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Blue, white and read all over: the return of Pelican Books

John Sutherland recalls how Penguin’s imprint, launched in 1937, gave education to the masses and challenged the Oxbridge status quo

A wonderful book is the Pelican: editions through the decades, from Shaw's 1937 political tract onwards

 

The Pelican book rises from the ashes this month. Why, one wonders, exhume a series that honourably ran its near-50-year course, fading out in the 1980s? One reason suggests itself – agglomeration. Penguin wants to assert and define a “core” identity: where, so to speak, it is coming from.

The decision to revive Pelican will have been made by committee. At its birth in 1935, Penguin Books was the brainchild of one man. The 1930s were a decade of dictators and Allen Lane was the Mussolini of the book trade. Biographies of “King Penguin” paint the picture of someone who was not over-cultivated, often uncouth, frequently overbearing but passionate about good books. He had no university background and did not belong to the best London clubs. If publishing was a trade for gentlemen, many would have felt that Allen Lane did not qualify.

Penguins began as sixpenny paperbacks with hardback content. Lane launched the non-fiction Pelicans in 1937, as budget reprints and “Originals”. They expired 47 years later. The reasons are obvious enough. The 1960s were the decade of the “paperback revolution”. Lane loathed illustrated covers, associating them with American drugstore tat. For him, Tschichold typography was all that was required. Nor did Lane like large format. He had conceived of Penguin Books while standing on a windy platform at Exeter Station. His books were designed for the overcoat pocket (or the battledress pocket in wartime), not the bookshelf.

Lane yielded, with extraordinarily bad grace, on the pictorial cover issue in the mid-1960s, under pressure from his brilliant (and later disowned) protégé Tony Godwin. But Pelicans, even decked out in these new feathers, could not compete with the eye-catching “egghead paperbacks” (trade paperbacks), which had been innovated by Jason Epstein at Doubleday in the 1950s. They caught the eye – particularly the younger eye – and were quickly picked up by British publishers less traditional than Penguin. Pelicans looked dowdy by contrast and paid the price.

For most of today’s reading public, the word “Pelicans” has no cultural resonance. For those in my ancient demographic, however, they were formative. When I was growing up, paperbacks meant access to two things hard to come by in the postwar period: sex and knowledge. The first was delivered via Hank Janson, smuggled Olympia Press texts, Lady Chatterley’s Lover and Eustace Chesser’s much-thumbed and initially banned manual Love Without Fear.

Knowledge, in its most interesting varieties, came in pale blue covers. Everything I know about the Greeks came from H D F Kitto’s 1951 Pelican; everything I know about Leibniz (shamefully little) from Ruth Lydia Saw’s 1954 Pelican. I was mad about jazz as a teenager. The Pelican Jazz, by Rex Harris, put some intellectual stuffing into my madness.

Pelicans were a university without walls, teaching things that wouldn’t be on intramural courses for generations. They were hailed as the “popular educator” (with a nod back to Charles Knight’s Society for the Diffusion of Useful Knowledge). And they were also founded on frankly populist political principles. The first two-volume title in 1937 was a reprint of George Bernard Shaw’s Fabian-feminist tract The Intelligent Woman’s Guide to Socialism, Capitalism, Sovietism and Fascism, a book that was originally published in 1928 to coincide with women getting the vote. (“Unreviewable”, proclaimed the New Statesman, going on to give it two argumentative pages.) In 1968, as its 1,000th volume, Pelican published E P Thompson’s The Making of the English Working Class. A red (ish) flag fluttered over the whole list.

So profuse were Pelicans that they could contain within themselves debates and fierce quarrels. Freud (Totem and Taboo) figured early but so did psychoanalytic dissidents such as Jung and Adler. I have been a lifelong Adlerian, converted by Lewis Way’s 1956 Pelican Original. Freud was also subjected to head-on attacks in a string of Pelican Originals by Hans Eysenck, who believed that psychology was lab coats and experimentation, not asking neurotic people about their masturbation fantasies.

A student and disciple of Cyril Burt, Eysenck was an evangelist for the “intelligence quotient”, or IQ: the belief that “pure” brain power could be measured as something unaffected by social circumstance. His bestselling Pelican Original was called Know Your Own IQ (1962).

