Faithful, Not Perfect

Self-portrait, ca. 1647, Salvator Rosa.
Courtesy of the Metropolitan Museum of Art*

“Don’t let the perfect be the enemy of the good.”

An overly critical reader of mine recently gave me what for over a few of the topics I write about. He absolutely hated my posts on Comic-Con and thought Margot was inappropriate. If he thought my piece about admiring a pretty lady reading Virgil on the subway was bad, I can only imagine how upset he was when he saw Achille Della Ragione wax poetic about Sofia Loren’s breasts (Sofia Loren: La madre di tutte le dive) on Alta Terra di Lavoro (link contains artistic nudity).

While I appreciate his passion and believe everyone’s entitled to an opinion, why can’t he simply enjoy the posts he likes and move past the ones he doesn’t? I don’t mind disagreement; in fact, I usually enjoy it. But there’s a difference between having an opposing view and simply making noise. My critic doesn’t really offer another perspective—just a lot of yelling. It’s passion without purpose. When I read something that doesn't speak to me, I move on. And when I do disagree, I try to discuss it rationally. If I couldn’t, I wouldn’t read—or talk to—anybody. No one is perfect.

Most of the time, I just write about what comes to me. I find inspiration everywhere. It sneaks up on me in the middle of a homily at Mass, in casual conversations, in the books and articles I read, in moments of nostalgia, or in the smallest details of daily life—a sound, a smell, a familiar face.

I try to write every day. Some days it’s new material; other days I Frankenstein together passages from unpublished drafts or long-forgotten notes. A few pieces come from a semi-autobiographical short story I’ve been sitting on for years, reshaped and reborn in different forms.

Still, I worry about burning out—or worse, falling into the paralysis of writer’s block, which has stymied me more than once. Yet beneath that fear lies something deeper: a sense of duty, a responsibility to give shape to the thoughts and experiences that keep surfacing. There’s a growing urgency now—a need to speak my mind before I can’t, whether through illness, apathy, or suppression. I fear not being able to say everything I want to say before it’s too late.

I try to keep things positive (yes, this is me being positive), even when the subjects I touch upon are grave or unpleasant. I also try to keep a sense of variety—both for my own sanity and for the reader’s. I know from experience how quickly I drift away from sites or writers who hit the same note too many times. If I’m bored, the reader will be too.

The awareness of time’s limits has lit a quiet fire in me—a need to do as much as I can, while I still can. After sixteen years of writing, revising, doubting, and starting over, I’m finally learning to trust my own voice and let the ideas come from wherever they may. I don’t think I’ve ever been this prolific.

Writing, for me, has never been just an exercise in style—it’s a way of making sense of the world, of holding the chaos at bay long enough to find a pattern, or at least a meaning. The more I write, the more I realize that this impulse isn’t confined to the page. It mirrors something deeper, a way of seeing and enduring.

Our boisterous friend will undoubtedly read this and either ignore it or assume it’s aimed at someone else. If, as he claims, he knows better than I, I wish he’d show me how it’s done—but I can’t seem to find his website.

Still, I suppose that’s the beauty of it—none of us has it all figured out, but some of us, at least, bother to write it down.

~ By Giovanni di Napoli, October 20th, Feast of St. John Cantius

* The image by Salvator Rosa (1615–1673) serves as a kind of visual epigraph. In this self-portrait, Rosa shows himself inscribing a skull with the Greek words “Behold, whither, eventually.” A wreath of cypress crowns his head—an emblem of mourning—and a volume of Seneca rests nearby. The work unites memento mori with creative affirmation, perfectly mirroring the spirit of this essay.

Feast of St. Jude at Sacred Heart of Jesus Church in Rockaway, New Jersey

Honoring the Heroes of the Volturno

Photos courtesy of Angela Cuccillato and 1° Reggimento Re

In solemn remembrance of the fallen of the Volturno (1860), the 1st Regiment, with members of the Sacred Military Constantinian Order of St. George, lay flowers at the tomb of Artillery Major Filippo Ginolfi and joined in the Holy Mass of suffrage at the Cathedral of Capua.

