Those of us who belong to a book group do so, no doubt, for a variety of reasons. For some it’s enlightenment, for others it’s the prompting to read something outside one’s comfort zone, the companionship or the quality of the cake. These need not be mutually exclusive. My own book group consists of seven friends who enjoy one another’s company, and each of us brings something different. One likes books about paths. Another maintains we should only choose books that provoke a debate. While a third, who has stronger connections to continental Europe than the rest of us – her mother escaped Berlin on the Kindertransport and she still has close relatives in Germany – has introduced us to writers we insular British might not otherwise have discovered. Joseph Roth is one, and Antonio Tabucchi is another.