The other is Jan Morris’ Venice, to be read exclusively on the train ride home. I find leaving Venice very difficult and always experience soul-lag for several days, even if I’ve only been there 24 hours or less (day trips are the cruelest). The Jan Morris is my spiritual melatonin, dosing me with with Venetian energy while my body hurtles back home.

The Venice section of my own library is vast—filled mostly with histories, books on Venetian art, memoirs, and quirky city guides. Like the Jan Morris on the train, my books keep me in Venice even when I am not.

So given my relationship with both Venice and books, you can imagine how thrilled I was to be given an advance copy of The Book Lover’s Guide to Venice by Rachael Martin. As with all great travel books, this one is both a guide for use on the ground but also to open at random and dream, even when far from La Serenissima.

The beginning offers mostly practical information about when to go and a historical introduction, before launching into the literary history of each sestiere—neighborhood—of Venice.

Mostly via short biographies of writers who lived or stayed in the area, Martin deftly guides us through centuries of books and stories that feature the city. Her list is magnificently diverse, featuring a number of women and queer writers in particular.

One of my favorites was the story of Alathea Howard, Countess of Arundel—a young aristocratic woman whose godmother was none other than Queen Elizabeth I. She and her husband, the Earl of Arundel, had first visited Venice in 1613 (with famed architect Inigo Jones in their party, if you can imagine). Alathea then returned to Venice in 1620 when she became embroiled in an espionage scandal that ended in the mysterious death of a Venetian patrician that took place at her residence, the Palazzo Mocenigo. One might think this would get her banned from the Republic but no—not only did she become a very close friend of the Doge, when she did eventually leave Venice six months later she did so with a massive retinue of horses carrying gifts and goods to take back to England, duty free no less! It was only when I read that she had published a scientific work called Natura Extenterata (1655) that I realized I knew of her already. Alethea Talbot Howard was one of the women alchemists featured in the Anselm Kiefer exhibition I wrote about in my last newsletter. Synchronicities!

Martin is great at giving us vignettes like that of Patricia Highsmith, who first went to Venice in 1949 in the company of an Italian banker she had met only the day before in Milan (this sounds both thrilling and absolutely terrifying, which is exactly how one might characterize Highsmith’s fiction). That would be the first of many trips to the city, where she eventually became friends, and then frenemies, with the fabulous Peggy Guggenheim. Highsmith would eventually set one of her novels in Venice and readers of The Talented Mr. Ripley will remember Tom Ripley moving there hoping for anonymity after his succession of misdeeds.

Henry James (dying to read The Aspern Papers now) and Lord Byron make various appearances, as do Shakespeare, Edith Wharton, and John Ruskin. The story Martin tells of “Thomas Coryat, Who Walked from Somerset to Venice and Wrote About It” is absolutely fascinating—people were beside themselves that someone would do this and his haters back home mercilessly ridiculed him for it (personally strikes me as a bit harsh, but different times and all that).

Hometown literary heroes like Giacomo Casanova, Carlo Goldoni, and Marco Polo are all there, as are the 16th- and 17th-century powerhouses Sarra Copia Sullam, Moderata Fonte, Gasparra Stampa, Veronica Franco, and my favorite raging feminist nun, Arcangela Tarabotti.

Martin includes a number of contemporary authors, and her mentions range from Lauren Elkin’s non-fiction Flâneuse: Women Walk the City in Paris, New York, Tokyo, Venice and London and The Unfinished Palazzo: Life, Love and Art in Venice by Judith Mackrell, to the historical fiction of Harriet Constable and Sarah Dunant. I was furiously looking up titles as I read (though they are helpfully listed in alphabetical order at the end, along with a bibliography) and was thrilled to find a used copy of Miss Garnet’s Angel by Sally Vickers (set in Dorsoduro) and a library copy of Harold Acton’s biography of Nancy Mitford, who stayed on the island of Torcello (at the Cipriani, natch) for two months in 1956.

In a most exquisite example of ekphrasis, Martin tells of A.S. Byatt wanting to learn more about designer Mariano Fortuny after reading Proust’s description of a Fortuny dress in À la recherché du temps perdu that was described as “having the features of Venice herself”. Byatt had stayed at Palazzo Fortuny in the 1990s and found herself linking one of the shades of green found on the walls to English designer William Morris, who had stayed in Venice in the early 1900s. The connections between the two designers would eventually turn into Byatt’s Peacock and Vine: Fortuny and Morris in Life and at Work. Such is the magic of Venice!

Wonderful Jan Morris is also here, Martin mentions her guides and histories, as well as an article called “Let her Sink” from the New York Times in 1975. As for Muriel Spark, Martin tells us that her question was not what you think of Venice, but how it makes you feel.

I feel Evelyn Waugh put it best when he had his Brideshead Revisited protagonist, Charles Ryder, muse on his time in Venice: “I was drowning in honey, stingless.” And as Martin rightly says, somehow we know exactly what he means.

The Book Lover’s Guide to Venice by Rachael Martin is published by White Owl and is out in June 2026.

On another book note, please join me and Lauren Mouat of the Open Doors Review for our discussion of the Booker International longlisted novel Lost on Me by Veronica Raimo (trans. Leah Janeczko) on Monday, June 8th at 6pm CEST. Register here, hope to see you there!

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There is an Italian proverb about springtime that I love: “Aprile, dolce dormire”—it is a nod to how sweet sleep is in April, a month that calls for more rest so our bodies can get used to the change of season, the wildly varying temperatures, and the renewed swiftness of life in general. As usual, I think the Italians got it just right. All of that fiery initiatory spring energy comes on fast and furious, and it can burn you out if you’re not careful (i.e. not getting enough of that sweet sweet sleep—and honestly, who is??).

It wasn’t the sleep, however, but the fire that kept coming to mind this past week, which I spent in the company of the loviest people wandering around museums and churches in Bergamo and Milan. My eye saw flames and burning rays everywhere:

I adore this portly flame-bouquet floating across the water, complete with it’s own coppery reflection. Surrealist artist Victor Brauner used tarot cards to engage in fortune telling with his friends, and this is a detail from a self-portrait of himself as The Magician.

It is one of the many wonderful modern works included in the gorgeous exhibition on now at the Accademia Carrara in Bergamo, Tarocchi: Le origini, le carte, la fortuna, which traces the history of tarot from the Renaissance to modern day. The most complete fifteenth-century deck is on display, as are cards designed by Leonora Carrington (photos forbidden, uffa) and works by Niki de Saint Phalle (whose Maremma tarot garden I wrote about here).

Upstairs in the permanent collection of the Accademia Carrara I was taken by this image of the Virgin, who is not only emitting her own rays of fiery light but is also surrounded by red-hot cherubs and dressed in flame-colored robes.

Palazzo Strozzi in Florence has nearly single-handedly taught me everything I know about contemporary and modern art. A couple of years ago I walked into the Anselm Kiefer “Fallen Angels” exhibition completely ignorant about him and his art and found myself transfixed by his works that spoke a fascinating, non-figurative language of poetry, literature, mysticism, mythology, and philosophy.

So when I saw that Kiefer had a site-specific show at the Palazzo Reale in Milan called “Le Alchimiste” (The Women Alchemists) I literally ran to see it in between visits to the Brera and Poldi-Pezzoli. Forty-two bright, burning, massive canvases telling the stories of women alchemists from antiquity to the nineteenth century fill the historic Sala del Cariatidi in an almost sacred way—they are monumental altarpieces to goddesses of transmutation. All are spectacular but here I include Kiefer’s depiction of Camilla Erculiani, a sixteenth-century Paduan apothecary and the first Italian woman to publish a text on natural philosophy (which included pharmacopoeia and alchemy, too)—shown jumping enthusiastically while holding a smoking alembic. This is a Camilla triumphant and in control of her knowledge. It is electrifying.

(Those who attended the most recent sessions of Radical Renaissance Women will remember her from our lecture, “Women in STEM”. I felt so proud seeing her in the exhibition!)

My god, this 40-rayed sun by Lorenzo Lotto—the obsession is so real. Made as a pendant for a scene depicting the Creation of Man, there is a whole lot of ancient magic and mysticism embedded in these circles and flames. Ten are the circles representing the emanations of God in Kabbalist numerology, while 40 are the number of weeks of a pregnancy, and the number of days that Isaiah and Jesus spent in the desert. We are dealing with a code that unlocks the mysteries of creation, though it would take someone much more well-versed than I to decipher it all. Now that I think of it, I once had a Kabbalistic tarot reading with an expert on such things—I may need to book another session and ask him what he knows about these connections. Do stay tuned.

I am generally not crazy about images depicting a stern, bearded God on high, but the tsunami of fire roiling in the sky above him is so swirlingly divine.

To end on a bit of whimsy, I give you a spiky omniscient sun from the wonderful wallpaper installation at the Accademia Carrara. I adore that this museum, which is filled to the brim with Old Masters, welcomes visitors with a bright, modern piece like this.

