Charlie Kirk, J.K. Rowling, and the Dark Forces Unleashed

 

I revisited the topic of an article I published yesterday in Italian on Money.it to write a post in English for my English-speaking friends and readers.

How a single act of violence has unleashed cultural, political, and ideological forces now entangling even J.K. Rowling

Charlie Kirk

Like the ancient myth of Pandora’s box, the assassination of Charlie Kirk has set loose a swarm of dark forces—ideological, political, and personal—that now entangle even figures far from the crime itself, among them J.K. Rowling, the author of the Harry Potter saga.

Rowling, for her part, has always been careful to emphasize that she supports the right of transgender people to live free from discrimination, harassment, and violence. Yet she has just as firmly insisted on the importance of preserving the reality of biological sex and of acknowledging the differences between men and women as fundamental to safeguarding women’s rights. This dual position—affirming dignity and equality for transgender individuals while rejecting the erasure of sex-based distinctions—has placed her at the very center of one of the most polarizing debates of our time. Unsurprisingly, her stance has drawn fierce accusations of transphobia from activists and significant segments of the media. But it has also earned her the backing of a broader movement—feminists, conservatives, free-speech advocates, and ordinary citizens alike—who argue that the ability to critically examine gender policies without being silenced or branded as hateful is itself a cornerstone of any free society.

J.K. Rowling

The controversy has left an indelible mark on Rowling’s public image. On one side, she has faced intense backlash—even from longtime admirers of the Harry Potter saga and members of the film’s cast—who accuse her of betraying the inclusive spirit they associate with her work. On the other, her refusal to recant has elevated her into a symbolic figure of resistance against what many view as a new ideological orthodoxy surrounding gender identity. To her critics, she has become a cautionary tale of privilege and prejudice; to her supporters, she represents courage, intellectual honesty, and the willingness to endure professional and personal costs for the sake of principle. In this sense, Rowling now embodies a paradox of modern public life: the more she is vilified in certain circles, the more she is venerated in others, a lightning rod not only for debates about gender but for broader questions of free speech, tolerance, and the limits of cultural conformity.

The latest development, reported by Alex Farber in the London Times, has added a disturbing new dimension. On Bluesky—the social media platform embraced by much of the progressive left as a “liberal” alternative to X after Elon Musk’s takeover of Twitter—several users celebrated Kirk’s death with grotesque enthusiasm and went so far as to suggest that J.K. Rowling should be “next.” In the fevered rhetoric of these online echo chambers, political opponents are not merely to be silenced but erased altogether. One chilling post read: “I’m glad that guy’s dead, but they’re really overdoing it with the whole ‘Oh, this is a dark day for America’ stuff about someone I’d never even heard of until he got shot. Can we get J.K. Rowling next? The U.K. would be heartbroken, but it’s for the greater good of trans people.” Such words, repellent in any context, reveal not only the brutalization of public discourse but also the extent to which violence has been normalized by the left as a legitimate tool of ideological struggle.

The lists of enemies drawn up in these digital forums are long and telling. Alongside Rowling, they include some of the most prominent figures in American conservatism—Donald J. Trump, Elon Musk, Matt Walsh, Michael Knowles, and Ben Shapiro, a close friend of Kirk, among others. To see such names casually grouped together in what amounts to a virtual proscription list speaks volumes about the climate of political hostility that now pervades sections of the online left. The spectacle is ignoble, yet not surprising: when the language of annihilation becomes commonplace, when opponents are caricatured as existential threats rather than fellow citizens, the step from rhetoric to justification of violence becomes perilously short. Bluesky, to its credit, eventually intervened, cautioning users against “glorifying violence.” But the very fact that such a warning was necessary illustrates how deeply the poison has seeped into the bloodstream of political discourse.

Rowling herself responded forcefully last Thursday on X, condemning the Bluesky commentators as “illiberal,” incapable of tolerating the free speech of their opponents, and warning that political violence is indistinguishable from terrorism. In a post that quickly circulated across platforms, she offered a taxonomy of extremism with characteristic clarity: “If you believe that free speech applies to you but not to your political opponents, you’re illiberal. If no evidence to the contrary can ever change your beliefs, you’re a fundamentalist. If you believe the state should punish people for opposing opinions, you’re a totalitarian. If you believe political opponents should be punished with violence or death, you’re a terrorist.” It was a sharp rebuke, but also a statement of principle: Rowling was reminding her detractors that the real test of liberty lies not in defending speech we welcome, but in tolerating speech we despise. Her intervention thus transformed a personal attack into a broader indictment of a political culture increasingly willing to sacrifice freedom on the altar of ideological purity.

Graham Linehan

Just days earlier, Rowling had already made headlines with a fierce attack on the British government after the arrest of Irish comedian Graham Linehan, accused of posting critical comments about transgender ideology. Linehan was detained at Heathrow Airport by no fewer than five armed officers. He later said he had been treated “like a terrorist,” locked in a cell, and even hospitalized due to stress. Authorities also barred him from using social media. “In a country where paedophiles escape sentencing, where knife crime is out of control, where women are assaulted and harassed every time they gather to speak, the state had mobilised five armed officers to arrest a comedy writer for this tweet (and no, I promise you, I am not making this up),” Linehan wrote on his Substack.

