the often-met paradox of nostalgia for the unknown (how can we be homesick for homes we never had?) is confirmed by the shock of famliarity with which the unknown sometimes greets us. such familiarity of course can be illusory and is never comprehensive. thus in india, the most "foreign" country i have visited, while constantly surprised by its novelty, at the same time i often had the feeling that "this is where i came in"; the indian bazaar, for instance, surpassing in its noises, colours and smells all the descripton one has read of it, yet shows a family resemblance to ... to what? we ask ourselves, and find it is our own middle ages. and a feast day in an indian village, temple car, marigolds nd all, while somewhat like an english sunday school outing, seemed to me still more like an english medieval church ale.

from the selected prose of louis macneice.