It got me thinking about what things I could stockpile that would make me feel safe during this trying time of uncertainty. Not food and water, but other things (or actions) that would bring calm and a sense of safety to my mind and soul.

I am not looking to check-out with my war cupboard—in fact, I want to lock in to escape the ever-encroaching fear about the future and despair for the present.

Reading and studying

“I try to spend most of my time reading and studying, not because this is a medicine that can cure all that is wrong, but at least to escape the despair that weighs upon me so heavily . . . but if my fortune will not change of its own accord or that of others, I will change it myself.”

-Lucrezia Gonzaga, 1552

Reading

Joanna Milne wrote a recent post about antiwar literature where she encouraged a read of the final book of the Iliad. The rage and despair of Achilles over the death of Patroclus leads him to unleash his fury on Hector, the greatest of the Trojans, not only killing him but refusing to render his body to his family for proper burial. The moment that Hector’s father, Priam, goes to beg Achilles for his son’s body is one of the most heart-wrenching moments in western literature.

This made Achilles yearn

to mourn his father. With his hand, he gently

took hold of the old man and pushed him back.

Then both remembered those whom they had lost.

Curled in a ball beside Achilles’ feet

Priam sobbed desperately for murderous Hector.

Achilles wept, at times for his own father,

and sometimes for Patroclus. So their wailing

suffused the house.

(Book 24, 629-637, trans. Emily Wilson)

I am grateful to Joanna for redirecting me to these words right now. We are living in a world where fury and rage take center stage every day and the image of these two great enemies—Achilles and Priam—weeping and grieving together remind us that those things can be transformed into forgiveness and humility.

It also called to mind the last lines of Ugo Foscolo’s poem Dei Sepolcri, written in 1806:

E tu onore di pianti, Ettore, avrai,
ove fia santo e lagrimato il sangue
per la patria versato, e finché il Sole
risplenderà su le sciagure umane.

And you, Hector, will have your meed of mourning
Wherever men hold holy and lament
The blood shed for the homeland, while the sun
Continues shining over human grief.

Dei Sepolcri (On Sepulchres) is fundamentally about memory, and how monuments and poetry can trigger remembrance and inspiration as we, too, live through challenging times. Giving myself time to go back to the Iliad and then turning to Foscolo’s poetry is exactly the kind of engaged reading that is in my cupboard.

Studying

My brain is currently ping-ponging back and forth between two men (not something you often hear from me!). One is Lorenzo Lotto, a sixteenth-century emo painter; and the other is Dante, a fourteenth-century emo poet.

Lotto because I am preparing for a study trip to Bergamo with the amazing Laura Gray and the intrepid punters of Learn Italy (side note: there are still a couple of spots left on the Florence trip this November—join us!).

Dante because I am running another session of Divine Dante—a six-week guided reading of the Divine Comedy—with the British Institute starting later this month. If you have ever wanted to read this masterpiece but feel daunted by the breadth of it all, then these sessions are for you. I guarantee this poem will speak to and inspire you.

Listening to book podcasts

Confession: I love listening to people talk about books almost as much as I like reading them. My cupboard contains several book podcasts that bring me much joy and a deep sense of calm, as well as inspiration. Here are my top three:

A Good Read: A BBC Radio 4 production where host Harriett Gilbert and two writers each choose a book and all of them read and discuss all three. It is great because sometimes there’s beef, but mostly because the books are usually quite different from one another so I always come away with really diverse titles to add to my list.

Take Four Books: Also from BBC Radio 4, presenter James Crawford invites a writer to reveal three books that inspired their own latest publication. One of my recent favorites was Colm Tólbín talking about the inspirations behind his new short story collection, The News from Dublin.

Close Readings: The London Review of Books has a bunch of great podcasts but I reach first for Close Readings, where two writers, professors, and/or critics delve into a literary theme by looking at a variety of works that embody it. Examples include “Fiction and the Fantastic”, “On Satire”, “Political Poems”, and my personal favorite “Medieval LOLs” (plenty of Boccaccio and Chaucer among others).

And now I am getting out of my cupboard and back into my little garden patch to enjoy the sun and the thrill of literally touching grass. I would love to hear what your cupboard holds, please do tell me what you reach for to bring a sense of peace and safety!

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Please join me at 7pm (Italy time) today, March 22nd, for an online lecture about three brilliantly creative women of early-modern Italy. All registration and donation information is available here. To whet your appetite, I have written a bit about each of the fascinating women I will be discussing—hope you enjoy!

Style Icon: Beatrice d’Este

You may have heard of Isabella d’Este, Marchioness of Mantua and one of the greatest patrons of art that the world has ever seen (male or female)—but did you know she had a younger sister, Beatrice, whose marriage, style and budget she was madly jealous of?

Beatrice d’Este was born in Ferrara in 1475 but lived at her grandfather’s glittering Spanish court in Naples from the age of two to ten. There, as her biographer Julia Cartwright observes, she absorbed the customs and manners of the Neapolitan court:

Beatrice was too young to realize the rare degree of culture which had made Alfonso’s and Ferrante’s court the favorite abode of the Greek and Latin scholars of the age, too innocent to be aware of the dark deeds which threw a shadow over these sunny regions, where the strange medley of luxury and vice, of refinement and cruelty, recalled the days of Imperial Rome. But the balmy breath of these southern climes, the soft luxuriant spell of blue seas and groves of palm and cassia, sank deep into the child’s being, and something of the fire and passion, the mirth and gaiety, of the dwellers in this delicious land passed into her soul, and helped to mold her nature during these years that she spent far from mother and sister at king Ferrante’s court.

Upon her return to Ferrara, she was educated in the humanist style of the renowned Este court and both Beatrice and her sister Isabella embodied the love of beauty that their paternal family was known for. The young Beatrice exuded the impeccable taste and education of her Ferrarese family but she was napoletana dentro—Neapolitan on the inside.

This already dizzying combination was given a further boost when she married the powerful Ludovico Sforza, future Duke of Milan, in 1491, when she was 15 and he was 39. (I know.) When she arrived in Milan her husband was in the thrall of his mistress Cecilia Gallerani (a story for another day!) but Beatrice was more interested in shopping, anyway. Imagine being a style-obsessed teenager with a basically unlimited budget in a new city.

In April 1491, shortly after their marriage, Ludovico wrote a letter to his sister-in-law, Isabella d’Este, recounting a shopping trip Beatrice took with her cousin and some of her ladies where her feisty character and unique blended fashion sense come to the fore:

And now that they are here in Milan, they set off when it was raining yesterday, by foot, on the ground, accompanied by four to six of their ladies, wearing little woolen clothes, or headdresses over their heads, in order to buy those things which are available in the city. But since it is not the custom for women to go about with such clothes on their heads here, it seems that some of the women in the street began to make villainous remarks, upon which my wife fired up and began to curse them in return, in such a manner that they expected to come to blows. They then returned home completely muddy and bedraggled, which was a fine sight! (trans. Evelyn Welch in Shopping in the Renaissance)

Beatrice, who became Duchess of Milan in 1494, died tragically young in 1497. But in those few years she had made a name for herself as fashion icon who was described as a ‘novarum vestium inventrix’—an inventor of new clothing. Her hairstyles, wardrobe, Venetian shopping trips, and even her tomb have become legendary examples of her avant-garde style.

Recommended reading: Beatrice d’Este, Duchess of Milan, 1475-1497 by Julia Cartwright

Poet and Courtesan: Veronica Franco

Style, taste and education also played a huge role in the life of sixteenth-century Venetian Veronica Franco, a cortigiana onesta (honest courtesan) and successful poet. Educated in the home of her citizen-class parents, Veronica showed an early aptitude for the literary arts as well as for seduction—the perfect combination for a courtesan.

As a ‘freelancer’, Veronica relied on the patronage of wealthy men and was often in competition with other poets, who were mostly male and mostly wanted to take her down. Her poetry, which does not shy away from her experiences and her control of sexual desire, employs combative and warrior-like language that renders it unique among other female poetic output of the time, in which the woman is often of the cooly detached Petrarchan type. Veronica’s poetry is active and vibrant, and she is constantly calling out misogyny, making her hands-down my favorite Cinquecento poet.