Rowling reacted with outrage: “What the fuck has the UK become? This is totalitarianism. Utterly deplorable,” she posted on X. For his part, Linehan argued the incident shows Britain has become “hostile to free speech and women,” while police “bow to pressure from violent, abusive men pretending to be women.” “I was arrested at an airport like a terrorist, locked in a cell like a criminal, taken to hospital because the stress nearly killed me, and banned from speaking online—all because I made jokes that upset some psychotic crossdressers,” he wrote on his Substack..

At this point, the soundest advice for Linehan, Rowling, and all those who refuse to march in lockstep with the orthodoxy broadcast by mainstream media would be to remain vigilant, to measure their public exposure, and, when possible, to avoid unnecessary risks. Such is the paradox of the “free” West—ostensibly the cradle of liberty and civil rights, yet increasingly a place where dissent must be whispered and conviction comes at a cost. Still, one suspects that such counsel will go largely unheeded. People who have already had the courage to alienate their peers, challenge the institutions of the state, and withstand the near-unanimous hostility of the press are not in the habit of retreating. They are, in the truest sense, figures of uncommon moral stature. They are heroes—deeply flawed perhaps, but heroic nonetheless—and as such they deserve to be honored, not posthumously with platitudes, but while they yet stand among us, bearing the weight of their convictions.

Ireland’s ‘Leprechaun Economics’ Meets Trump’s America First

 

It’s a bitter wake-up call for Ireland, and another example of Trump settling scores on the money front.
My latest on American Thinker.

For those of us not particularly versed in the secret workings of international economics and finance, but moved by simple intellectual curiosity, until just a few days ago, it was both a mystery and a source of deep wonder to see how a country once as poor as, if not poorer than, Southern Italy had managed in just a few years not only to climb into the middle tier of the world’s economic ranking, but to leap straight into the very top positions.

I’m talking about Ireland, a country that in my tourist memories from what feels like a geological era ago is forever linked to the strong smell of burning peat, old smoky pubs, and countless sheep clogging impossibly narrow country roads.

Then, suddenly, the mystery dissolved, exactly when The Economist recently published its annual ranking of the world’s richest countries.  This year, Ireland was excluded because its GDP per capita data turned out to be “polluted by tax arbitrage” — that is, the practice multinational corporations adopt of declaring income, capital gains, and transactions in the country that offers the lowest or most advantageous tax rate.  Yet the overwhelming majority of those profits do not remain in Ireland; they are immediately shifted to parent companies or other tax havens (often via dividend or royalty payments), a phenomenon known as “profit shifting.”  In short, the profits artificially moved by multinationals to Ireland inflate its economic statistics.

The Economist’s annual ranking doesn’t just look at GDP per capita.  It also considers two additional measures: the impact of prices or cost of living, and how many hours people work to earn their wealth.  Using all three, Forbes explains, provides “a more realistic overview of a country’s wealth in relation to its inhabitants.”  With these corrections, The Economist ranked Norway, Qatar, and Denmark as the top three richest countries.  Belgium and Switzerland came in fourth and fifth, while the United States placed sixth.

Ireland’s economic mystery has a year of birth: 2015.  That year, Ireland implemented new international accounting rules (known as the “Double Irish” phase-out).  The result was an unprecedented event: GDP grew by 26.3% in a single year — an impossible growth rate for a developed economy without extraordinary events.  It was then that American economist and Nobel laureate Paul Krugman described the phenomenon by coining the term “leprechaun economics” (the leprechaun being a popular figure in Irish folklore, belonging to the family of fairies, gnomes, and sprites — depicted as a tiny, bearded old man dressed in green, notoriously cunning and a master of trickery).  He highlighted how GDP and tax revenue were distorted by the fact that a handful of giant corporations, including none other than Apple and Microsoft, were declaring their massive profits in Ireland.  That “miraculous” growth, then, was due not to an explosion of productivity or domestic consumption (a bit like  Italy’s “miracolo economico” of the 1950s and 1960s), but rather to corporate inversions and relocations of intangible assets (such as patents and intellectual property) by multinational giants (mainly American ones) lured by favorable tax policies.  In practice, enormous amounts of financial and intellectual capital were legally booked in Ireland to benefit from low taxation, artificially inflating GDP without bringing real benefits to the local economy.

By the way, President Trump has repeatedly criticized that practice, calling it a “scam” that hurts U.S. taxpayers and arguing that Ireland has “stolen” U.S. pharmaceutical and tech firms by offering them a tax haven.  According to Trump, past American leaders were “stupid” for allowing this to happen.  That’s why he is now combining tariffs, tax cuts — he is pushing to lower the U.S. corporate tax rate to 15%, close to Ireland’s — and reshoring policies to pull corporate profits back to America, posing a serious challenge to Ireland’s economic model.  Irish economists warn that if Trump’s measures succeed, Ireland could lose billions in corporate tax revenues tied to American multinationals.  The Irish government, in turn, admits that it faces major risks, especially with housing and cost-of-living crises already straining the country.

