My plumber, a part-time Roman pastry chef, is vacationing with his German Shepard called Horatio.

The global piazza harvests and broadcasts gossip without regard to consequences.

In death, journalist Oriana Fallaci is considered a major figure. In life, her views were far more minor.

What do fear and loathing have in common? Cynicism, says the pope.

American history was hungry for a fresh meal, for an updated vernacular of rage that a ruling class feeds on.

I live above the Rome zoo, which, in summer, makes good on animal foreignness.

“Got you, gorilla!” he‘d shout, or, more boldly, “Shalom!”

He anticipated post-modernism, the implications of AIDS, and aspects of the consequences of Jihad.

“If you want to be in this business,” howled my editor, “you’ve got to know hate."

You are a cultured man, says the Peruvian. We are ignorant. They pay us €30 a day.

Pay attention to the Middle East, scolds a friend. Look! Look there! How awful! “No,” I say.