Veronica Franco is also the first woman to publish a collection of letters in the vernacular. Each letter is a glimpse into her interior world, including her feelings on the lifestyle of the courtesan, a profession that she found most brutal, both on the body and the psyche:

It is a most wretched thing, contrary to human reason, to subject one’s body and labor to a slavery terrifying even to think of. To make oneself prey to so many men, at the risk of being stripped, robbed, even killed so that one man, one day, may snatch away from you everything you’ve acquired from many over such a long time, along with so many other dangers of injury and dreadful contagious diseases; to eat with another’s mouth, sleep with another’s eyes, move according to another’s will, obviously rushing toward the shipwreck of your mind and your body—what greater misery? What wealth, what luxuries, what delights can outweigh all this? Believe me among all the world’s calamities this is the worst. And if to worldly concerns you add those of the soul, what greater doom and certainty of damnation could there be? (Letter XXXIX, trans. Margaret Rosenthal)

Recommended reading: The Honest Courtesan: Veronica Franco, Citizen and Writer in Sixteenth-Century Venice by Margaret F. Rosenthal

Jewish Feminist Writer: Sarra Copia Sulam

Sarra Copia Sulam is a rare example of intersectionality in early-modern Italy. Born in the Venetian Jewish ghetto around 1592 , Sarra engaged in a life of study, writing and debate with the most prominent intellectuals and scholars of her time. By her mid-twenties, she was running a literary salon in her home that included mostly Christian men. I probably don’t need to tell you how unusual this was, especially in Counter-Reformation Italy, but Sarra was insanely brave and incredibly intelligent, unafraid to defend the freedom of inquiry and debate fundamental to a culture of learning.

A rich and multifaceted epistolary relationship with the much older author and monk, Ansaldo Cebà, would eventually lead to a series of violent literary attacks on Sarra. Her response came in the form a manifesto that rails against both the misogyny and antisemitism of the charges leveled against her. Drawing on the Old and New Testaments as well as philosophy from Aristotle to Dante, Sarra’s text is a precious defense of her religious faith and of intellectual freedom. Her groundbreaking work concludes by saying:

Live happily and hope that the same immortality you preach will be advantageous to you if you live as much to observe your Christian law as I profess to adhere to my Jewish one. (trans. Don Harrán)

Recommended reading: Jewish Poet and Intellectual in Seventeenth-Century Venice: The Works of Sarra Copia Sulam in Verse and Prose Along with Writings of Her Contemporaries in Her Praise, Condemnation, or Defense, ed. and trans. by Don Harrán

International Women’s Day feels like a real kick in the face this year, doesn’t it? As psychotic men wage war, bomb girls’ schools, crush women’s rights on the daily, and institutionally protect pedophiles it all feels so disjointed and so wrong.

This is a small glimpse of what is currently whirring around in my brain on the gender inequality and violence against women and girls front: How Epstein and Maxwell used an elite Midwest arts school to prey on girls; Gen Z males twice as likely as baby boomers to believe wives should obey husbands; When DOGE Unleashed ChatGPT on the Humanities (it’s about DEI); ‘Grave concerns’ for Iran’s return home after Women’s Asian Cup elimination.

Even this sign in the Accademia Carrara in Bergamo had me gnashing my teeth all weekend:

The only painting by a woman in their entire collection. In 2026. I find this so outrageous and yet it’s not in any way abnormal, which just enrages me all the more.

In Italy, March 8th is known as the festa delle donne, where ‘festa’ implies a celebration of sorts. Men buy the ladies little bunches of mimosa flowers and then basically forget about women and their plight for the rest of the year. To be fair, the festa delle donne has changed a lot since I moved here in the 90s, when it was about getting together with girlfriends and going to dinner or out dancing (yes, male strip clubs were often involved—it was a weird time). Now, however, there is a lot more awareness about the history of the day and the activism that led to its creation. This year it falls on a Sunday, so the major Italian labor unions have declared a general strike on Monday to acknowledge the continued fight for women’s rights. As bell hooks said, “The most basic activism we can have in our lives is to live consciously in a nation living in fantasies.”

I have been thinking a lot about living consciously lately as our world seems to spin more and more out of control and our “feeds” (ugh, a word that implies nourishment but gives us anything but) serve up one horror after another. The bell hooks quote may hold a key. While the world powers live out their war and domination fantasies we are called to ground into reality—to face it head on. For me this doesn’t mean staying online all day long, subjecting myself to every piece of breaking news, but going to books (the only place left where there are no advertisements or notifications popping up) and to history.

There have always been people living consciously while their nation lives in fantasies. Imagine the women of Renaissance Italy, trapped in the fantasy of men who didn’t believe them worthy of formal education or full legal rights, but who wrote poetry anyway, created art anyway, engaged in social and political debate anyway. They are also reality. And these women should be celebrated and their voices heard.

From March 10th to March 31st we will gather in person and online every Tuesday at 6pm (Italy time) at the British Institute of Florence to focus on the stories of women who created and debated and participated in their societies against all imaginable odds. I can promise that this kind of grounding in reality will inspire you as it has inspired me and provide a bit of a remedy to the untetheredness of our times.

Luminaries of Literature

March 10th, 2026

During the Cinquecento, women began to be widely celebrated for their secular and religious lyric poetry. Several of these poets went beyond mere composition and became part of the very fabric of the literary society of the time. Laura Battiferri is an example of a woman who hosted an important cultural salon and whose poetic output garnered her a place in the prestigious intellectual circle of the Accademia degli Intronati. Laura Terracina’s poetry was so popular that she published even more than her contemporary, the great Vittoria Colonna. Terracina enjoyed enormous success during her lifetime both in Italy and abroad and her business and editorial sense is inspiring even for women publishing today. We will end with a look at the tragic story of Isabella di Morra, who was one of the first Neapolitan poets, male or female, to be published by a prestigious commercial press in Venice though her work was only discovered after she had been murdered at the age of 25 by her jealous brothers. Register here.

Humanist Icons

March 17th, 2026

The fifteenth century gave us some of the greatest humanists of all time—Leon Battista Alberti, Marsilio Ficino and Agnolo Poliziano, just to name a few. Because of language and educational barriers, women humanists are rare but exceptional in their scholarship. We begin with Isotta Nogarola—considered the first major female humanist in Europe—who not only wrote but also gave public lectures and engaged in debates with some of the leading male humanists of her time. Upon her death, Nogarola was celebrated as an ‘oratrix’ (public orator) and ‘vates’ (public conscience) of her city for her influence on humanist thought.

Fascinating Laura Cereta was born in Brescia in the 1460s and was educated by women, not by her father or a male tutor as was the norm. Raised on the works of the Roman orators, poets and philosophers, Cereta would stay up late into the night writing and studying before facing her day as a caretaker for her siblings and as secretary to her father. Her letters, essays, and a comic dialogue give us a glimpse into the brilliant and expressive humanist mind of this early feminist writer. Finally, we will look at the life and work of Cassandra Fedele, whose reputation as a humanist scholar put her in direct contact with the members of Lorenzo il Magnifico’s circle as well as on prominent public stages where she would deliver orations on radical subjects such as the question of higher education for women. Register here.

Women in STEM

March 24th, 2026

Though barred from most formal education, some women still managed to rise to the very heights of academic achievement in the maths and sciences. Margherita Sarrocchi was a poet and a polymath whose brilliant ability to combine science, faith, and literature led to her connections with Galileo and her admission into the Accademia degli Umoristi. Maria Gaetana Agnesi was the first woman to write a mathematics handbook as well as being the first woman appointed as a mathematics professor at a university. Camilla Erculiani was a professional apothecary who wrote Letters on Natural Philosophy published in 1584 and as a result was brought in front of the Inquisition because of some unorthodox theories in the book. Erculiani also addressed the querelle des femmes (the woman question) in her publication, even using amazing zingers like, “I don’t know what malignant star causes [men] to refuse to recognize greatness, except in the things they accomplish themselves.” Register here.

Radical Religious Reformers

March 31st, 2026

The period between the beginning of the Protestant Reformation in 1517 and the initiatory sessions of the Council of Trent in 1545 was incredibly fecund for ideas around religious reform. Many prominent women in Italy participated in the discussions surrounding questions of faith, often hosting salons and debates in their homes. Giulia Gonzaga is one of the most fascinating studies of a woman who used her social position as well as her intellect to engage with the most important reformers of the time, including Juan de Valdès and Bernardino Ochino. Giula’s distant kinswoman, Lucrezia Gonzaga, was also involved in the intellectual and spiritual debates happening before the Counter Reformation, going so far as publicly declaring her support for the doctrine of sola fides (by faith alone)—an idea that would later be declared heretical. Olimpia Fulvia Morata was educated by her humanist and religious-reformer father before being introduced into the circle of the Calvinist duchess of Ferrara, Renée of France. This burgeoning religious current would shape the life and work of Morata, now considered one of the most important scholars of this turbulent period of the Renaissance. Register here.

I blame the really good charity shop near our Kensington hotel and the discovery of John Sandoe Books in Chelsea:

So yes, I own a lot of books. It is my most toxic consumerist trait, but I find it isn’t as bad as owning a bunch of sports cars or private jets so I tend to go pretty easy on myself about it.

Quite miraculously, I have even managed to make a career out of talking about the things I read in books (i.e. teaching), and in preparing for a lecture titled “A Library of One’s Own: Reading Radical Renaissance Women” at the British this Wednesday, I came across this quote by Seneca:

“You will find then in the libraries of the most arrant idlers all that orators or historians have written—book-cases built up as high as the ceiling. Nowadays a library takes rank with a bathroom as a necessary ornament of a house. I could forgive such ideas, if they were due to extravagant desire for learning. As it is, these productions of men whose genius we revere, paid for at a high price, with their portraits ranged in line above them, are got together to adorn and beautify a wall.”