What we’re seeing now with Trump and his team targeting Europe, and singling out Ireland in particular, is a classic case of his administration’s “America First” doctrine in action.  It’s not just a broad grievance; it’s a targeted, multi-front attempt to settle what they see as old scores and rebalance deals in America’s favor and a deliberate tactic to highlight what the administration sees as the core of the problem: a Europe that expects American protection while simultaneously undermining American economic interests.

The Economist’s decision was, of course, methodologically sound.  Including Ireland in standard rankings based on GDP per capita would have been misleading and would have distorted comparisons with countries where GDP more faithfully reflects domestic economic activity.

Within Ireland, most economists, financial journalists, and informed citizens welcomed the decision.  It was an argument that had been circulating there for years.  Many were embarrassed by rankings that artificially placed them above countries like Luxembourg and Switzerland.  They knew those figures didn’t reflect the reality of everyday life, where the Irish face a severe housing crisis and high cost of living.  The Economist’s move put an end to this embarrassing paradox.

Bitterly, The Irish Times notes that successive governments over the years have done almost nothing to prepare for the shock the inevitable correction will bring to the economy.  “Do we feel ‘truly rich,’” the country’s leading newspaper asks rhetorically, “when our kids can’t afford to buy — or even rent — a home, and now can’t even afford college accommodation and are emigrating in droves?  No, we don’t. ... As the storm clouds gather, we might do well to scrutinize how successful countries use and develop their key resources, because we may very soon have the rug pulled out from under us and realize that the deficit between tax and spending can no longer be avoided.”

The Two Americas: A Comparison of Political Models in America

 

I revisited the topic of an article I published a few days ago in Italian on Money.it to write a post for English-speaking readers.

In American political debate – as in European – two opposing visions on the role of the state have confronted each other for decades. On one side, those who call for a strong, regulatory and redistributive presence; on the other, those who hope for a leaner and more limited function, centered on security, individual rights and the market. In the United States, this opposition is concretely reflected in the policies of individual federal states, each with broad fiscal and administrative powers. And if we look at the relationship between public spending and results achieved – in key sectors like education, healthcare, infrastructure and security – interesting, sometimes surprising data emerges.

Partisanship aside, it's worth asking: which model works better? Who manages to do more with less? The answer, with due caution, is that Republican administrations – despite exceptions – are on average more efficient: they spend less, but often achieve more, thanks to administrative models inspired by pragmatism, decentralization and accountability.

Take the case of education. According to Census Bureau and Department of Education data, New York State spends over $29,000 per year per student, while Florida spends less than $11,000. Yet the results are comparable, sometimes favoring the "low cost" model: Florida has invested over the years in voucher systems, charter schools (autonomous public schools, funded with public money but managed by private or non-profit entities), performance evaluations and competition between public and private schools. Utah, another Republican-led state, has the lowest per-student spending in the country, but achieves high-quality educational results, with literacy rates and STEM (Science – Technology – Engineering – Mathematics) preparation in constant growth.

Florida Governor Ron DeSantis

The same applies to healthcare. While progressive states aim for extensive public healthcare, with substantial investments, some Republican states prefer a mixed approach: fewer subsidies, more competition, greater access to private providers and freedom of choice. The result? In many cases, good levels of public health and patient satisfaction, with lower public costs. Florida, for example, while not excelling in "universal access," has avoided the structural crisis of other more centralized systems, maintaining good hospital efficiency. South Dakota and Utah (both Republican-led) consistently rank among the best in the ratio between spending and quality of health services.

Even in the field of infrastructure, the difference is noticeable. Utah today has one of the most reliable transportation systems in the USA, well-maintained roads, extensive broadband and efficient electrical networks, despite having one of the most contained public spending on infrastructure. Other Republican-led states, like Tennessee and North Carolina, are investing in a targeted and sustainable way, focusing on public-private partnerships and responsible fiscal models.

The security aspect is even more emblematic. In many East Coast Democratic-led states, urban crime rates remain high despite consistent investments in public safety. GOP-administered states like Texas (excluding some large Democratic cities like Austin) or New Hampshire (often considered among the safest in America) show how a mix of good governance, widespread legality and preventive policies can reduce crime with well-calibrated resources.

However, no model is perfect. Some Southern Republican states, like Mississippi or Louisiana, have contained public spending but also poor results in education, healthcare and social inclusion. In these cases, however, the problem is not so much the political color, but rather a weak economic fabric, limited human capital and low administrative capacity. Conversely, liberal states like Massachusetts or Minnesota show excellent performance in many indicators, despite a high and "progressive" spending model. This shows that a public administration can be efficient even if it spends a lot – but only if it does so well.

What emerges clearly is that efficiency doesn't depend only on the level of spending, but on the quality of governance. And in this, Republican administrations seem to have developed, at least in certain contexts, a competitive advantage: ability to better allocate resources, attention to public service performance, trust in local autonomy, merit incentives and reduction of bureaucracy.