Remembering Emmanuel Dufournel

The Death of Emmanuel Dufournel

"I am happy to see these 14 wounds flowing with all my blood for the glory of the church. The Fourteenth is my way of the cross!" *

In memory of 2nd Lieutenant Emmanuel Dufournel (b. Poligny 22 February, 1840 — d. Valentano 20 October 1867), Papal Zouave who died fighting the Garibaldini at the battle of Farnese, 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

Photo of the Week: Madonna del Rosariello, Chiesa di Santa Maria del Rosario, Piazza Cavour, Napoli

Photo by Andrew Giordano

IX Convegno Tradizionalista di Napoli Capitale

In Napoli

Sing a New Song: Medieval Splendor and Sacred Beauty at the Morgan Library

The Countesse de la Table of Couevres Family at Prayer
and Annunciation, Psalter-Hours of Yolande of Soissons,
in Latin and French, France, Amiens, ca. 1290-97

The Morgan Library and Museum continues to offer exhibitions of varying merit, but with Sing a New Song: The Psalms in Medieval Art and Life (September 12, 2025 – January 4, 2026), it achieves something truly sublime. This luminous show brings to life the beauty, devotion, and artistry that shaped the Psalms throughout the Middle Ages—illuminated manuscripts, leather bindings, and ivory rosary beads that once served as the heartbeat of Christian prayer. To stand before these works is to glimpse a world where faith and art were one, where every brushstroke was an act of praise. The Morgan has curated the exhibition with rare sensitivity, striking a balance between scholarship and a quiet sense of reverence.

While there, we also revisited J. Pierpont Morgan’s Library itself—a sanctuary of wood, leather, and light that never fails to inspire awe. We were equally moved by Weathering the Storm (May 13, 2025 – February 8, 2026), an evocative meditation on early nineteenth-century artists’ desire to give form to ethereal natural phenomena. By contrast, Mavericks of Malcontent: Beat Generation Broadsides (August 26 – December 14, 2025) and Lisa Yuskavage: Drawings (June 27, 2025 – January 4, 2026) left us cold—decadent and louche, they lacked the depth and transcendence that Sing a New Song captures so effortlessly. Unfortunately, we did not have time for Renoir Drawing (October 12, 2025 – February 8, 2026).

For those who still believe beauty can elevate the soul, this exhibition is not merely recommended—it is essential.

Upcoming exhibitions that may be of interest to our readers include Caravaggio's "Boy with a Basket of Fruit" in Focus (January 16 through April 19, 2026) and Tarot! Renaissance Symbols, Modern Visions (June 26 through October 4, 2026).

~ By Giovanni di Napoli, October 18th, Feast of San Luca Evangelista 

Virgin and Child with Patrons and David with Musicians and Judgment of Solomon, Cuerden Psalter, in Latin, England, Oxford, ca. 1270

(L) Virgin and Child with Patrons, Cuerden Psalter, in Latin, England,
Oxford, ca. 1270. (R) Benedict Sheltering Nuns, Martyrology and
Rule of St. Benedict, in Latin, illuminated by the Maestro del
Messale Orsini, Italy, Bologna, ca. 1370 and ca. 1420

Bathsheba and David in Penance, Hours of Claude Molé, in Latin and French, illuminated by the Master of Petrarch's Triumphs, France, Paris, ca. 1500

David and Goliath, Bible historiale, in French, illuminated by the workshop
of Richard and Jeanne de Montbaston, France, Paris, ca. 1325

Seated Apostle and Sts. Dominic and Francis, Psalter, in Latin,
illuminated by the Eerst Groep, Belgium, Bruges, ca. 1255

Jerome in His Study, Book of Hours, in Latin, illuminated
by the Fastolf Master, England, ca. 1440-50

Scenes from the Lives of Saints, Ramsey Psalter,
in Latin, England, Ramsey, ca. 1300-1310

Virgin and the Crucified Christ Intercede for Catherine of Cleves and Virgin and Christ in a Grape Arbor, Hours of Catherine of Cleves, in Latin, illuminated by the Master of Catherine of Cleves, The Netherlands, Utrecht, ca. 1440

All Saints, Breviary of Eleanor of Portugal, in Latin, illuminated by Alexander Bening (and Gerard Horenbout), Belgium, Bruges, 1500-1510

Dance of Death, Book of Hours, in Latin and English, illuminated by the
Master of Philippe of Guelders, France, Paris, ca. 1500-1510

Death or Uriah and David in Penance, Farnese Hours, in Latin,
illuminated by Giulio Clovio, Italy, Rome, 1546

Tree of Jesse and Annunciation, Book of Hours, in Latin and French,
illuminated by Robert Boyvin, France, Rouen, ca. 1495-1503

Lust and Asmodeus Encouraging Sexual Sins, Book of Hours,
in Latin, illuminated by Robinet Testard, France, Poitiers, ca. 1475