Touché, Seneca.

While I do not feel particularly called out as we’ve just established that I need these books for work—no “arrant idlers” here (ahem)—some Renaissance collectors could definitely be accused of amassing books for primarily aesthetic purposes. Come to the lecture on Wednesday (online or IRL) to find out who I am talking about.

On a final “aesthetic” book note, I hope you will join us on Zoom for our spring book club discussion of Perfection by Vincenzo Latronico (translated by Sophie Hughes) next Monday, March 2nd at 6pm CET. The author will be at testo this weekend and while I am unable to attend, my co-host Lauren will be there and will share all of her insights during our meetup. The book club is free to attend, please register here. I cannot wait to talk about this one!

I know I am not the first person to marvel at the anemic devotion to Piero—here’s Aldous Huxley in a 1925 essay called “The Best Picture”:

If the principal works of Piero were to be seen in Florence, and those of Botticelli at San Sepolcro, I do not doubt that the public estimation of these two masters would be reversed. Artistic English spinsters would stand and rapturous contemplation before the story of the True Cross, instead of before the Primavera. Raptures depend largely upon the stars and Baedecker, and the stars are more freely distributed to works of art in accessible towns than to those in the inaccessible.

I also know that in the last one hundred years Piero scholarship and appreciation has increased exponentially and that most of you reading this have probably been to Arezzo and San Sepolcro (and Monterchi, if you please!). Piero’s frescos are no secret and now there is even a high-speed train that gets you from Florence to Arezzo in 34 minutes.

Little more than a half hour gets you this:

And this!

The most delicious way to learn more about Piero in and around Arezzo is the slender volume by John Pope-Hennessey called The Piero della Francesca Trail (it includes the Aldous Huxley essay referenced above). You may have to search a bit for it, but the effort is well worth the reward.

If you want to be taken into the world of Piero frescos in the most divine way, then imagine yourself flying through a darkened Bacci Chapel in a sling with a glowing flare lighting your way as you careen through the air, gazing into the eyes of the earthly but somehow also ethereal figures. Michael Ondaatje rightly won the Booker Prize for this kind of spellbinding language in The English Patient:

The piazza at night was empty of troops, and the sapper parked in front of the church. He helped the medievalist off, collected his equipment and walked into the church. A colder darkness. A greater emptiness, the sound of his boots filling the area. Once more he smelled the old stone and wood. He lit three flares. He slung block and tackle across the columns above the nave, then fired a rivet already threaded with rope into a high wooden beam. The professor was watching him bemused, now and then peering up into the high darkness. The young sapper circled him and nodded a sling across his waist and shoulders, taped a small lit flare to the old man’s chest.

He left him there by the communion rail and noisily climbed the stairs to the upper level, where the other end of the rope was. Holding on to it, he stepped off the balcony into the darkness, and the old man was simultaneously swung up, hoisted up fast until, when the sapper touched the ground, he swung idly in midair within three feet of the frescoed walls, the flare brightening a halo around him. Still holding the rope the sapper walked forward until the man swung to the right to hover in front of the Flight of Emperor Maxentius.

Five minutes later he let the man down. He lit a flare for himself and hoisted his body up into the dome within the deep blue of the artificial sky. He remembered its gold stars from the time he had gazed on it with binoculars. Looking down he saw the medievalist sitting on a bench, exhausted. He was now aware of the depth of this church, not its height. The liquid sense of it. The hollowness and darkness of a well. The flare sprayed out of his hand like a wand. He pulled himself across to her face, his Queen of Sadness, and his brown hand reached out small against the giant neck.

If you want the visual swoon and a more romantic version, then the film is for you:

In another literary Piero moment, I have just ordered Summer’s Lease by John Mortimer which was mentioned to me in a comment on this note from last week:

Incidentally, I bought a used copy of the mass-market paperback, a format the NYT tells us is officially dead: So Long to Cheap Books You Could Fit in Your Pocket (gift link).

On a happier book note, please mark your calendars for Monday, March 2nd at 6pm CET for our Spring edition of the book club where we will be discussing Vincenzo Latronico’s devastating critique of modern life, Perfection. Register here to receive the Zoom link—it’s free and open to all.

In the meantime, take good care and get thee to Arezzo—be it in person or through the images of Piero and the words of others!

On Saturday I had just walked in the door from a soggy afternoon out in the center, where I had been visiting the Beato Angelico exhibition for the last time. I was feeling a lot of different things that mostly boiled down to a mixture of gratitude and melancholy.

My phone began lighting up—multiple Whatsapp groups, my best friend in California—another ICE shooting in Minneapolis, another death. I watched the videos and I raged. I heard about Alex Pretti, an ICU nurse at a VA hospital, a helper, a hiker, a theater kid, a good guy—and I cried.

He is more than double my son’s age, but there is something of G in him. My son is also a helper and a theater kid and a good guy, someone who regularly intervenes when he sees injustice. We talk a lot about how G, all 6’ 3 white boy of him, can and should use his privilege to speak for and act on behalf of those who can’t. I can see him doing what Alex did. I try not to think about it.

Just two weeks ago our activist group, Good Trouble Firenze, protested outside the US Consulate. G held a sign that said Rest in Power, Renee Good. One of our members made arm bands with the names of those who have died in ICE custody over the last year. There were dozens of arm bands. Mine had the name Isidro Pérez—he was a 75-year-old Cuban fisherman who had lived in the US for nearly 60 years. You can read about his arrest and abominable treatment here.

I won’t post a picture of the protest because G is a minor, or maybe because I am too scared to post a picture, I am already scared just writing these words. And if I am scared, how must my fellow (immigrant and non) parents in Minneapolis be feeling? I try to imagine it.

I vow to stay off social media on Saturday night.

I fail.

Thankfully, my algorithm is trained to show me a lot of activism, in particular poets and singers and pastors who are beating the drums of resistance. This community in Minneapolis singing ‘we are here with our city / our love for each other will carry us through’—is so powerful.

I kept replaying it and started singing along.

I thought about how fortunate they were to be able to gather in the midst of the horrors and sing together. And by posting the video the collective voices were carried across the Atlantic where I, too, could be moved by them and connected to them.

I thought about protest music and how fortunate I am to live in a country and region (Tuscany) that has such a vibrant resistance culture, unfortunately forged during a 20 year period of Fascism followed by a civil war.

I thought about how when I moved here nearly 30 years ago there were so many more partisans still alive, telling their horrible, wonderful stories—not letting us forget. Now they are mostly gone and I think we are starting to forget. (Will Americans have to learn all of this now?)

In Italy, we have a protest song called Bella ciao. It’s beautiful and even though the history of it is a little unclear, it is a hymn to the spirit of the partisans, a hymn of resistance and freedom, and every time it is played at a manifestazione G and I sing our hearts out with everyone and it heals a little something in us.

It is one small thing—like gathering to sing in the Minneapolis church the night that Alex Pretti was killed is a small thing. But what else is there except a bunch of small things that keep us whole and together and resisting?

Is this what we are supposed to be doing?

What are we supposed to be doing?

Una mattina mi son svegliato
O bella ciao, bella ciao, bella ciao ciao ciao
Una mattina mi son svegliato
Eo ho trovato l’invasor

One morning I woke up
O bella ciao, bella ciao, bella ciao ciao ciao
One morning I woke up
And I found the invader

O partigiano porta mi via
O bella ciao, bella ciao, bella ciao ciao ciao
O partigiano porta mi via
Che mi sento di morir

Oh partisan, carry me away,
O bella ciao, bella ciao, bella ciao ciao ciao
Oh partisan, carry me away,
For I feel I’m dying

E se io muoio da partigiano
O bella ciao, bella ciao, bella ciao ciao ciao
E se io muoio da partigiano
Tu mi devi seppellir

And if I die as a partisan
O bella ciao, bella ciao, bella ciao ciao ciao
And if I die as a partisan
You have to bury me

Mi seppellire lassù in montagna
O bella ciao, bella ciao, bella ciao ciao ciao
Mi seppellire lassù in montagna
Sotto l’ombra di un bel fiore

But bury me up in the mountain
O bella ciao, bella ciao, bella ciao ciao ciao,
But bury me up in the mountain
Under the shadow of a beautiful flower

E le genti che passeranno
O bella ciao, bella ciao, bella ciao ciao ciao
E le genti che passeranno
Mi diranno: “Che bel fior”

And the people who will pass by
O bella ciao, bella ciao, bella ciao ciao ciao,
And the people who will pass by
Will say to me: “what a beautiful flower”

È questo il fiore del partigiano
O bella ciao, bella ciao, bella ciao ciao ciao
È questo il fiore del partigiano
Morto per la libertà

This is the flower of the partisan
O bella ciao, bella ciao, bella ciao ciao ciao
This is the flower of the partisan
Who died for freedom

We are just SIX DAYS out of the Christmas season—that moment when the spotlight shines on goodwill, peace, and good tidings. Just six days out and already it seems that any residue, any hint of that Christmas spirit, has well and truly left the building. But even though things are dark right now, I refuse to let these first few days of the new year cast a shadow over the entirety of what is to come. Hope feels radical and joy does, too, but I am convinced that if we are to combat the darkness we have to focus on whatever light there is.

