Paul Theroux first met V. S. Naipaul in Uganda, in 1966. Naipaul, at 34, having produced two widely acclaimed books, had come from London as a visiting lecturer to Uganda's only university, Makerere, where Theroux, 24 years old and an aspiring novelist, was teaching. Sir Vidia's Shadow is Theroux's memoir of an often warm 30-year friendship - in which Naipaul gave him invaluable encouragement as a writer and incredibly painstaking advice - ending in estrangement.

Slowly but inexorably, Theroux was alienated by Naipaul's characteristic desire to have things both ways: to show a sweeping contempt for Africans and for white racialists; a withering scorn for nearly all British writers while assiduously cultivating their society in order to promote his own books; and a famous obsession in writing and conversation with the idea that Britain had gone to the dogs, while yearning to enter the English elite which, he believed, was open to new people of the right type. Theroux also cites simpler causes for his eventually finding Naipaul's company, however stimulating, oppressive. According to him, Naipaul invariably let Theroux foot the bill for expensive restaurant meals, is a ludicrous wine snob and cannot stand children. In the end, though, it was Naipaul who broke off relations, for reasons that are left unclear. Theroux conveys real sorrow at parting from one who had so deeply influenced him as a human being and as a writer; and also relief at finally being his own spiritual master, out of Sir Vidia's shadow.

What makes the story worth following is, of course, that Naipaul is a highly significant novelist, remarkably unfooled by what the world considers wise. His prose contains few literary or learned allusions. He tries to get at the world directly, without the befogging intervention of received opinions or displays of stylistic brilliance for their own sake. Theroux's imagination was totally conquered by Naipaul's books. "Some people mistook the apparent spareness of his sentences for a faltering imagination, or a lack of stylistic ambition... But... the simplicity was contrived. He detested falsity in style, he loathed manner in writing... he never prettified anything he saw or felt." Naipaul is quoted as declaring:

"Truth is messy. It is not pretty. Writing must reflect that. Art must tell the truth."

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The extraordinary closeness to reality that Theroux rightly finds in Naipaul's writing has in fact a quite plain explanation. It springs from his exceptionally firm refusal to excuse worldly failure. This is the source of his majestic independence from literary or political fashions. Naipaul measures the world by concrete human effort and achievement: intellectual, economic, technological. He deserves his reputation for mercilessness towards the poor and weak, but less than is often supposed: many ordinary, uneducated people are portrayed sympathetically in his works, provided that Naipaul believes they have done their bit to keep up that vital Naipaulian entity, "civilisation". His cruellest mockery is reserved, generally, for those he sees as defaulting from that perpetual struggle: the lazy, the parasitic and the destructive. He has a salutary contempt for any theories, particularly clever ones, that overlook the priority of intellectual, economic and technological achievement.

There is a claustrophobic air about this book. It does not come only from the inhumanly severe attitudes of Naipaul, but also from Theroux's taking that world view too seriously. Despite his claim of having freed himself from his master, there is no sense here of Naipaul's limitations. Theroux appears oblivious of how depressingly unadventurous and selective Naipaul can be in his study of the third world. At their first encounter in Uganda, Naipaul said to Theroux: "I want to understand... I want to meet people who know what is going on here." But going by Theroux's version, Naipaul either brought his opinions about Uganda with him from London or developed them almost immediately on the spot. From the very beginning of Naipaul's stay, Theroux was struck by the man's implacable, visceral disgust with nearly everything in his surroundings. For Naipaul, Uganda was primitive, a make-believe nation doomed to "go back to bush" by the sheer fecklessness of Africans. There is no indication that he met even one reasonably intelligent and honest African worth taking seriously. Yet, having been brought up partly in Uganda, I know many such people. Theroux must surely be aware that some Ugandans' later resistance to Idi Amin included instances of prodigious courage - but no hint occurs in the text.

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Paradoxically, if Theroux had been able to see Naipaul's decisive weaknesses, he might have continued to find the man - wine snobbery, misanthropy, urge for English acceptance and all - quite amusing, well worth an occasional pricey meal. But then we might not have had this unique, revealing book.

Radhakrishnan Nayar is a writer on international affairs.