Let's say things work properly when a non-ideological, but pragmatic vision prevails. The risk of some right-wing movements – as well as certain left-wing ones – is to transform governing philosophy into a symbolic battle instead of a tool to solve concrete problems. Citizens rightly want schools that teach, hospitals that work, taxes that serve a purpose, livable cities and digitized services. They want a state that is not invasive, but not absent either. A state that doesn't do everything, but does well what it must do.

In this sense, the most virtuous Republican model – that of states like Utah, Florida and Tennessee – can offer an interesting path for the future: a sober state, that invests where needed, doesn't waste, values private initiative, but doesn't completely give up a social safety net. A model that focuses on efficiency and responsibility, without abandoning the idea of the common good. The point, in fact, is not to cut welfare, but to make it sustainable, selective, effective. It's not about reducing the state on principle, but rethinking it in function of contemporary challenges: digitalization, mobility, security, skilled work, protection of rights. And it's here that politics, to be truly useful, should exit ideological cages and return within the boundaries of reality.

President Ronald Reagan delivering his
first inaugural address

In his inaugural address as President of the United States on January 20, 1981, Ronald Reagan uttered a famous phrase: "In this present crisis, government is not the solution to our problem; government is the problem." Those words represented a watershed in American politics, especially in relation to the legacy of the "Big Government" of the Lyndon B. Johnson era and his Great Society. They were also a cultural turning point, which profoundly influenced subsequent administrations, even Democratic ones (Clinton, for example, declared in 1996: "The era of big government is over").

In today's world, marked by growing debt and high expectations, the real line of demarcation is no longer between those who want to demonize the state and those who idolize it, but between those who want a state that works and those who settle for rhetoric. The future belongs to those who will have the courage to govern with numbers, with transparency and with vision. And in this, at least today, the most intelligent Republican administrators are charting the course.

Rethinking Humanity in the Age of AI

Algorithms and ancient voices. Talking about Artificial Intelligence is practically unavoidable these days... What do we really have to be afraid of? It’s not the robots.
My latest on American Thinker.

Summer, at least in theory, is supposed to be the best time of year to reflect on ourselves and on the big questions of our age.  Maybe it’s the warm weather, which is often more suitable for thinking than for acting, or maybe it’s simply the fact that many people are on vacation and finally have time to ponder things.  Either way, talking about artificial intelligence (AI) these days is practically unavoidable.

For every intelligent and insightful thing we read or hear about this vast and complex topic, there are countless foolish or banal statements multiplying like the Gremlins in the 1984 movie.  A novel like Klara and the Sun (2021) by Kazuo Ishiguro, with its humanistic take on AI, is an example of the former; the constant oversimplifications that flood both old and new media are a perfect example of the latter.

One thing is certain: Talking about A.I. ultimately means talking about human beings.  Because no technology, not even the most advanced, is ever just lines of code or clever algorithms.  It always ends up reflecting our desires, our fears, our limits, and our hopes.  It’s no surprise that in this era, where AI is rapidly permeating every part of our lives, we’re witnessing both excitement and dread, rooted in the age-old questions philosophers and poets have been asking for millennia: Who are we?  What can we become?  What is our destiny?

And so, looking back to the great thinkers and writers of the past feels not just interesting, but necessary.

Nietzsche, for instance, would probably smirk at some of the fear surrounding A.I.  He spent his life urging mankind to fulfill its true potential — “Become who you are!” he said — and he’d likely argue that if it takes A.I. to free us from tedious chores, repetitive work, bookkeeping, or endless emails, there’s nothing inherently wrong with that.  It might even be a kind of Dionysian liberation: Let the machines handle the paperwork so we can dance, create, or watch the sun go down.

Ralph Waldo Emerson, the great voice of American transcendentalism — a thinker whom Nietzsche greatly admired — would likely agree.  He wrote, “What lies behind us and what lies before us are tiny matters compared to what lies within us.”  Emerson’s faith in the power of the individual and in human progress would not have been shaken by the challenges of A.I.  He probably would have seen it as a tool to amplify human potential — so long as we remain true to our inner voice.  Used wisely, A.I. could be an ally in our journey toward self-determination, not a tyrant.

Still, we can’t ignore the risks of intoxication — or of hubris.  Technology, as Plato well knew, is a beautiful siren.  But it can deceive us.  It makes us believe we can do anything — even recreate consciousness itself.  And yet it’s amusing to think that Plato, for all his brilliance, could never have imagined ChatGPT, deepfake videos, or algorithms that can write poetry or love letters.  Even so, his question still floats in the air like a soul hovering in the realm of ideals: What is man?  And what will we become when the machine speaks with our voice?

Let’s be clear, though: A.I. itself isn’t frightening.  What’s frightening is humanity.  Shakespeare understood this well.  In Hamlet, he wrote, “What a piece of work is man!”  Yes, marvelous and noble...but also treacherous, petty, and cruel.  Deep down, we all know that the real monsters aren’t inside machines — they’re inside people.  Nietzsche would call it our will to power.  Or perhaps it’s simply our bloated ego, like that of the Roman emperor Tiberius, whom Montaigne mocked for caring more about his posthumous reputation than about living well among his contemporaries.

