I feel less alone when I read the books of Ratzinger.

In the reflective and soul-baring words of Oriana Fallaci, the fearless journalist and seeker of truth, we find a confession that glows with quiet reverence: “I feel less alone when I read the books of Ratzinger.” These words, simple yet profound, carry the weight of a weary spirit finding kinship not in companionship, but in thought—in the sacred meeting of minds across the distance of pages. Fallaci, who faced both the darkness of war and the solitude of exile, speaks here of a kind of communion that transcends time and touch: the fellowship of ideas, the solace of shared belief, the comfort of being understood by another soul who dares to ask the same questions about God, truth, and humanity.

To grasp the depth of this saying, one must first know the woman who spoke it. Oriana Fallaci was no stranger to solitude. She was a war correspondent who witnessed the worst of humanity, a thinker unafraid to challenge corruption, hypocrisy, and the shallow comforts of modern life. Her later years were marked by illness and isolation, yet also by fierce contemplation. In this season of her life, she turned to the writings of Joseph Ratzinger, the theologian who would become Pope Benedict XVI, a man whose mind was as disciplined as his faith was profound. Where others found only dogma, Fallaci found in Ratzinger’s thought the music of reason harmonizing with belief—a dialogue between intellect and faith that mirrored her own restless search for meaning.

When Fallaci says, “I feel less alone,” she is not speaking merely of comfort. She is describing a moment of recognition—a discovery that within another’s words, her own thoughts and doubts are mirrored, shaped, and sanctified. It is the miracle that occurs when a reader finds a writer who articulates what the heart could not express. In Ratzinger’s meditations on faith, morality, and the divine order, Fallaci found not escape, but companionship in truth. His words did not soothe her loneliness by denial; they affirmed it by understanding. She felt seen, not by the crowd, but by the mind of another soul dwelling in the same cosmic solitude, reaching toward the same eternal questions.

This experience—the feeling of communion through thought—is not unique to Fallaci; it is as old as humanity itself. The philosopher Boethius, imprisoned and awaiting death, wrote The Consolation of Philosophy as a dialogue between himself and the personified voice of wisdom. In his despair, he turned inward to conversation with truth, and through it, found peace. Like Fallaci reading Ratzinger, Boethius discovered that even in confinement, he was not alone—so long as reason, faith, and the divine order remained within him. The loneliness of the body, when illuminated by the companionship of understanding, becomes the solitude of the spirit—a solitude that nourishes rather than destroys.

Ratzinger, too, spoke to the solitude of modern man. In a world obsessed with noise, he taught that silence is not emptiness, but the space in which truth is heard. His writings reflected a profound concern for the dignity of the human soul, for the hunger of the heart that cannot be fed by material progress or shallow tolerance. Fallaci, though not a theologian, recognized in him a fellow traveler—a guardian of meaning in an age that had forgotten it. Their connection, though formed through the written word, was that of kindred spirits standing against the erosion of values, united by the courage to question and the humility to believe.

From this union of minds emerges a timeless truth: to read deeply is to converse with eternity. Books are not paper and ink—they are vessels of presence. When we read the words of those who speak with honesty and conviction, we enter into communion with their spirit. Fallaci felt “less alone” because through Ratzinger, she touched the eternal dialogue between faith and reason, despair and hope. The loneliness that had once felt like exile became instead a pilgrimage of the soul, guided by another’s wisdom.

The lesson, then, is clear: seek the voices that awaken truth within you. When the world grows cold or silent, turn to the words that remind you of your shared humanity. Read not to escape your loneliness, but to transform it into understanding. Let the wisdom of others—whether philosopher, poet, or saint—become the echo of your own striving. In this, you will find not isolation, but kinship; not despair, but the quiet certainty that truth is never walked alone.

So remember this, O seeker of meaning: as Oriana Fallaci found comfort in the writings of Ratzinger, so too may you find solace in the words of those who wrestle honestly with life’s greatest mysteries. The world may often leave you feeling alone, but the written word—born of courage, faith, and intellect—will always stand beside you like an unseen companion. For when two souls meet through truth, distance disappears, and what remains is the eternal light of understanding.