Still smoking I went outside. Cra, cra, cra, shouted the ravens flying through the ashen sky. I went down into the street, went along the street of that Sicily which was no longer a journey, but motionless, and I smoked and cried.
“Ah! Ah! He’s crying! Why is he crying?” shouted the crows among themselves, following behind me.
I continued my walk without answering, and an old black woman followed behind me too. “Why are you crying?” she asked.
I didn’t respond, and I went on, smoking, crying; and a tough guy who was waiting on the piazza with his hands in his pockets asked me too: “Why are you crying?”
He too followed behind me, and still crying, I passed in front of a church. The priest saw us, me and those following me, and asked the old woman, the tough guy, the crows: “Why is this man crying?”
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Leonard Durso 
My remembering looked like crying.
That is something to ponder for some time.
I happen to love that line and, of course, the build-up to it.
Of course. The line wouldn’t exist without the build-up to it!
It’s a lovely book. I’ve read several by him but this one is my favorite.
I have not yet. Must check it out!
Also, if you like Italian writers, try looking at Giovanni Verga. A wonderful writer. Great stories of early 20th Century Sicily.
Thanks so much. Just added it to my reading list!
Beautiful.
Glad you think so.