In that spirit, today I am offering a ray of sunshine in the person of Saint Francis of Assisi. While my devotion to him is nothing new (as anyone who has taken a class with me can testify), it has been great to recently see his name in publications far and wide. The New York Times has named his hometown one of the 52 Places to Go in 2026 and The Atlantic has dubbed him The Saint America Needs Now (the subtitle is perfection: ‘Kindness has become countercultural. Perhaps Saint Francis can help’).

Yes, this year marks the 800th anniversary of his life but it is more than that—this moment truly seems made for him. Culture wars, actual wars, political strife, extreme violence, religious turmoil, and rampant abuses of power dominated Francis’s thirteenth-century lifetime just as they are currently dominating ours. Yet in the midst of all of that was charismatic Francis, running around teaching people about divinity, humanity, unity, social justice, and joy.

So how can we tap into the energy and light of Saint Francis?

I think we start by recognizing how completely human he was. One of my favorite things about Francis is his wild youth—there is something so satisfying about a person who really partied their teens away and then decided to shift the energy and focus to god. It just feels more relatable.

Francis was someone who loved life and spread his joy freely through song and poetry before and after his transformation/conversion. As a teenager, he was constantly riding through Assisi singing and carrying on with his friends, being joyful and spreading joy. Later, just before his death at age 44, he wrote a song called ‘The Canticle of the Creatures’ in which he praises god and all of creation just for being so downright wonderful.

G.K. Chesterton rightly says that Francis was a man who could not, did not want to see the wood for the trees. Instead, he wanted to see each individual tree as a separate and sacred thing. For Francis, every single thing had a spotlight on it, thereby emphasizing its uniqueness and its beauty. A tree was cause for great rejoicing.

Similarly, Francis was always asking the BIG QUESTIONS and finding that the answers were actually quite small. A poignant example of this can be found in a story from the Fioretti (The Little Flowers of Saint Francis) called ‘True and Perfect Joy’. In it, Francis talks us through different scenarios that you would think would inspire true and perfect joy for a saint—performing miracles, healing the sick, etc.—before he gets to what it actually means to him:

I return from Perugia and arrive here in the dead of night. It’s wintertime, muddy, and so cold that icicles have formed on the edges of my habit and keep striking my legs and blood flows from such wounds. Freezing, covered with mud and ice, I come to the gate and, after I’ve knocked and called for some time, a brother comes and asks: ‘Who are you?’ ‘Brother Francis’, I answer. ‘Go away!’ he says. ‘This is not a decent hour to be wandering about! You may not come in!’ When I insist, he replies: ‘Go away! You are simple and stupid! Don’t come back to us again! There are many of us here like you—we don’t need you!’ I stand again at the door and say: ‘For the love of God, take me in tonight!’ And he replies: ‘I will not! Go to the [bishop’s] palace and ask there!’ I tell you this: ‘If I had patience and did not become upset, true joy, as well as true virtue and the salvation of my soul, would consist in this.’

True joy from patience in the face of an inconvenience. It’s a small-big thing. A radical, light-filled thing.

So how can we create some Francis-inspired light and joy right now, today, in the midst of all of the darkness?

Be wild.

Sing a happy song.

Hug a tree.

Take on the challenges, big and small.

Marvel at it all.

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Radical Renaissance Women: Cloisters and Convents Edition starts January 13th and Backstory: Saint Francis of Assisi on January 29th. Hope to see you there ✨

I just love this little pocket of time between one year and the next. It is the perfect moment to reflect on what has passed and what I hope is to come; a time filled with nostalgia and promise—two of my very Favorite Things.

In the spirit of this between-time, here are ten of my Favorite Things from 2025 and some of what I am most looking forward to in early 2026.

1. The Line of Beauty by Alan Hollingsworth

This was my favorite book of the year (yes, it won the Booker in 2004, it is OLD). In June, Johanna Thomas-Corr, chief literary critic at The Times (and someone I would follow into battle no questions asked) mentioned that this was her favorite novel of all time. Fate would have it that Paperback Exchange had a used copy of it in stock! Can you imagine? I ran down to the shop, started it that day and emerged, completely changed, some time later. Set in Thatcherite London it is the story of young Nick Guest and his pursuit of beauty, primarily through his proximity to the posh and political Fedden family and through his sexual relationships with two very different men, both of whom will impact him in life-altering ways. There is a bit of Oxford undgrad here, as well as completely fab 1980s parties in English country houses, gorgeous descriptions of antiques, the inevitable attention to British class divides, a Notting Hill house that I want to live in, plenty of youthful yearning, some shame, and a lot of talk about literature. It is all laid sumptuously before us with an undercurrent of the tragedy that we know is about to hit Nick and his community of lovers and friends. If you haven’t already, I urge you to read this book. When you do, please message me so we can talk about it.

2. Heart the Lover by Lily King

To be honest I am still processing this one, but I wanted to add it 1) because it deeply affected me and 2) so you can see I do read recently published books. I thought I was in for a campus love story with this one but what I got was a heart-stretching, devastating, beautiful meditation on youth, truth, love, pain, life, and death. It left me in tiny pieces on the floor and ready for a second read as soon as I can possibly handle it.

3. Slow Reading

This year, I read George Eliot’s Middlemarch and Custom of the Country by Edith Wharton as part of a slow read with Haley Larsen. Both were first-time reads for me. Because I am a pretty fast reader by nature, doing a methodical read like this was special. Readings are broken down by week into fairly small sections in order to be able to really spend time with the text—underlining, making notes, and so on. It’s like being back in school except you only have that reading to do (not four other classes worth as well!) and instead of being tested on it, you get to read a post by Haley with all sorts of analysis and links to critical articles then discuss it in the comments with your fellow readers.

In 2026 I am committing to two more slow reads with Haley: Wuthering Heights and another Wharton—The House of Mirth. I am also going to participate in Simon Haisell’s Wolf Crawl, which is a year-long slow read of Hilary Mantel’s Thomas Cromwell trilogy. Most of these are re-reads for me, a practice I very happily engage in. I know there are a million books out there (and about half that many on my shelf at the moment) but as C.S. Lewis said, “To me, re-reading my favorite books is like spending time with my best friends. I’d never be satisfied to limit myself to just one experience each with my favorite people.” So bring on the slow RE-reads in the New Year!

4. Nun Lit Supremacy

I had no idea that the obsession with all-female devotional spaces was so widespread until this year. Give me a book featuring a community of nuns—real or fictional—and I am putting on Rosalia’s LUX and immediately locking in. Stone Yard Devotional, Cloistered, and Matrix were 2025 favorites. I didn’t love Convent Wisdom but I do love all the press it is getting. Next up is Silvia Townsend Warner’s The Corner that Held Them.

And because I am incapable of having a hobby that I don’t somehow turn into work, allow me to introduce you to my next course at the British Institute—Radical Renaissance Women: Convents and Cloisters Edition, starting January 13th, 2026. It will be held in person in the library and live on Zoom.

This series is the third part of the Radical Renaissance Women course which revisits early modern society by looking at some of the less traditional and more radical figures in Italy at the time: the creative and powerful women whose names have been left out of the mainstream history books.

This is a deep dive into the world of female convents and cloisters, where we will explore the inspirational lives of the nuns who lived, worked, wrote, ruled and created in these fascinating and often surprising women-only spaces. Many of these Renaissance women, operating in a wholly patriarchal society with few rights and little access to education would go on to have a global impact that has lasted up to our present day.

Long live Nun Lit and all who read it!

5. Saint Francis of Assisi

My love for St. Francis is definitely not a new Favorite Thing, but it is taking shape in a whole new way in the coming year. 2026 marks the 800th anniversary of his death and celebrations are being planned all over Italy. In February I will go to Assisi to see his mortal remains, which will be moved from the crypt to the foot of the papal altar (normally you can see his tomb but not the actual relics). If you are here from 22 February to 22 March, you can reserve a place here.

The anniversary presented the perfect opportunity for me to share the fascinating story of this medieval revolutionary—a nature-loving pacifist (and poet!) who directly challenged a rapidly changing society plagued by religious wars, violent political strife, and shifting value systems. Francis rebelled against a society where wealth hoarding lived alongside mass poverty and where the outsider was an object of scorn and mistrust. He preached radical love and acceptance for all living beings and for our planet, and his message of peace and harmony is one that is so necessary right now.

