I had an e-mail from a friend who's holidaying in Japan. The country, and Tokyo in particular, has utterly bewitched him. His mail is studded with all of the adjectives this charming, exciting, Alice in Wonderland like country - so jaw-droppingly modern and at the same time so deeply traditional - can inspire: there's an open-mouthed 'amazing', a wide-eyed 'fascinating'. a rapt 'outstanding', a breathless 'incredible'.

I know all about this - it happened to me when I went there last year. Dazed and excited, and wondering why I'd never been before and desperate to return.

It is EXACTLY how I'm feeling now reading Amos Oz's memoir - A Tale of Love and Darkness.

The prose is diamond sharp and the images as memorable as shooting stars; it's the sound of a lonely cello playing, and yet as sociable as an Irish Pub. It's left me with more impressions than a kaleidoscope could ever produce. And this question: why have I waited so long to start reading this writer. Why?