Following yesterday’s post on the Bristol libraries which fought off closure, at least for this year, I thought it worth celebrating another institution that has given the less well-off access to the greatest literature that man has created: Penguin books. Their paperback editions gave me my first taste of some of the finest writing, not just from the English speaking world, but in translation from all around the globe. My shelves are stacked with the orange, black, green and blue spines of their various imprints.
In fact the latest book I bought was a Penguin: a slim volume of poetry by John Keats, which took me back to my schooldays when I studied his works for my o-level in English Literature (I got a grade B). And all for the ridiculously cheap price of 80p.
So Happy Eightieth Birthday to Penguin.