dock, iron bridges, expanded ports, schools, and numerous public works as tangible expressions of the King’s commitment to the welfare of his kingdom.

De Antonellis concludes by explaining why this funeral oration remains relevant today. Beyond its rhetorical style, the work offers a perspective too often absent from modern accounts of the Bourbon monarchy. He argues that the oration preserves a vision long neglected by a historiography framed by the victors, reminding readers that important voices have often been overshadowed by later political narratives. He invokes a memorable reflection drawn from the Carlist tradition: No serán héroes anónimos ante Dios (“Before God, a hero is never anonymous”).

De Antonellis honors not only Ferdinand II but also Monsignor Petagna himself. He reminds readers that the Bishop chose exile rather than submission to those who had conquered his native kingdom, making his funeral oration not merely a tribute to a fallen monarch but also the testimony of a man who remained steadfast in his convictions.

More than a ceremonial tribute, Petagna’s funeral oration stands as a valuable primary source for understanding how one of Ferdinand II’s contemporaries conceived the relationship between faith, kingship, and public life. As De Antonellis demonstrates, it also conveys a neglected vision of the Kingdom of the Two Sicilies rooted in Christian duty, moral government, charity, and institutional continuity.

~ By Giovanni di Napoli, August 1st, Feast of St. Peter's Chains, with the Commemorations of St. Paul and the Holy Maccabees

My Blue Heaven: One Hundred Years of Napoli

To support Napoli is to understand that football is never just football. It is passion, fire, and mentality, a way of seeing the world.

We have known ecstasy and heartbreak, legends and lean years. We have celebrated Scudetti, mourned relegation, and stood by this club when others turned away. Through every triumph and every disappointment, one thing never changes: we remain.

Because Napoli is more than a team. It is the soul of a city that has given the world beauty, music, faith, and an unbreakable spirit. Every match is another chapter in a story that began in 1926 and continues wherever the Partenopei, the children of Naples, and their descendants carry the blue.

Today we celebrate one hundred years of history, and the promise that the next century will be written with the same passion.

For those who came before us.
For those who will come after us.
For Naples.

Forza Napoli, sempre!

~ By Giovanni di Napoli, July 31st, Feast of St. Ignatius of Loyola

Glory, Pilgrimage, and the Shadow of Martyrdom

Santa Patrizia, ora pro nobis

Beneath shortening days
And fields heavy with fruit,
August calls the soul
From glory
To sacrifice,
For every crown
Must first pass through the Cross.

August stands at the summit of summer. The fields have yielded their fullness, the vineyards swell with promise, and the first hints of autumn begin to appear beneath the lingering heat. It is a month suspended between fulfillment and decline, reminding us that every earthly season, however radiant, carries within it the certainty of change.

On August 6th, the Church celebrates the Transfiguration of the Lord. Upon Mount Tabor, Christ reveals His divine glory to Peter, James, and John, allowing them to glimpse, however briefly, the splendor that lies beyond the Cross. The feast reminds the faithful that suffering is never the final word, but the path by which glory is attained.

The middle of the month brings the beginning of San Michele’s Lent on August 15th, forty days of prayer, fasting, and penance traditionally observed until the Feast of Saint Michael the Archangel on September 29th. At a time when the world is given over to leisure and abundance, the Church calls the faithful back to discipline, preparing the soul for the spiritual combat that belongs to every Christian life.

The following day honors San Rocco, the pilgrim and protector against plague. Remembered for his charity toward the sick and his willingness to share in their suffering, he became a powerful sign of hope during times of pestilence throughout Europe. His example reminds us that sanctity is measured not by comfort, but by compassionate endurance.

On August 25th, Naples celebrates Santa Patrizia, one of the city’s beloved patronesses. For centuries, the miraculous liquefaction of her blood has been revered as a sign of her continued intercession, joining her memory to the rich tradition of Neapolitan devotion in which the saints remain living guardians of their people.

As the month draws to a close, the Church commemorates the Beheading of San Giovanni Battista on August 29th. The Forerunner who proclaimed the coming of Christ now seals his testimony with his blood. His martyrdom stands as a solemn reminder that fidelity to truth often demands the ultimate sacrifice, and that the voice crying in the wilderness is not silenced by death.

~ By Giovanni di Napoli, July 31st, Feast of St. Ignatius of Loyola

The Discipline of Joy

El Jaleo, 1882, John Singer Sargent

Last week I found myself at a small tapas bar. A carafe of sangría roja rested on the table while the sound of a Spanish guitar filled the room. Before long, a gracile flamenco dancer, arrayed in traditional Andalusian dress, emerged, her movements alternating between measured restraint and fiery intensity, accompanied by rhythmic clapping and song.

