Every book critic fears the day he or she opens the envelope with invitations for the Frankfurt book fair, only to find the one from Suhrkamp missing. The reception held in Unseld's villa in a leafy, well-to-do part of the city may no longer be the place where glamour and intellect mix for one wild night, but if there's a place to be seen, this is it.

When I was growing up in Germany, Suhrkamp built and upheld a spirit that I now see as a kind of continuation of enlightenment thought. Every household of the bohemian chattering classes had its books, with their flashy yet classic rainbow colours. When I was a child visiting friends' houses, they were always a comforting signal. 

"There should be a bail-out," I finally said to my English friend, hoping that my longing for this kind of measure wasn't as old-fashioned as the battered edition of Albert Camus I hold dear ever since a boyfriend gave it to me. Then again, it is a classic.