The online series starts January 29th and will recount Francis’ story through the most evocative images by Italian masters including Cimabue, Giotto, Pietro and Ambrogio Lorenzetti, Taddeo Gaddi, Fra Angelico, Sassetta, Botticelli, Giovanni Bellini, Vecchietta, Carlo Crivelli, Caravaggio and many more. Miniatures, manuscripts, objects from the Holy Land, and contemporary artwork will also be used to illustrate Francis’ immense legacy. I cannot wait to get started and hope you will join me.

6. Tarot

I adore the Tarot and was lucky to have two great experiences in London in 2025—one was an exhibition on the history of the Tarot at the Warburg Institute in the spring and the other was a fantastic reading at Treadwell’s for my birthday in September. This year I am looking forward to deepening my relationship with the energy of The Hermit, which I currently interpret as a balance between a withdrawal into the world of inner needs and learning (symbolized by the staff), and the outer world of illumination through teaching and guiding (the lantern). I would love to hear your thoughts on The Hermit or whether you have a particular card or archetype you will be focusing on this year.

I am also looking forward to the exhibition Tarocchi: The Origins, the Cards, and their Fortune at the Accademia Carrara in Bergamo in 2026. It will be the first time in a century that all of the extant cards from the 15th-century Visconti-Sforza deck will be shown together. Also called the Colleoni deck, it is considered the most complete historical deck in the world. The exhibition will highlight the turn from playing cards to divinatory tool in the 18th century as well as featuring 20th century artists like Niki de Saint Phalle and Leonora Carrington and their reflections on the Tarot.

If you would like to explore Bergamo, including a visit to the Tarot exhibition and the rest of the treasures at the Accademia Carrara, there is still space on a study-trip I am leading with the inimitable Laura Gray and Learn Italy from 14-19 April, 2026. It will be a whole lotta Lotto and even a day trip to the Brera in Milan. Join us!

7. Writers’ Hours

This summer I joined the London Writers’ Salon and have been participating in their morning writers’ hour fairly consistently since then. It is a great motivator to sit in the company of over 200 people from all over the world and just get down to it. I hope to continue this practice as well as the writing sessions with the amazing Clover Stroud, one of my favorite writers in the world and who generously brings us together for silent writing twice a week.

8. Book Club

Our book club is definitely one of my Favorite Things and I am so excited about continuing it with Lauren Mouat in the coming year. Here is a post featuring our 2026 books.

9. Walks in Nature

Moving out of the historic center was absolutely one of my Favorite Things of the year. The actual move was hellish, of course, but now that G, my books, and I are settled, the pain of it is receding into the distance and I am simply enjoying the new house and the ENORMOUS park right across the way. The goal is to get out there every day rain or shine and literally touch grass. After so many years of city living and phone addiction it is actually rewiring my brain and body and I want more of that in the New Year.

10. Palazzo Strozzi

This year we were treated to Tracy Emin and Fra Angelico, and next year we get Mark Rothko. Three Favorite Things in one place, loving life.

Thank you for reading and thank you for your presence throughout this year—it has been a rather choppy one but this little space has brought me a lot of joy and for that I am immensely grateful! I would love to hear about your Favorite Things, either past or still to come, so please do leave a comment if you can.

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In the words of St. Francis, pax et bonum—peace and goodness to you all in the coming year!

It has been another wonderful year reading with you all. We read four books by Italian writers in translation—three novels and one work of auto-fiction—all chosen for their diverse content, including themes of immigration, class dynamics, LGBTQ+ relationships, and mental health. I am so grateful to everyone who read along and shared their thoughts, either via email or during our in-person discussions. Grazie di cuore.

I am excited to announce that the Illuminare Book Club will continue in 2026 in partnership with Lauren Mouat of Open Doors Review and with the same seasonal timeline as this year.

This year we have chosen four works of contemporary Italian fiction that have all been nominated for the International Booker Prize:

Spring

Perfection by Vincenzo Latronico, translated by Sophie Hughes

A taut, spare sociological novel about the emptiness of contemporary existence – scathing and affecting in equal measure.

Summer

Lost on Me by Veronica Raimo, translated by Leah Janeczko

Narrated in a voice as wryly ironic as it is warm and affectionate, Lost on Me seductively explores the slippery relationship between deceitfulness and creativity.

Autumn

The House on via Gemito by Domenico Starnone, translated by Oonagh Stransky

Narrated against the vivid backdrop of Naples in the 1960s, The House on Via Gemito has established itself as a masterpiece of contemporary Italian literature.

Winter

The Story of the Lost Child by Elena Ferrante, translated by Ann Goldstein

Set in a seductive and perilous Naples, Elena Ferrante delivers a searingly honest chronicle of a lifelong female friendship.

If you are in Italy or anywhere in Europe, all of the titles are available for delivery from Paperback Exchange in Florence. If you are elsewhere, please order from an independent seller or check them out from your wonderful local library whenever possible—grazie!

I will post dates and links as the year progresses, so please do subscribe to stay informed. Happy reading to all!

I am a seasonal reader at heart. I like cozy books in the winter and bright narratives in the summer. Ideally, I want to read about people having coastline adventures while I am at the beach and I want snow on the ground in my books from November to February. Clearly not all of my reading can be seasonal, but some of it can be and that’s what I want to write about today.

Full confession: I really go for British fare during this season—they do the festive glow and cold weather and warm bev and all of that SO well. Italy really shines on the page when summer is involved, but every once in awhile I come across a passage about Italy at Christmastime in an unexpected place and I just love it.

The Christmas Chronicles by Nigel Slater

Claire Holden turned me on to the audio version of Nigel Slater’s The Christmas Chronicles (it comes with an attached PDF with all of the recipes, so genius) and it is simply spectacular. It’s everything I could want in a wintry read—lots of cold weather and warm houses, geographically-specific memories, droll explanations of British traditions that I long to understand (Stir-up Sunday!), and of course the countless recipes for everything from classic brandy mincemeat to pickled quinces.

Interestingly, Tuscany features a few times in Slater’s book. One of his November recipes is for gnudi, our pillowy-soft ricotta and spinach dumplings, and another section is devoted to the Sienese panforte—the dense and spicy antidote to sweet and fluffy panettone. Made of dried fruit, nuts and a plethora peppery spices soldered together with boiling honey (there are traditionally 17 ingredients, one for each contrada of Siena), panforte features on Tuscan tables throughout the Christmas season. But I think that Slater is correct when he says that an optimal panforte experience demands candlelight and a sense of occasion:

I, too, get a fancy for a tiny triangle of chewy panforte looking forward to the gentle slap of sweet spice as much as I do that of Lebkuchen or gingerbread. I’m more than a little ashamed that I had yet to warm to its honeyed tone when I visited its rust-red hometown, Siena. With hindsight, I probably thought the slim white packages piled high in every shop were soap.

Nighttime, after dinner, is when this treat comes out in our house. My version of my parents’ habit of bringing out a box of After Eight mints, except the mints got more takers.

A chewy disk of nuts and dried figs, honey and spice, is best consumed in a room glowing with candlelight and served in a tiny wedge at the foot of a small glass of equally glowing vin santo. To eat it straight from its white paper wrapper in daylight is to indulge only in its curiously chewable compounded figs and nuts. You need a certain sense of occasion to understand its charm, which is probably why it only really comes out at Christmas (much the same could be said of advocaat).

Tender at the Bone by Ruth Reichl

I read Ruth Reichl’s memoir, Tender at the Bone: Growing Up at the Table, decades ago but her description of one Christmas spent in Italy has always stuck with me. She and her then-husband, Doug, were traveling through Europe and had gone to stay with her former art history professor, Milton, first in Greece and then in Rome for the holidays.

That December, Ruth and Doug were broke and Milton was broken hearted, having just been left by his vivacious paramour, Hilly. They young couple, having decided to spend their last coin on tokens of affection for Milton, embark on a midnight shopping spree at the only place open on Christmas Eve—the Termini train station. They fill a stocking with a bottle of Cynar (an amaro made from cardoons, artichokes, and blessed thistle), chocolate bars, foreign-language newspapers and a sterling silver St. Christopher medal.

Milton is aptly moved when he finds the quirky gifts and awakens them early on Christmas morning to set off for the mountains of Tuscany. After a lunch of chicken-liver bruschetta (fegatini) and a simple but divine agilo e olio pasta (“The strands of spaghetti were vital, almost alive in my mouth, and the olive oil was singing with flavor.”), the threesome wind their way higher still, entering an enchanted land where they meet the stonecutter responsible for the figures they had found carved directly into the mountainside:

“Spumante”, cried the sculptor, leaping from the bench and disappearing into a small cave. He returned carrying a thick green glass bottle; it was his own champagne, made from his own grapes.

“Auguri!”, he said as he pulled the wire cage off the cork.

The cork leaped from the bottle and rocketed into the air, propelled by every drop of liquid. It gushed up into a furious fountain and splashed down, showering us with wine.

