Those photographs became permanently imprinted upon my psyche — black-and-white stone-cuttings of horror inconceivable beyond the technicolor simplicity of my life to that point. The burning monk. The burned, naked child running screaming down the road. The prisoner being shot in the head.
I will never forget them. Nor the feelings evoked by my childhood exposure to them: dread, terror — the first horrible glint of understanding that the world was not in any way what I imagined it to be but was instead something beyond comprehension, fathomless, writhing in its enormity within these shadows of black, the blown-out glare of white and the infinite degrees of grey.