You’ve probably read the lovely essay by Michael Ledeen in our August/September issue: ” Death in Naples .” If you haven’t already, you’re missing delightful snipits from Italian culture like this:
The intimacy between St. Gennaro and the Neapolitans is more the kind of relationship one expects between good friends than between mortals and a saint. The faithful don’t so much pray to the Almighty for the miracle as demand it directly from the saint—and if he dawdles, they get angry with him. Indeed, popular rage at the saint is not unusual, and there is a distinct political, even democratic, element in his status. He has to earn his position, and if he performs badly he can be replaced.
And this:
If you go to a Neapolitan church, there’s a good chance you’ll find one of the parishioners making deals with the local Madonna ( Cure my son, and I’ll work at the orphanage for five years ) or demanding attention. I once heard a woman in one of the most important churches in town yelling at the Madonna: “My husband’s got a broken leg, my daughter does God knows what every night, we have nothing to eat . . . . Do something !”
Such delightful snipits, capturing well some of the more humorous aspects of Italian culture with all its quirks and sweetness, came to mind as I walked Mulberry Street last weekend during the San Gennaro Festival in New York’s Little Italy.
