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It was an almost Bruegelian journey into some kind of mad heart of darkness, and it thrilled me in a panicky sort of way.
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Know me by my light and stand with me in darkness.
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The darkness was engulfing my house with an eerie silence and it sent me into an imaginative mood.
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Before me opens up, in the semi-darkness, a field of rubbish and stones and elephant grass.
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Pushing forward, he seized my hand and without a word led me along the paths, never hesitating in his darkness, to the ruined Buddhist monastery of Mohra Moradu nestling in a gorge between hills, hidden from the wider valley.
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The dresses, the shoes, the pinkish smell of perfume, the scratchy darkness, all pushed against me like the side of a big cat, thrust themselves into my mouth and nose like fur.
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It was very cold, but still we sat until the darkness had a brown edge to it, and my mother came to the door, expressing no surprise at seeing me there.
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