The IQ theory – however flawed, looking back, one now sees it to be – opened doors, through the eleven-plus examination, for working-class children (including me) into tertiary and higher education. Once we were in the grammar schools, Pelicans were our vade mecums. And grammar schools, for the majority excluded from Oxbridge – unable to admit more than what it saw as the cream – led (for me and for most women) to the non-Oxbridge penumbra.

The ideological soul of the Pelican library is, I believe, encapsulated in one volume: Bruce Truscot’s Red Brick University. His polemic was first published in the summer of 1943 when – after Stalingrad and El Alamein – victory looked a certain prospect and “when the future of modern universities was being widely discussed all over the country”. There was, thank God, a future to discuss. Truscot’s monograph was expanded, rethought and rewritten in 1945, on the eve of the great postwar welfare reforms. Red Brick University was again revised and published as a Pelican Original in 1951, as Attlee’s government staggered to the end of its time, having left the welfare state as its monument. In its Pelican form, Red Brick University circulated widely and influentially.

Truscot’s vision was of a postwar higher education system based on ideals of univer­salism (“a right, not a privilege”) and fairness. “Red brick” was never his preferred epithet. He called them “modern civic universities” (MCUs). At the time he was writing, the bulk of MCU undergraduates were locally enrolled and lived at home. As Truscot pictured it, “Bill Jones”, after dutiful study at the Drabtown red brick, went home “every day at teatime, to listen to Dad on the political situation and Mum on current market prices or the iniquities of neighbours”. High tea but no high table. And a row of Pelicans in Bill’s bedroom.

The MCUs belonged not to a “class” but to a place and a “region”. They had “roots”. And they were growing, as Truscot fondly believed, in strength. “Bruce Truscot” was as much a pseudonym as “Bill Jones”. The books were written by Edgar Allison Peers. He was, when writing his Red Brick series, professor of Hispanic studies at the University of Liverpool. His identity was kept secret until his death in 1952.

English society, as he bluntly put it, had been “half-strangled” by the Oxbridge hegemony and institutions that belonged to the “medieval past”. But no more. The dynamisms released by wartime victory and a reformist government would create a new and more democratic world of higher education. The future was Drabtown University’s Bill Jones, not William St John Toff of Eton and Balliol and Bullingdon.

The Truscotian avatar – had he lived to witness it – would have been Richard Hoggart. Born “copper-bottomed” working class in Leeds, in 1918, Hoggart went from the local grammar school to the local Leeds red brick. After service in the Second World War, he taught at Hull. He also worked, as an act of class solidarity, on a building site, reneging on the brevet-officer-class status he acquired during the war, then Leicester (where I was lucky enough to be taught by him) and Birmingham, where he founded the Centre for Contemporary Cultural Studies.

Encouraged by Ian Parsons, Hoggart pub­lished The Uses of Literacy as a hardback with Chatto & Windus in 1957. It then achieved mass circulation as a Pelican. (Allen Lane reportedly read the book at a sitting before setting the presses rolling.) It was in its pale blue livery that The Uses of Literacy was passed around among the advanced thinkers in my sixth form.

Hoggart’s book went on to become, in its successive Pelican reprints, a manifesto for the new provincialism and redefined culture from its narrow Arnoldian form into something universally enriching. His chapter on the deracinated grammar school boy echoes Truscot’s belief that an organic relationship with one’s background and traditions was what held society together, what made it truly social. Hoggart, who died last month, became one of the country’s leading public intellectuals without any contact with Oxbridge and, in many ways, in defiance of what Oxbridge was. And is. He was many things. One of them was Homo pelicanus.

This magazine, as readers will know, has recently opened what will be a long and profoundly serious debate on what one could call the “re-privileging” of British education: this is a country under the cultural dictatorship of the old public school/Oxbridge duopoly and, within that, all-powerful elites. In an interesting admission on Newsnight, Harry Mount – a Bullingdon Club contemporary of Osborne, Cameron and the two Johnsons – divulged that, between smashing glassware, the club discussed Vico’s theory of necessary elitism. It fits.

Pelicans, in their first manifestation, were not just books. They contained a vision of Britain as it might be – and as it should be. They changed their world. Good luck, then, to Pelican Redux and may it do the same.