Dante knew this, too. He mapped out an entire journey through Hell, Purgatory, and Paradise to show that human beings lose themselves — and find themselves again.  If today we’re getting lost among bits and bots, perhaps it’s simply the same old selva oscura, where the right path is easy to lose.  Who knows if an algorithm could ever serve as our Virgil and lead us out?  Maybe so — at least when it comes to giving us directions home on Google Maps.

Of course, we need to stay vigilant.  The danger is that we become so accustomed to comfort that we start outsourcing not only our tasks, but also our thinking, our critical spirit, and our memory of history — that we start treating the machine as an infallible oracle.  It’s at moments like this that we hear Montaigne’s slightly melancholic humor reminding us, “I do not teach; I tell a story.”  Well, A.I. tells stories, too.  The problem is that it doesn’t necessarily tell the truth.  And there lies a vast abyss, one that belongs less to the realm of technology and more to the domain of human judgment.

We shouldn’t buy into the idea of an AI-driven apocalypse.  But we should absolutely be worried about an apocalypse of the human spirit — about people who stop asking questions.  That’s the real danger.  The biggest risk is giving up on asking who we are, why we live, and what we truly want.  And if there’s one lesson that the classics — from Plato to Shakespeare, from Dante to Montaigne — teach us, it’s that doubt is life.  That there’s no truth without contradiction.  And that sometimes, as Sophocles said, “not knowing anything is the sweetest life.”

Perhaps AI will force us to redefine what it means to be human.  Maybe it will make us smarter.  Or lazier.  Or both at once.  But I’d like to believe we’ll learn to use it as a mirror in which to see ourselves more clearly, much like Montaigne in his tower, surrounded by his thousand books and the Greek and Latin maxims carved into the beams.

And there, perhaps, we’ll finally realize that if the future frightens us, it’s not AI’s fault.  It’s ours.  Because of our arrogance.  Or our laziness.

It must be said that humanity has never been closer to becoming truly master of itself.  We must just remember that machines can imitate many things — but not the sudden quickening of a human heart at the sight of a sunset, nor the mystery of a soul wondering why it exists.

Blogs, Social Media, and the Cultural Growth of Public Opinion: from Montaigne to Our Time

I revisited the topic of an article I published yesterday in Italian on Money.it to write a post for English-speaking readers.

In an era in which digital connectivity has reshaped every aspect of communication, it’s worth pausing to reflect on the role that blogs and social media play in the cultural growth of public opinion. These are not merely technological tools; they are channels that have inherited—and partly revolutionized—an ancient tradition: that of individual thought opening itself to the world. A tradition that, quite surprisingly, takes us back more than four centuries to the time of Michel de Montaigne, the French philosopher whom many consider a “proto-blogger” of the 16th century. In his Essays, Montaigne laid himself bare before the reader, revealing his thoughts, fears, and idiosyncrasies. He didn’t write to pontificate but to understand himself—and, through that self-exploration, to help others question themselves as well. It’s precisely this spirit that animates many contemporary blogs: virtual spaces where writers reflect publicly on personal matters, in the hope of sparking dialogue, debate, and ultimately a shared culture. From Pen to Keyboard: The Continuity of Personal Thought

While Montaigne lived in the age of print, today’s digital world infinitely amplifies that same human urge to tell one’s story and reflect. In the end, every blog is a modern-day “essay,” written with the conviction that one’s ideas can meet, challenge, or enlighten the ideas of others. And, like Montaigne’s Essays, blogs can range from the personal to the political, from the philosophical to the everyday. Social media, on the other hand, have made this exchange even more immediate. Whereas a blog is usually a more meditative space where thoughts are structured in longer form, social media thrive on speed, brevity, and reaction. Yet even in these shorter formats, we find the same drive toward sharing ideas—what we might call the “publication of the self.” Recent Events and the Cultural Role of New Media

Take, for example, the recent European elections of 2024, which saw intense polarization and lively online debates. Independent blogs, social media accounts run by journalists, intellectuals, or everyday citizens offered alternative viewpoints, often challenging the official narratives presented by mainstream media. In some cases, these digital spaces brought attention to underrepresented issues, like youth voter abstention or the role of artificial intelligence in political communication.

Or consider the war in Ukraine, where blogs by geopolitical analysts and on-the-ground reporters have helped inform public opinion about aspects that might otherwise have been overlooked. While social media can indeed be tools of propaganda or disinformation, it’s undeniable that they also make valuable cultural contributions by diversifying sources and stimulating critical thinking. The Challenge of Quality and Critical Thinking

Of course, not everything about the digital world is golden. It’s also a realm filled with superficiality, fake news, and toxic dynamics. And here we return once again to Montaigne, who wrote in his Essays: “I do not teach, I tell a story.” A simple yet powerful phrase. Montaigne never positioned himself as an absolute authority but as a man who, through writing “en chair et en os” (in flesh and blood), shared his doubts with others. Perhaps this is the most important lesson for today’s digital world: not to replace complexity with slogans, not to give in to the temptation of always being right, but to cultivate doubt and curiosity.

