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69 ELEGY Is it remorse or remorse for feeling none, empathy or its lack, compelling me again to the port of Pantelleria, where we lost ourselves in the sunburst of squash blossoms, pistachios, the couscous in split Marsala casks? None of this in ’43, when our island, known for capers, witnessed Operation Husky and the new world of saturation bombing. True, the olive trees genuflected sharply, but only because of wind, which would not relent. And the sheep’s-ear leaves of sage we harvested? They held but small vigil, sautéed in oil. Yet on this island of regrettables, reduced to rubble, relegated to those heavy winds, elegies run wild by the roadside, low to the ground, like capers, good for nothing but the brine, and you pick them for free. ...

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