Death Personified, Book of Hours, in Latin and French, France, Tours, ca. 1465

Scenes from the Life of St. Augustine of Hippo, Master of Saint Augustine,
oil, gold, and silver on wood, Belgium, Bruges, ca. 1490 

(L) Triumphant Christ, reliuary panel, Belgium, Mosan workshop, late
eleventh century (panel) and thirteenth century (frame). (R) King David
as Psalmist, Lorenzo Monaco, (Piero di Giovanni) tempera
on wood, gold ground, Italy, Florence, ca. 1408-10

Rosary terminal bead, elephant ivory, with emerald pendant, silver-gilt mount, north France or Flanders, ca. 1500-1525

Details of a Rosary with bifurcated heads—half skull and half rotting flesh,
elephant ivory, silver, and partially gilded mounts, Germany, ca. 1500-1525

Stormy Sky, ca. 1800, oil on paper, circle of Pierre
Henri de Valenciennes, French, 1750-1819

Escarpment with Tree Stumps, Romsdal, 1836, oil on paper,
mounted to wood, Thomas Fearnley, Norwegian, 1802-1842

Study of the Roots of a Fallen Tree, before 1820, oil on paper,
mounted to illustration board, François-Edme Ricois, French, 1795-1881

Sunset on the Normandy Coast, ca. 1850, oil on paper,
mounted on canvas, Eugène Isabey, French, 1803-1886

(L) Birch Tree in a Storm, 1849, oil on cardboard, Johan Christian
Dahl, Norwegian, 1788-1857. (R) J. Pierpont Morgan’s Library

(R) Ford Madox Ford (1873-1939), Antwerp, cover illustration by Wyndham Lewis (1882-1957), London: The Poetry Bookshop, 1915. (L) Lise Deharme (1898-1980), Le coeur de Pic: Trente-deux poèmes pour les enfants illustrated by Claude Cahun (1894-1954), Paris; José Corti, 1937

Feast of San Vincenzo, Martire di Craco, at Most Precious Blood Church in Little Italy, New York

Awaiting a Saint: In Honor of Blessed Bartolo Longo

San Bartolo Longo, ora pro nobis

In quiet anticipation of Blessed Bartolo Longo’s canonization on October 19th, a few of us prepared private shrines in his honor—simple yet heartfelt arrangements of candles and images of Blessed Bartolo Longo and Our Lady of the Rosary of Pompeii. Though modest, these small corners of light reflect our shared joy and devotion, uniting us in prayer with countless others who look forward to seeing the Apostle of the Rosary declared a saint. Evviva San Bartolo Longo!

Of Small Courtesies: The Well-Bred Habit of Wonder

I tried to bring the dramatic morning sky unfolding before us to the attention of a listless young person at the café, but she didn’t even have the decency to lift her head from her phone. She merely murmured, “Gas,” which I think (hope) means “cool,” and continued scrolling through TikTok, Instagram, or whatever the latest a-social media platform is. I took the hint, drank my espresso, and went on with my day.

We don’t have to share the same interests or engage in a long conversation, but whatever happened to manners? This wasn’t a stranger or someone from a distant culture—it was a person I deal with regularly.

I know what you’re thinking: maybe she’s simply tired of my endless prattle. To that I say—pish posh! What kind of philistine finds cloud formations and celestial bodies boring? (Just kidding.) That’s not really the point. I’m talking about basic courtesy, civility—and perhaps a touch of intellectual curiosity. After all, you're only hurting yourself.

My more cynical friends always ask me, “Why do you even bother with the sans-culotte?” I suppose it’s because I like to give people the benefit of the doubt. I’m an old street urchin myself—an expert in nothing, but curious about nearly everything. Still, my mother raised me to be well-bred—to respect others and mind my manners.

If we can’t raise our heads to the sky, stop to smell the flowers, or carry on a simple, polite conversation, then the world—and all its beauty—will pass us by. Seize the day, my friends—carpe diem!

~ Giovanni di Napoli, October 17th, Feast of St. Margaret Mary Alacoque

The Centennial Year of the Canonization of St. Therese at Corpus Christi Church in South River, New Jersey

The Geography of the Soul: Identity and Fidelity

The Rape of Europa (c.1676) by Luca Giordano, State Hermitage Museum

It’s strange what lingers in the mind. At a recent exhibition—The Future Was Then: The Changing Face of Fascist Italy—I found myself thinking again of a line I once came across, or thought I did, long ago: “Mussolini is proof that a Prussian can be born south of the Alps,” or perhaps it was “Mussolini is the Prussian of the south.” Yet when I tried to trace it, I came up empty. Convinced it was in Emil Ludwig’s Talks with Mussolini (1933), I found nothing. Then, thinking it might appear in Ezra Pound’s Jefferson and/or Mussolini (1935), I searched again—with the same result. Even the web yielded no answer.

