Category: Andrei Navrozov

My wife used to say that coming from Palermo to London is like falling from the calyx of a flower onto a bed of metal shavings, and with every passing year I marvel more and more at the accuracy of that description.  In reverse the shock of the change does not work as powerfully, probably because the brain, like eyes after a spell in darkness, needs time to adjust and take it all in – the sunlight, the smells and the smiles.  Each time I return, I can almost literally feel the mind thawing out as I hand to Mimmo,...

I no longer have a house in London, but the sense of homelessness that envelops me here like a shroud is probably nothing to do with entries in the land registry. It is more to do with November wind, swirling bestially inside my coat and making restaurant awnings flap like exploding grenades, with drizzling rain that stops and starts with a nauseating periodicity, with passing pedestrians who avoid your eye as they roll and unroll black umbrellas. London in November is like being a mourner at a funeral, and who ever felt at home in front of an open grave...

I was under the weather last week, and besides I thought the gentle reader might use a week’s rest from my compulsive ratiocination, so I did not post.  Weather is a big factor the closer one gets to Africa.  The sirocco arrives here bearing a fine sand dust from the Sahara that gets in everywhere, but worse than that, it makes one feel like a lemon squeezed dry, moscio, as the locals say, meaning flaccid, limp, flabby.  After a day or two, one finds oneself yearning for Siberia and the bracing touch of the bora. Sirocco makes people grumpy, irritable,...

“Ingsoc,” as the gentle reader may recall, was Newspeak for “English Socialism,” the ruling ideology in Orwell’s nightmare.  A modern version of that nightmare is already up and running in real time throughout mainland China under the official name of “System of Social Credit.”  Before long all mankind is expected to see the advantages of such a system, with most developed countries following China in implementing their own national versions of digital totalitarianism.  As I have written here on several occasions in the past, Russia, while behind China in this area of technology, is scheduled to launch a homespun analogue...

Last week a 51-year-old man was briefly in police custody in the northwest of England for passing leaflets to shoppers of the fair sex in a town square. “No offence intended,” read the culprit’s appeal. “You are simply a female that caught my eye, and I don’t have the time to talk right now.” “I am not looking for a girlfriend or relationship,” ran his argument. “I am looking for a possible private arrangement.” This was followed, in case any of his readers might mistake his intentions in some unexpected way – for instance, spitefully misconstruing them as honorable –...

Last month, those in the know were told by the good Dr. Thomas Fleming that “with valid passports and plane reservations, you now only need endure the rigors of international air travel and get to the Grand Hotel del Gianicolo.”  Quite so, but it has occurred to me that what the chosen among Pastor Fleming’s flock may need at the point of departure for Italy is a nice little epithalamium. I have written on a number of occasions in the past that a country is invariably defined by what its climate allows its people to cultivate, so that France or Italy...

If epochs have sounds epitomizing them, as the pealing of church bells and the rustling of crinolines may have been for some in the West just four or five generations ago, then the sound most characteristic of the present is the woodpecker noise of an acrylic fingernail upon the tempered glass of the smartphone. Like the jingle that haunts the man on the bus in Mark Twain’s story – remember? “A blue trip slip for an eight-cent fare,/A buff trip slip for a six-cent fare,/A pink trip slip for a three-cent fare,/Punch in the presence of the passenjare!” – this...

“Now, when our enemies hear the F-35 engines, when they’re roaring overhead, their souls will tremble and they will know the day of reckoning has arrived.” Now that I am in London, I see it all rather more clearly. In Palermo in September, such things tend to get veiled in sea mist, and the fragrance of roasting peppers wafting upward from the apartment below does little for the sharpness of the geopolitical picture. From this perspective, the morbid irony of an American president elected on a ticket of isolationism who speaks in the idiom of Kim Jong-un, or perhaps of...