Blogs and social media can indeed be extraordinary tools for cultural growth—but only if used critically: if writers take responsibility for researching, arguing their points, and respecting complexity, and if readers exercise both the right—and the duty—to verify, compare, and dig deeper. A New Public Sphere

In this sense, blogs and social media are reshaping what the philosopher Jürgen Habermas once called the “public sphere.” It’s no longer a one-way space where a few speak and many listen. Instead, it’s an arena where anyone can participate. True, this creates chaos, an overabundance of voices, and sometimes confusion. But it also offers everyone the chance to contribute to collective culture, breaking through geographical, social, and even linguistic barriers.

This is why comparing today’s digital world with Montaigne isn’t merely an intellectual game. The man who wrote to understand himself and share his thoughts four centuries ago was already anticipating the fundamental dynamic of the digital world: the construction of public opinion through personal storytelling. Umberto Eco once said of his own books that they were “a fabric of texts, a book made of books.” The same is true of Montaigne—and today, of the internet itself. Blogs and social media are, in fact, an endless conversation, made up of cross-references, quotes, links, and comments—a collective weaving of texts, images, and ideas, where each piece of content generates new content in turn. In a passage from his Essays, Montaigne pushes his reflections on reality so far that he ventures into what we might now call a “metaphysics of blogging,” offering contemporary people yet another of his extraordinary lessons:

I cannot keep my subject still. It goes along befuddled and staggering, with a natural drunkenness. I take it as it is, at the moment when it interests me. I do not describe the being; I describe the passage (…). I must adapt my story to the moment. I could change soon, not only in condition but also in intentions. It’s a record of various and shifting events and uncertain ideas—and sometimes contradictory ones: whether because I myself am different or because I view things from different aspects and perspectives. So much so that I may perhaps contradict myself, but I never contradict the truth, as Demades said. If my soul could settle, I would not be testing myself; I would be resolved. It is always in training and on trial.

In much the same way, we could say, online communication moves in countless directions, with scattered fragments connecting and transforming. Yet amid this apparent chaos lies a profound value: the possibility of surfacing new perspectives, personal experiences, and micro-stories that enrich our collective culture. Ultimately, blogs and social media are powerful tools for the cultural growth of public opinion—but only if they serve as spaces for genuine dialogue rather than megaphones for shouted certainties. And Montaigne reminds us that the true driving force of culture is curiosity, doubt, and the courage to expose ourselves without pretending always to be right. If the 16th century witnessed the birth of Montaigne’s Essays, our age has multiplied those voices a thousandfold. It’s up to us—readers and writers alike—to ensure that this incredible wealth doesn’t turn into mere noise but remains the lifeblood for cultural (and existential) growth for all.

Northern Ireland in Flames

I revisited the topic of an article I published yesterday in Italian on Money.it to write a post for English-speaking readers.

Ballymena riots highlight deeper racial and social frictions in the UK

It started ten days ago in Ballymena, a town in County Antrim, Northern Ireland. Two 14‑year‑old boys, reportedly of Romanian origin, were charged with the attempted rape of a local teenage girl. The accusation quickly ignited four nights of rioting, with roughly 2,500 residents hurling Molotov cocktails, setting vehicles and buildings ablaze, and attacking neighborhoods inhabited by immigrants. Dozens of police officers were injured. From the very outset, authorities framed the events as racially motivated hate crimes.

For many Britons, the crisis brought to mind the Rotherham scandal — a dark chapter that came to light in 2011 following an investigation by The Times of London. Between 1997 and 2013, gangs comprised largely of Pakistani men subjected roughly 1,400 girls, mostly white and from disadvantaged areas, to systematic sexual abuse. The victims were groomed, drugged, raped, and forced into prostitution. The scandal exposed a catastrophic institutional failure, with police and social services ignoring credible reports for fear of being accused of racism and stoking ethnic tensions. In some instances, authorities even attempted to shift blame onto the victims, implying that they were “consenting.” Earlier this year, the case resurfaced when Elon Musk openly criticized the British government for its reluctance to fully investigate. Musk was quickly joined by conservative figures and Nigel Farage, while Labour leaders expressed discomfort, wary of what some framed as an “extreme right” campaign. Yet in the end, a review led by Baroness Casey was announced in January, and when it became clear that the report would recommend a formal national inquiry, Prime Minister Keir Starmer acted preemptively, approving it in recent days.

For many, the events in Ballymena carry echoes of the institutional failures exposed by Rotherham. As The Guardian observed, Ballymena reflects a familiar pattern: an influx of migrants, rising tensions with the local population, denial of racism, and an eventual spark that triggers indiscriminate violence. Yet this depiction overlooks another significant dynamic. In many communities across the UK — especially those far from wealthy neighborhoods — tensions arise precisely because migration is felt acutely, often concentrated in remote, deprived areas that are largely ignored by national discourse. Meanwhile, many Britons living in more privileged areas fail to comprehend these tensions simply because immigration has little direct impact on their daily lives.