As I watched, I found myself unexpectedly transported back to high school, when I was dating a young Valencian señorita named Gavi. It was she who first introduced me to flamenco, a tradition that I came to admire for its passion, elegance, and tragic beauty. Hearing those familiar rhythms again brought back more than memories of youth. They reminded me that certain places, sounds, and customs remain with us long after the years have passed.

The evening also reminded me that there is nothing contradictory about enjoying such moments while believing that life demands discipline, sacrifice, and courage. Too often we are presented with a false choice. Either we surrender ourselves to comfort, entertainment, and endless pleasure, or we become dour ascetics who regard every earthly delight with suspicion. Neither vision strikes me as complete.

A man should be capable of delighting in beauty without becoming enslaved to it. He should appreciate good wine, fine music, lively conversation, and the company of friends, not because they are life’s highest purpose, but because they are among its genuine goods. To enjoy them gratefully while remaining inwardly free is a mark of maturity rather than indulgence.

The older Mediterranean ideal understood this well. It expected a man to cultivate both fortitude and refinement, to bear hardship without complaint while never losing his appreciation for art, hospitality, and the simple pleasures that make civilization worth preserving. Such a man does not flee the tragic dimension of life, nor does he allow it to extinguish his joy. He accepts both.

Perhaps that is why flamenco seemed so fitting. It is passionate without affectation, exuberant without frivolity. Beneath its beauty lies struggle, longing, pride, and endurance. It does not pretend suffering does not exist; it transforms it into something noble.

I left with no grand revelation, only a gentle reminder that strength need not be joyless, and that gratitude for life’s fleeting beauties is entirely compatible with an awareness of its hardships. Indeed, it may be one of the surest signs that a man has learned not merely to endure life, but to live it well.

~ By Giovanni di Napoli, July 29th, Feast of San Lupo di Troyes

The Timeless Rhythms of the Heavens

A European (skull) mount of a buck,
 recalling the Buck Moon and the
ancient symbolism of renewal

Udremo a notte le sue lunghe muggia, udremo la voce sua di toro;
sorgerà il grido della sua lussuria
udremo nei silenzi della luna.

At night we will hear his long bellows, we will hear his voice like a bull’s;
the cry of his lust will rise;
we will hear it in the silences of the moon.
~ Gabriele D’Annunzio, Il Cervo

July has always seemed to me the most haunted month of summer. The sun still reigns over the earth by day, but the nights grow deeper and more mysterious, as though the heavens themselves were preparing for autumn’s long descent into darkness.

The month has already offered several wonders. On July 11th, Mars appeared beside the waning Moon and the ancient stars of the Pleiades in the predawn sky, an austere conjunction that recalled the firmament's timeless order. A few evenings later, on July 16th and 17th, brilliant Venus drew close to the slender crescent Moon in the western sky, creating one of the month’s most beautiful pairings before slipping back into the gathering darkness.

Yet some of July’s greatest mysteries still lie ahead.

Between the nights of July 28th and 30th, the Southern Delta Aquariid meteor shower will send ghostly streaks of light across the southern sky. Less brilliant than the famous Perseids, these meteors possess a gentler beauty, appearing like silent embers cast from some unseen celestial fire.

Then, on the night of July 29th, the full Buck Moon will rise.

Named for the season when the stag regrows his antlers, the Buck Moon has long been associated with strength, renewal, and the untamed wilderness. Other traditions know it as the Thunder Moon, the Hay Moon, or the Mead Moon, preserving memories of storms, harvests, and ancient midsummer feasts.

For Christians, the symbolism runs even deeper. The moon has long represented the Blessed Virgin Mary, reflecting not her own light but that of her Divine Son. The stag likewise recalls Christ, who tramples the serpent beneath His feet and leads the faithful toward the sacred waters of eternal life. The annual shedding and renewal of the stag’s antlers has long served as an allegory of resurrection and new life.

As the month draws toward its close, keep watch upon the night sky. Watch for the silent fall of meteors, and when the Buck Moon rises above the horizon, remember the poets who found voices in its silence.

Luna d’argiento, lass’ ’o sunnà,
vaselo ’nfronte, nun ’o sceta…

Silver moon, let him dream,
kiss his brow, do not wake him…
~ Salvatore Di Giacomo, Luna Nova

~ By Giovanni di Napoli, July 27th, Feast of San Pantaleone