At that precise moment the bells in all the churches on the mountain began to ring madly in the thin winter air. It was Christmas in Italy; it was time to go home. Doug put his arms around me and I looked at Milton, hoping that his loneliness was about to end.

Milton raised his empty glass and said, “We can drink the music.”

Every time I hear church bells on Christmas I think of that line and I drink in the sparkling notes.

OK, I’ve been sitting long enough, time to bundle up and get back to the park for my soggy afternoon amble. The reward will be more cozy winter reading—suggestions from you wonderful readers very welcome!

I will post the Zoom link here on Substack the day of the meeting. To receive the optional reading questions, please sign up for the Open Doors Review Newsletter.

Synopsis
June 1994. Twenty-year-old Daniele wakes up in a hospital room surrounded by strangers. Slowly, memories of the previous night return to him: a spiral of anxiety and anger, an explosion of violence so intense that it almost inflicted irreparable damage to him and his family. To his horror, he learns that he’s been sentenced to a week of mandatory treatment in a psychiatric ward.

Drawing from the author’s own personal experience of mental illness, and writing with lucid realism and stunning emotional force, Everything Calls for Salvation tells the story of the seven days Daniele spends in the hospital as he struggles to find a way out of the darkness.

Daniele finds unexpected companionship in his fellow patients—men who, like him, have felt the full brunt of life’s pain. Together they will realise the hidden strength and value of their common fragility and the boundless empathy they feel towards others.

By focusing on some of the most marginalized people in our society, Mencarelli has written a heart-breaking and unforgettable novel that challenges our notion of normality and celebrates the salvific power of solidarity and vulnerability.

The book won the prestigious Premio Strega Giovani in 2020 and was subsequently adapted into a Netflix series (available with English-language subtitles). Personally, I was intrigued to read a piece of auto-fiction about mental health as it is a subject that is still heavily stigmatized in Italy, particularly for men. Mencarelli also has a son with developmental differences and he writes often about his experiences with the Italian health and education systems. His 2023 novel, Fame d’aria, is about a father raising an autistic son and the pain and loneliness that often comes with navigating it all in the face of indifference and sometimes even cruelty. Because Mencarelli is also a poet, his works are unique not only for their subject matter but for their lyric note as well.

Buona lettura—I am really looking forward to discussing this with you in December!

P.S. I will be out of commission for a bit due to a surgery later this week but will be back here as soon as I am healed and rested. Thank you for your understanding and support!

In this attempt to settle into the encroaching darkness, I have been meditating on a sculpture and on a poem that I think might help me do just that.

This beauty, found at the Archeological Museum of Florence is officially identified as a Mater Matuta—the mother of the morning—a Latin divinity associated with sunrise, fertility, and birth who would eventually be subsumed into the Roman pantheon and equated with their goddess Aurora. It makes sense to see her as a mother goddess, it depicts a solidly seated woman who is holding a baby in her arms, after all. But if we look more closely, another option for her identity presents itself.

The statue sits majestically in the center of a room otherwise filled with Etruscan burial urns—small caskets made to hold the ashes of the dead. When our statue was excavated in the Necropolis della Pedata in Chianciano Terme (near Siena) in 1846, they discovered that her head and her feet were removable.

Inside they found a burial urn.

Rather than a Mater Matuta, could we be looking at a depiction of Tujltha, the Etruscan protectress of the dead? Less Aurora, more Proserpina1 Queen of the Underworld? Can we see this anthropomorphic burial urn not as a symbol of sunrise but as a symbol of darkness? I think so.

Persephone 3

By Marie Howe

My mother knows all about the under-dark.

She needn’t have pretended to be appalled.

The seed must break open and rise;

put too deep the rot sets in.

My mother is a god; she wanted to spare me.

But my nature is nature.

Like everything alive I was meant to be split open,

to blossom, to be sucked, to be eaten,

to lean, to bend, to wither,

to die and die and die and die until I died.

Like everything in nature, the darkness serves a purpose—it cocoons us, swaddles and protects us after we have been split open during the blossoming spring. So this winter I am going to think about this 2,500-year-old statue and channel my inner Tujltha, my shadowy Proserpina, and revel in the under-dark of it all.

I’ve just wrapped up a six-week series on the divinely-human/humanly-divine Fra Angelico and I still can’t get enough of it all. One of the privileges of taking a slow look over so many weeks is noticing the details that may get overlooked on a first or even second glance. My current obsession is the finto marmo, or fake marble that Angelico used in the pavements of his Annunciations. His use of finto marmo in the panels beneath the Madonna of the Shadows in San Marco is one of the great decorative (symbolic?) mysteries of the Renaissance. (Philosopher and art historian Georges Didi-Huberman wrote extensively about them in Fra Angelico: Dissemblance & Figuration, for example.)

The splotchy manner in which they are painted in some of the Annunciations are almost Pollock-like, making me wonder if Angelico wasn’t the original “dripper”. The swirls and shapes are also heavily reminiscent of the marbled paper that Florence was and is known for.

Listening to

Audiobooks have been a game-changer for me this year—what do you mean I can read while I’m cleaning the house?? It’s this Virgo’s dream come true. Since I always want to support bookstores, however, I use libro.fm which allows you to choose an independent bookstore that gets a portion of every audiobook purchase (mine is Readers’ Books in Sonoma).

I’ve just finished listening to The Red of My Blood by Clover Stroud, a memoir about the year following her beloved sister Nell’s death at age 46. It is a story about death and grief, yes, but also about life and how Clover lived it in those first months without her brilliant and utterly vivacious sibling by her side.

I have read other memoirs by her and they are exquisite—the way she communicates profound ideas about home and motherhood have resonated with me quite strongly—and this one is no different. One of the ways that Clover sustains herself in the aftermath of Nell’s death is by turning to medieval poetry (obviously this was going to get me). Beyond simply taking solace in the text, she imagines Galahad, Gawain and Lancelot actually accompanying her in certain moments. They come to her rescue on busy London streets when the savage blackness of grief threatens to take her down and provide the courage to face her own dragons—namely memory and fear about the future, about how she will live not just life, but a vivid life, without Nell. The whole story is so beautifully and powerfully woven, and these knights who periodically charge in at full force are the something mystical that always breaks through in Clover’s writing.

What have you been looking at and listening to? I would love to hear what’s inspired you lately.

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Published in 1989, the book follows thirty-something Leo across Europe and North America on a journey from room to room—both physical and metaphysical—as he attempts to find meaning in the death (and life) of his young lover, Thomas. Past and present, reality and unreality all slot together in Leo’s creation of a theory to explain his solitude and his separateness—a theory that will ultimately find its conclusion in the written word itself:

For they were two small, finite entities, Leo and Thomas, who would soon vanish from the world along with all their friends and all the people they had ever known, and then they would turn back into nothing more than a handful of dry, crumbling bones. They were searching for the right words to talk of all this, and this force of and stress of writing, which had something to do with music and lamentation and devoutness, was the only moment when they could see themselves attached to other people, when their circumscribed life could attain the boundaries of the epic.

The novel is so achingly beautiful and all-encompassing and devastating that my co-host Lauren and I have already resigned ourselves to the fact that we may simply become mute in the face of a discussion about it. If you have read it, or are intrigued to learn more about this modern Italian masterpiece, please do join us tonight.

My new series at the British Institute of Florence, Le Donne di Dante: Representations of Women in the Divine Comedy starts tomorrow, Tuesday, September 30th and runs through Tuesday, November 4th. It will be live and in-person in the Library—hope to see you there!

-The Photographer Who Looked Past the Idea of Italy

Really enjoyed this New Yorker feature on Gianni Berengo Gardin, who showed a different side of Italian life (case in point: the images in the article shot in Florence are from Romani camps, not piazza Duomo).

-For Some Venetians, This Overgrown Island Is Paradise (gift link)

A citizens’ group has taken over the island of Poveglia in an attempt to create an antidote to the increasing exclusivity of the Venetian lagoon—mad respect.

-Carlo Acutis, ‘God’s influencer’ who died age 15, declared a saint by Pope Leo

The Catholic Church has its first millennial saint—good on them. In other Pope Leo news, I found out he’s a Virgo just like me.

-Did you know that September is Dante month? Alas, he was not a Virgo but a Gemini (do with that what you will), but he did pass away on September 13th, 1321 and his burial city of Ravenna celebrates him all month long:

Here is Pulitzer Prize-winning author Elizabeth Strout reading ‘O voi che per la via d'Amor passate’ from the Vita Nuova in front of his tomb last week.

Speaking of Dante, I am curious to read American poet Mary Jo Bang’s new translation of Paradiso. It is billed as being ‘radical’ which both thrills and terrifies me. I liked this interview with her.

On a final Dante note, please do sign up for my very uplifting series at the British Institute of Florence (begins Tuesday, September 30th and runs through Tuesday, November 4th), Le Donne di Dante: Representations of Women in the Divine Comedy. We are kicking things off with a lecture this Wednesday, September 17th at 6pm CEST, Beyond Beatrice: Three Women in Dante’s Florence. All of these events are both live and in-person in the Library—registration is required and available at the links above.