The recent clashes are far from unprecedented. The Guardian recalled earlier outbreaks of race-related violence, from North Shields and Liverpool in 1919 — when a Black sailor drowned after being chased by a mob — to attacks on a Liverpool sailors’ dormitory in 1948 and a mixed residential complex in 1972. The housing crisis has long been a flashpoint, too: just last year, eight African families — half of them comprised of medical staff — were forced to flee a neighborhood in Antrim. Similar tensions surfaced in Nottingham and Notting Hill in 1958, while even Scotland and Wales have witnessed comparable incidents. In 1919, a rumor that a “foreigner” had assaulted a local woman ignited riots across South Wales, spreading from the valleys to Cardiff and its diverse Tiger Bay district.

More recently, in 2024, racial and religious tensions surged across the UK, with riots and attacks on mosques in Belfast, Bristol, London, and numerous other cities across the Midlands and North, including Blackpool, Hull, Leeds, Manchester, Middlesbrough, Stoke‑on‑Trent, and Sunderland. Home Secretary Yvette Cooper announced urgent security measures in response, stating: “In light of the disgraceful threats and attacks that local mosques have also faced in many communities, the government is providing rapid additional support through the Protective Security for Mosques Scheme, alongside the support from local police forces.” Meanwhile, Prime Minister Keir Starmer, freshly installed, was forced to convene the government’s top crisis committee, COBRA, as his Labour administration worked to regain control of the situation.

While the United States is often criticized for its struggles with racism and xenophobia, the United Kingdom is hardly in a better position — if anything, it has a long, deeply rooted history of racially charged violence that shows little sign of abating. What differentiates the US from the UK may be that, across the Atlantic, the MAGA movement have refused to turn a blind eye, allowing many Americans to feel less abandoned when grappling with a crisis of this magnitude. 

Something similar to what is happening in the United States is also taking place in Italy, where Giorgia Meloni’s government — despite countless challenges and setbacks, including judicial ones — is trying to give the public a sense that the migration crisis is, in some way, under control. At the very least, it aims to demonstrate the political will to limit, if not eradicate, illegal immigration and its impact on people’s daily lives. It is an immense task, undoubtedly, especially given that the European Union appears to be moving in a different direction. Recently, however, there have been signs of a shift in attitude, thanks in part to Giorgia Meloni’s persistence and tenacity. Only time will tell.

Which immigrants get the shaft in Starmer’s UK?

A big recent agreement between the U.K. and the E.U. showcases the serious problems plaguing Albion.

My latest on American Thinker, in which I explain how U.K. Prime Minister Keir Starmer executed two contradictory U-turns within.

This is a time of major shifts in the United Kingdom’s relationship with the rest of the world.  Following recent trade deals with the United States and India, significant changes are also taking shape in U.K.-E.U. relations.  In particular, the Common Understanding signed in London last Monday by British prime minister Keir Starmer, European Council president Antonio Costa, and European Commission president Ursula von der Leyen has sparked intense debate.  The shift, coming just nine years after the Brexit referendum, is a significant development on multiple fronts.

The agreement, described as a “wide-ranging reset,” covers security, defense spending, energy trade, pharmaceuticals, fishing, food exports, and — crucially — immigration and mobility, particularly for students.  While largely a statement of intent, leaders on both sides of the Channel have emphasized its importance.  Starmer called it “the dawn of a new era” in U.K.-E.U. relations and a “win-win deal,” while von der Leyen stated, “We are turning the page and opening a new chapter.”

Many of the issues addressed will require further negotiation, including the regulation of student and skilled worker visas.  Although restrictions are likely to slacken, the benefits may apply only to E.U. citizens.

This marks yet another pivot in the U.K.’s immigration policy — one that initially made legal migration harder, not illegal immigration.  Under the May 12 announcement, prospective students and workers faced stricter language requirements, while skilled job applicants needed a university degree.  Starmer justified these measures with familiar rhetoric: “taking back control of our borders” and “ending the failed experiment of open borders.”

Critics argued that the move was a thinly veiled attempt to counter the rising popularity of Nigel Farage’s populist Reform U.K., which dominated this month’s local elections, securing control of 10 out of 23 councils and winning 677 of 1,600 contested seats.  The government’s declining approval — following cuts to elderly benefits, tax hikes, and scandals over political donations — likely fueled the crackdown.

Starmer’s lofty rhetoric suggested a heavy reliance on emotional appeal.  “Nations depend on rules, fair rules,” he said.  “Sometimes they are written down, often they are not, but either way, they give shape to our values, guide us towards our rights, of course, but also our responsibilities, the obligations we owe to each other.”  “In a diverse nation, like ours, and I celebrate that,” he added, “these rules become even more important.  Without them, we risk becoming an island of strangers, not a nation that walks forward together.”

Nigel Farage blasted the plan, telling Sky News, “Starmer is in serious, serious trouble.  He lacks sincerity entirely.  He’s obsessed with power — not what to do with it.” Even within Starmer’s own Labor Party, dissent emerged.  Sarah Owen, M.P. for Luton North, argued,

“The best way to prevent the UK from becoming an ‘island of strangers’ is to invest in thriving communities — not pit people against each other.”

