Some other memories of the funeral have stuck in my mind. The old boyâs face, for instance, when he caught up with us for the last time, just outside the village. His eyes were streaming with tears, of exhaustion or distress, or both together. But because of the wrinkles they couldnât flow down. They spread out, crisscrossed, and formed a smooth gloss on the old, worn face. -
Albert Camus