-Not an article, but a book I’ve just ordered from Paperback Exchange (read on to find out what it has to do with Italy):

Yorkshire teacher Ellen Fenwick has never been abroad. But when her mother dies, this young woman finds herself taking a position as governess to an English girl in Florence in the summer of 1933. Little does Ellen realise how this girl, Juliet, and her family will claim her.

For as the summer passes, Ellen falls so in love with Italy and her new home that she cannot bear to leave – even when her own hopes of love are cruelly thwarted. Even when the shadow of war falls across the country, she doesn’t flee but clings on – for her friends, for those she loves more than herself.

Ellen – selfless, big-hearted, accepting – cannot know what is coming. Yet, she will not face it alone . . .

I hope you found something that that lifted you up in these lines. Would love to hear what has been keeping you buoyed lately—Italy-related or non!

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This newsletter is coming to you a week early because I have so many things I want to tell you and so many dates for your diary that I just couldn’t wait. (Also, I will be offline next week as I’ll be in London celebrating my birthday with Coldplay and 90,000 of our closest friends🌟)

First up is the Heaven Bound: The Life and Art of Fra Angelico series beginning this Thursday, September 4th, ahead of the Strozzi exhibition which opens later this month. I recently had the pleasure of talking all about the man of the hour with the wonderful Danielle Oteri. Danielle is so smart and such fun to chat with—it was an honor to share some time with her. Listen in to our conversation here:

Danielle Oteri's Italy

Ep. 26: Fra Angelico: Art, Spirit, and the San Marco Experience

This episode is about the magic of Fra Angelico, the Renaissance “angelic painter” behind Florence’s most tranquil and moving frescoes. I’m joined by historian Alexandra Lawrence, who shares the thrill of experiencing art in its original context, and what visitors can expect from…

Listen now

8 months ago · 6 likes · Danielle Oteri

Next is a new series at the British Institute of Florence (begins Tuesday, September 30th and runs through Tuesday, November 4th), Le Donne di Dante: Representations of Women in the Divine Comedy, which I am beyond thrilled about. We are kicking things off with a lecture on Wednesday, September 17th at 6pm CEST, Beyond Beatrice: Three Women in Dante’s Florence. All of these events are both live and in-person in the Library—registration is required and available at the links above.

And finally, it’s Book Club time again! Join me and Lauren Mouat of Open Doors Review for a discussion of Separate Rooms by Pier Vittorio Tondelli (translated by Simon Pleasance and with an introduction by André Aciman, author of Call Me by Your Name). We will meet on Zoom on Monday, September 29th at 6pm CEST to share our thoughts on this LGBTQ+ Italian literature classic—all are welcome, whether you have read the book or want to be inspired to do so. To receive the link and discussion questions, please register here.

Wishing you all a wonderful start to September. Drop a comment to let me know what you will be up to this month!

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Palazzo Strozzi and the Museum of San Marco are gearing up to host a spectacular celebrationof the work of Early Renaissance master Fra Angelico and I could not be more thrilled.

Called the 'poet of painters' and exalted by the Vatican as the patron of artists, Fra Angelico's painting is filled with so much soul, spirit, and light that it is not an exaggeration to call it DIVINE 💫

Beginning September 4th, I hope you will join me for an online series that dives deep into the life and art of this extraordinary artist against the backdrop of early-Medicean Florence. We will also explore both exhibition locations, which will prepare you for an in-person visit or simply make you feel as though you've been.

Our world is in desperate need of Fra Angelico's creativity and grace and I am looking so forward to sharing the love for this legendary artist with you all.

This summer, for the first time in a long time, I didn’t go on vacation. Instead, I did a house move and rode out the various heatwaves among boxes and packing tape. The last couple of weeks have been easier, unpacking is always better, and my new neighborhood has been in a gloriously torpid state, most of its residents having fled to the seaside as Ferragosto generally demands.

It has been nice to quietly and slowly ease into a new place, one on the very edge of the city, surrounded by so much green that my eyes are only now adjusting to its various shades after having been bereft of it for so long. My Merlin app has been updating me about all my new bird neighbors—the Eurasian Green Woodpecker, Sardinian Warbler, and the Short-toed Creeper being three of my favorites.

READ

Amidst it all, I have been reading—and looking back at my list I can see that I did indeed travel this summer, albeit mentally rather than physically.

I spent a good amount of time in Middlemarch, England, immersed in the lives of its residents and marveling at George Eliot’s ability to write such a poignant and universal story that stitched so many characters’ lives together while at the same time making it feel like a nineteenth-century soap opera. I miss the cast and crew already. There were plenty of (mostly medieval) Italian literature references throughout the novel and a few of the protagonists spend a short but significant time in Rome and the Vatican Museums, in particular. I was reminded that George Eliot travelled to Italy four times from 1860-1869 and for those of you who really want to nerd out I give you this interactive map of her journeys so that you, too, can indulge in some armchair travel.

Next up was the Irish village of Crossmore via Chloe Michelle Howarth’s Sunburn—a beautiful story of adolescent love and anxiety set in the early 1990s. The village is a character in itself, its pungent fields and pink light evoked in gorgeous detail, but also in its claustrophobic, tradition-laden side that threatened suffocation at every turn. I am grateful to the bookseller at the Gower Street Waterstones who pressed it into my hands earlier this year, grateful also to have read it when I needed the escape.

From Ireland I went to Oxfordshire with Clover Stroud’s memoir The Giant on the Skyline where we explored the physical terrain of the ancient Ridgeway but also more metaphorical ideas about the meaning of home and of belonging, and what it means to be part of a place. There is plenty of mysticism—fairies make an appearance as does the titular giant. Clover can be exacting in her descriptions of landscape while leaving a lot of room for us to feel the place rather than see it perfectly in our mind’s eye. One of my favorite passages is when she meets a woman who gives her a vial of liquid that Clover then tastes, swearing that it is the very essence of the land. As she contemplates her move away from this place, she is comforted by the liquid that can provide a ‘hit’ of home.

WRITE

Speaking of Clover Stroud, her ‘Write with Me’ sessions this summer have been a calm harbor during the chaos of the move. For a few weeks a group gathered on the daily to silently write together and sometimes share what we have been working on. It has been energizing and nourishing (and I have tried to keep my fan-girling to a minimum even though she and some of the other writers who have shown up to the sessions are among my biggest inspirations). It is going to continue into the autumn twice-weekly and I am already looking forward to the focused writing time.

WATCH

Though I am desperately trying to keep my screen time to a minimum, it hasn’t just been reading and writing lately. I dove into seasons three and four of the Neapolitan novels—Storia di chi fugge e di chi resta and Storia della bambina perduta—and may I just say: WOW.

The Ferrante books are so important to me that I am always afraid when I watch the series I will be disappointed, but then I turn it on and I am reminded that the adaptations are pure, unadulterated genius. There is nothing I can say here that hasn’t already been said about this gorgeous, sweeping, breathtaking, beautifully-written, exquisitely-acted drama, so I will leave my impressions at this:

I had forgotten the depth of my hatred of Nino Sarratore—may every single curse known to womankind rain down upon him until the end of time.

As a side note, I listened to this recent podcast episode with Ferrante translator Ann Goldstein and was delighted to hear that she learned Italian in order to read the Divine Comedy* in the original. She gathered together some of her New Yorker colleagues and they had a language teacher come in for a year to give them Italian lessons before they then embarked on a years-long journey through the Commedia.

*Here I would be remiss if I did not plug my upcoming and highly-anticipated (by me!) series at the British Institute Le Donne di Dante: Representations of Women in the Divine Comedy.

DREAM

From 1980s Napoli I have also spent time in a dream state after finding my dream villa—not to live in but for me and my friends to renovate and turn into a cultural center where we will gather writers, readers, painters, gardeners, cooks, and all manner of creative souls. For now its location is a secret, but I will share a few tantalizing details so that you can dream this into being with me!

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Palazzo Strozzi and the Museum of San Marco are gearing up to host a spectacular celebrationof the work of Early Renaissance master Fra Angelico and I could not be more thrilled.

Called the 'poet of painters' and exalted by the Vatican as the patron of artists, Fra Angelico's painting is filled with so much soul, spirit, and light that it is not an exaggeration to call it DIVINE 💫

Beginning September 4th, I hope you will join me for an online series that dives deep into the life and art of this extraordinary artist against the backdrop of early-Medicean Florence. We will also explore both exhibition locations, which will prepare you for an in-person visit or simply make you feel as though you've been.

Our world is in desperate need of Fra Angelico's creativity and grace and I am looking so forward to sharing the love for this legendary artist with you all.

I am taking a break from my missives this week to recoup my energy after a wild and crazy last couple of months. I hope that you all are able to find some time to rest and soak in the solar goodness wherever you are, too.

See you back here in two weeks, refreshed and renewed. Stay well!

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