The business sector also raised alarms, warning that the restrictions could stifle economic growth, worsen the U.K.’s skills crisis, and exacerbate labor shortages in key industries — unless paired with an overhaul of vocational training.

The British Chambers of Commerce and Confederation of British Industry (CBI) echoed these concerns, noting that student visa limits could cripple university finances.  International students contribute £9.8 billion annually in tuition fees alone (per HESA, 2021/22), with their total economic impact exceeding £41.9 billion (Universities UK, 2023). Their spending on housing, transport, and services fuels local economies, making higher education a pillar of Britain’s global economic standing.

It must also be said that everything about London contradicts the prime minister’s rhetoric: the kindness and willingness to help foreign visitors — people who spontaneously stop to help you find your way, Tube staff who anticipate your questions before you even ask, and countless other signs of open-minded hospitality.  I say this from firsthand experience, having recently returned after years away.

Starmer likely conflated different types of immigration and their related challenges.  Or, as Farage suggests, it’s just intellectual dishonesty.

Here in Europe, we know all too well the damage caused by uncontrolled, chaotic migration — with waves of drifters, lacking skills or purpose, camping out in our historic city centers, in parking garages, under bridges, and in train stations.  But Starmer’s measures disproportionately — and needlessly — targeted a different kind of immigrant: the very people who helped make London a “capital of the world,” surpassing Paris, Rome, and Amsterdam, perhaps even outshining the Big Apple itself.  It’s a magnetism that gets under your skin and never lets go.

Did the government have a last-minute change of heart, or was this softening always part of the plan?  Only time will tell.  But as Shakespeare wrote, “all’s well that ends well.”  Or at least it seems that way for now.

Rest in Peace, Your Holiness

 

My reflections on  Pope Francis's death, published today in Atlantico Quotidiano. This is my English translation of the original Italian text. 

A practicing Catholic would never wish for it to happen, yet it happens anyway, and you’re always caught off guard. Statistically, the event of a pope’s death occurs multiple times in a Catholic’s lifetime, and the emotions are always powerful. I wouldn’t want to make comparisons—almost always inappropriate—but I can say that, at least in my case, the intensity with which one experiences the event is never the same. This, of course, depends on many factors, both subjective and objective. 

Pope Francis’ death, however, is the most surprising. Almost everyone had done their best to convey relative optimism about the pontiff’s illness—doctors and the media had given us false hope. So, the news yesterday morning left us unprepared and stammering. “Francis is dead,” you repeat it to yourself almost to believe it. 

Was he a great pope, like—for different reasons, to varying degrees—his predecessors from Pius XII onward? Time will tell. Certainly, to us conservatives, he was never particularly dear, unlike for progressives. 

Memorable was his association with left-wing secularists like Eugenio Scalfari, which seemed to suggest, if not an outright alignment, at least a particularly bold and perilous leaning. His gestures “in that direction” were many, theologically speaking. Politically, we won’t even go there. Those in the opposite direction, in matters of theological doctrine, could be counted on one hand. 

It’s impossible not to recall his outburst against the “faggotry” (frociaggine in the original Italian) in the clergy (hierarchy included) and his repeated warnings about the existence of the devil. No pope, as far as I remember, had gone that far. Personally, I loved him in those moments. Just as I always appreciated his call for simplicity, in prayer as in life. But his worldview, in the opinion of many—and rightly so, I believe—was very much that of a “pope from the ends of the earth,” to quote his first words. 

Argentina is far away, perhaps too far for us Europeans, despite the blood ties for us Italians. The German pope was more “ours” (and then Joseph Ratzinger had become Roman…), just like the Polish pope—but in that case, we’re talking about a giant, Karol the Great, one of a kind, the man who changed the world. 

It would be neither fair nor correct to compare Jorge Mario Bergoglio to his predecessors, but if, as they say, the heart wants what it wants, reason too has its own paths and bonds that aren’t easily shaken off. In short, comparisons shouldn’t be made—yet they are. But always with goodwill, never “with a hatchet,” always with moderation and good taste. 

What matters, for a Catholic, is that the Pope is the Pope, always and no matter what. Before him, the believer kneels to receive his blessing, even if they disagree with much of what he says and teaches. And before death, all judgment is suspended, and one prays. In silence, even amid the deafening noise of these occasions. 

Rest in peace, Your Holiness.

 

Twenty Years Ago

Twenty years ago, Saint John Paul II the Great left this world. What he was for humanity and in the eyes of history is well known to all, and it is hardly debatable that he was a giant—one of those men who leave an indelible mark.

What he was for me, however, is almost impossible to put into words. He was—and still is—an emotional tsunami, capable of transforming words, gestures, facial expressions, and the tone of his voice into a living miracle of faith, greatness, beauty, and spiritual strength.

His memory is one of the very few things that can still bring a lump to my throat and tears to my eyes. For years, even from afar, I witnessed the pages of history he wrote with his own hands. I had this incomparable privilege, and I remain deeply grateful to the Lord for it.

The least I can do is try not to be entirely unworthy, in hindsight, of the gift I was given. An impossible task, I know—but I'm doing my best...