" At the centre is Maya’s Cuba, and the single memory that defines it. Its power is evident only after events have destroyed it – and possibly only after you have put the book, perplexed, to one side. If this novel is more like a poem, it is not that it is hard to read but hard to follow unless you let the music and images lull you into a trance. It is only when the music dies that you see the shape. This is about the difficulties of knowing who you are, especially if you are born of several incompatible cultures. It has the ring of truth."