Surely there is not, cannot be, any better proof of imagination confused with real experience, than something which happened to me during a tour of holy places in the Middle East.
I was with a party of very devout people belonging to a certain faith, we need not say which one. They were visiting places reputed for their spiritual history and atmosphere, mostly belonging to another religious tradition.
Their guide was new to the job. To help matters, he read in detail from a Michelin guide as we went from place to place. ‘Here martyrs were killed …. Here is the site of the cell of a certain holy monk …. Here such-and-such a person had a holy vision ….’
Every single time the devotees stood respectfully, showing every sign of appreciating the deep spiritual feelings which suffused the places ….
Then, one day, we were taken to a site where the guide read out about the horrors which had been perpetrated there, how a certain tyrant had murdered scores of good men of God, and how the whole area was reputed to be cursed. All shivered and eagerly discussed how they felt the ‘very essence of evil’ surrounding them.
They were still exchanging accounts of their own bloodcurdling experiences at the hotel that evening when the guide shamefacedly called us together in the foyer and admitted that he had been mistakenly reading from the wrong page. In spite of the ‘very essence of evil’ which all had experienced, we had in fact been standing in the middle of a burial-place of saints ….
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