1. Source: University of Stirling Archives and Special Collections (Mitchell Collection)
Title: Selection of Penguin Books
Date: 20th Century
Description: Priced at sixpence – the same as a pack of cigarettes – the first Penguins appeared in the summer of 1935. A copy of the first one hundred titles and more are held in the Stirling collection. The colour of the jacket indicated the content: blue for biography, green for crime and mystery, pink for adventure travel, and yellow for essays; but it is orange for fiction that we know and love best. Each book also had a number, which enhances their collectability today.
These items form part of the University of Stirling ‘Treaures’ exhibition

    Source: University of Stirling Archives and Special Collections (Mitchell Collection)

    Title: Selection of Penguin Books

    Date: 20th Century

    Description: Priced at sixpence – the same as a pack of cigarettes – the first Penguins appeared in the summer of 1935. A copy of the first one hundred titles and more are held in the Stirling collection. The colour of the jacket indicated the content: blue for biography, green for crime and mystery, pink for adventure travel, and yellow for essays; but it is orange for fiction that we know and love best. Each book also had a number, which enhances their collectability today.

    These items form part of the University of Stirling ‘Treaures’ exhibition

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About

Until I feared I would lose it, I never loved to read. One does not love breathing. (Harper Lee)

I nearly always write, just as I nearly always breathe.
(John Steinbeck)

When I don’t write, I feel my world shrinking. I feel I am in a prison. I feel I lose my fire and my color. It should be a necessity, as the sea needs to heave, and I call it breathing.
(Anaïs Nin)

With my eyes closed, I would touch a familiar book and draw its fragrance deep inside me. This was enough to make me happy.
(Haruki Murakami)

I stepped into the bookshop and breathed in that perfume of paper and magic that strangely no one had ever thought of bottling.
(Carlos Ruiz Zafón)

He loved a book because it was a book; he loved its odor, its form, its title. What he loved in a manuscript was its old illegible date, the bizarre and strange Gothic characters, the heavy gilding which loaded its drawings. It was its pages covered with dust — dust of which he breathed the sweet and tender perfume with delight.
(Gustave Flaubert)

I whispered the thrilling words to myself, then lifted the book to my nose and breathed the ink from its pages. The scent of possibilities.
(Kate Morton)



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