Still, the idea had struck me so powerfully that I carried it for years, even applying it to myself. I was a European born on this side of the Atlantic. To me, “European” was never merely a biological or geographical designation but a spiritual and cultural one. I felt a deeper kinship with the old continent—its civilization rooted in Greece and Rome and later crowned by Christianity—than with Americanism and its descent into secularism, materialism, and Enlightenment rationalism. Yet, sadly, Europa today has become virtually indistinguishable from the American decadence I once longed to escape.

I have often wondered whether identity is something one inherits or something one remembers. Blood and soil may determine the coordinates of our birth, but the soul’s homeland is another matter. From childhood, I felt an unease that could not be explained by circumstance alone—a sense that I had awakened in the wrong time and place, like a traveler who opens his eyes on a foreign shore and recognizes nothing familiar except the stars.

In America today, to call oneself “European” is an act of nostalgia, if not defiance. It invites suspicion—an accusation of elitism, an affection for ghosts. Yet I could never quite renounce that lineage of mind and spirit: the music of Scarlatti, the marble of Sanmartino, the geometry of Castel del Monte, and the metaphysics of Aquinas and Vico. These were not museum pieces to me but living presences, the pulse of a civilization that once believed the world had meaning.

To be European in exile—in my case, Duosiciliano, Southern Italian—is to live in translation: to think in one language, metaphorically, while speaking in another; to feel one’s own values gradually lose their native ground. What others mistook for arrogance was, in truth, homesickness—a longing for a world where beauty, hierarchy, and faith still formed a coherent order.

Over time, that estrangement became less a wound than a vocation. To live between worlds is to see both more clearly. The American air, for all its vulgarity, sharpens one’s understanding of what Europe once was; the European inheritance, for all its decadence, preserves the memory of what the diaspora might yet become. I began to see that identity is not merely belonging, but fidelity—to a vision, to a standard, to something that transcends the accidents of birth.

In art, I sought the remnants of that older order: the measured harmony of the Middle Ages, the luminous stillness of Byzantium, the tragic dignity of Christendom. Even in fragments, they spoke a universal language—the grammar of form, proportion, and transcendence. It was as if Europe had left behind a trail of breadcrumbs for those still willing to find their way back.

What others called reaction, I came to understand as remembrance. To affirm beauty in an age of desecration, to uphold hierarchy in a time of leveling, to revere the sacred amid the machinery of progress—these were not refusals of the present but acts of fidelity to the eternal. Identity, I realized, is not where one stands on a map, but what one refuses to forget.

And so, that half-remembered phrase—whether it was ever written or only imagined—still feels true. “A Prussian born south of the Alps” was, perhaps, only a metaphor for every soul displaced between origins and ideals. I see now that what I once took for confusion was, in truth, a kind of destiny—to be born into one civilization yet called to serve the memory of another. We inherit ruins, yes—but also the duty to remember what they once meant. If I, too, am a European born elsewhere, so be it; for identity, in the end, is not a matter of geography, but of fidelity—to the civilization one refuses to betray.

~ By Giovanni di Napoli, October 16th, Feast of San Gerardo Maiella 

Remembering Marie Antoinette, Queen of France

Viva 'a Reggina!

On Thursday evening, members and friends of the Fratelli della Santa Fede (Brothers of the Holy Faith) gathered for our annual dinner in memory of Marie Antoinette (2 Nov. 1755–16 Oct. 1793), Queen of France and Navarre. Unable to join our friends in Tappen, New York, for the principal commemoration, a handful of us met locally for a convivial evening of fellowship and light Spanish fare, raising a glass to the martyred queen whose grace and courage continue to inspire devotion more than two centuries after her death. 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.

Jamon Iberico, Manchego Añejo, and Tortilla Tradicional

Murcia al Vino, or the "drunken goat"

Navarrico Pintxo: Chistorra, Roncal Cheese and Piquillo Pepper Strips

Latin Rosary Brigade to Meet on Mondays at Our Lady of Mt. Carmel Church in Newark, New Jersey

For those that may be interested, there is a weekly Holy Rosary in LATIN and chanting of the Litany of Loretto by Prof. David DiPasquale every Monday at 6pm at Our Lady of Mount Carmel Church (259 Oliver St.) in Newark, New Jersey. Rosaries and prayer pamphlets provided.