The Rage and The Pride (La Rabbia e l'Orgoglio) by Oriana Fallaci
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The second reason, my dear nephew of the uncle with the little cardboard suitcase, is one even a schoolboy could understand. It requires only two elements to expound. One: America is a continent. And in the latter half of the 1800's when the American Congress gave the green light to immigration, this continent was practically unpopulated. Most of the population was massed in the eastern states, in other words those on the side of the Atlantic, and there were even fewer people in the Midwest. California was practically empty. Well, Italy isn't a continent. It's a very small country, and far from unpopulated. Two: America is a very young country. If you recall that the War of Independence took place at the end of the 1700's, you can deduce that it's only two hundred years old and you understand why its cultural identity is not yet well defined. Italy, on the other hand, is a very old country. Its history goes back at least three thousand years. Its cultural identity is thus very precise—and let's not beat around the bush: that identity has quite a bit to do with a religion called Christian religion and a church called the Catholic Church. People like me have a nice little saying: the–Catholic–church–has–nothing–to–do–with–me. But boy does it have to do with me. Whether I like it or not, it has to do with me. And how could it not? I was born into a landscape of churches, convents, Christs, Madonnas, Saints. The first music I heard coming into the world was the music of church bells. Those bells of Santa Maria del Fiore that were smothered by the uncouth voice of the muezzin during the Tent Age. And I grew up in that music, in that landscape. And it was through that music and that landscape that I learned what architecture is, what sculpture is, what painting is, what art is. It was through that church (which I later rejected) that I began to ask myself what is Good, what is Evil, and by God...

There: you see? I wrote "by God" again. With all my secularism, all my atheism, I am so imbued with Catholic culture that it's even part of my way of expressing myself. Oh God, my God, thank God, by God, sweet Jesus, good God, Mother Mary, here a Christ, there a Christ. These words come so spontaneously to me that I don't even realize I'm speaking or writing them. And you want me to lay it all out? Even if I've never pardoned Catholicism for the infamies it inflicted on me for centuries, starting with the Inquisition that burned even my grandmother—poor grandmother!—even if I've never gotten along well with priests and have no use for their prayers, all the same I really love the music of church bells. It caresses my heart. I also love those painted or sculpted Christs and Madonnas and Saints. In fact I have a thing for icons. I also love monasteries and convents. They give me a sense of peace, and sometimes I envy those inside. And then let's admit it: our cathedrals are more beautiful than mosques and synagogues. Yes or no? They're also more beautiful than Protestant churches. Look, my family's cemetery is Protestant. It accepts the dead of all religions but it's Protestant. And one of my great–grandmothers was Walensian. One of my great–aunts, Evangelist. I never knew my Walensian great–grandmother. But I did know the Evangelist great–aunt. When I was a little girl she would always take me to her church functions in Via de' Benci at Florence, and...God, how bored I was! I felt so alone with those faithful who did nothing but sing psalms, that priest who wasn't a priest and did nothing but read the Bible, that church that didn't seem like a church and apart from a little pulpit had nothing but a big crucifix. No angels, no Madonnas, no incense. I even missed the smell of incense, and would rather have been in the nearby Basilica di Santa Croce where they had these things. The things I was used to. And I'll say more: in my country house, in Tuscany, there is a tiny little chapel. It's always closed. No one goes there since my mother died. But I go there sometimes, to dust, to make sure the mice haven't made a nest, and despite my secular upbringing I feel comfortable there. Despite my priest–hating tendencies, I move there with casual ease. And I believe that the vast majority of Italians would confess the same thing. (Even Berlinguer, the head of the Italian Communist Party, confessed as much to me.)

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