John Sutherland’s “How to Be Well Read” is published by Random House Books (£20)

This article first appeared in the 08 May 2014 issue of the New Statesman, India's worst nightmare?

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In the age of podcasts, the era of communal listening is over

Where once the nation would listen to radio events together, now, it is the booming podcast market that commands our attention

It’s a moment so celebrated that no TV drama about the Second World War is complete without it. At 11.15am on 3 September 1939, Neville Chamberlain made a live radio broadcast from Downing Street announcing that “this country is now at war with Germany”. A silence fell over the nation as people rushed to the wireless to hear him. The whole country was listening, but crucially, it was listening together.

Nearly eight decades later, it is difficult to imagine a communal audio event like that ever happening again. The arrival of the Walkman in 1979, since superseded by the iPod and then the smartphone, turned listening into a personal, solitary pastime. It was no longer necessary for families to get a radio on a hire-purchase arrangement and gather round it in the sitting room. The technology that delivers audio to us is now small and cheap enough for each of us to have one in our pocket (with headphones tangled around it, of course).

At the same time, the method of delivery changed, too. “Radio” ceased to indicate simply “programming transmitted by electromagnetic waves” in the late 1990s, when conventional radio stations began to make their output available on the internet. Online-only radio stations sprang up, streaming their shows directly to computers. Free from any regulation and with the internet as a free distribution platform, these early stations echoed the tone of pirate radio stations in the 1960s.

The idea of “audioblogging” – making short voice recordings available for download online – has been around since the early 1980s, but it wasn’t until 2004 that the word “podcasting” was coined by the technology journalist Ben Hammersley in an article for the Guardian. He was looking for a name for the “new boom in amateur radio” that the internet had enabled.

Thanks to technological advances, by the early 2000s, a podcaster could record a sound clip and upload it to his or her feed, and it would arrive automatically on the computer of anyone who had subscribed. Apple began to include podcasts as a default option on iPods; in 2008 iPhones offered a podcast app as standard. The market boomed.

Apple is notoriously reluctant to provide data on its products, but in 2013 it announced that there had been more than a billion podcast subscriptions through its iTunes store, which carried over 250,000 podcasts in 100 languages. In 2016, Edison Research released a study suggesting that 21 per cent of all Americans over the age of 12 had listened to at least one podcast in the past month – roughly 57 million people. Audiobooks, too, are booming in this new age of listening; the New York Times reported that
although publishing revenue in the US was down overall in the first quarter of 2016, digital audio sales had risen by 35.3 per cent.

The vast share of this listening will be solitary. This is because audio is a secondary medium. For all the talk about the rise of “second screening”, it isn’t really possible to do much more than idly scroll through Twitter on your phone as you watch television, but you can easily get things done while you listen to a podcast. Put on a pair of headphones, and you can go for a run or clean out the oven in the company of your favourite show. In this sense, the medium has been a game-changer for commuters and those doing repetitive or manual work: there’s no longer any need to put up with sniffling on the train or your boss’s obsession with Magic FM.

Though podcasts are an internet phenomenon, they have managed to remain free from the culture of trolling and abuse found elsewhere. It is difficult to make audio go viral, because it’s tricky to isolate a single moment from it in a form that can be easily shared. That also deters casual haters. You can’t just copy and paste something a host said into an insulting tweet.

Our new and solitary way of listening is reflected in the subjects that most podcasts cover. While there is the occasional mega-hit – the American true crime podcast Serial attracted 3.4 million downloads per episode in 2014, the year it launched – most shows exist in a niche. A few hundred listeners who share the host’s passion for pens or for music from antique phonographs can be enough to sustain a series over hundreds of episodes (there are real podcasts on both of these topics).

This is also where the commercial opportunity lies. It costs relatively little to produce even high-quality podcasts, compared to TV or conventional radio, yet they can ­attract very high advertising rates (thanks to the dedication of regular listeners and the trust they have in the host). The US is far ahead of the UK in this regard, and podcast advertising revenue there is expected to grow 25 per cent year on year, reaching half a billion dollars in 2020. Where this was once a hobby for internet enthusiasts, it is now big business, with venture capitalists investing in new networks and production companies. The US network Gimlet attracted $6m in funding in 2015. However, in the UK, the BBC crowds out smaller, independent operations (the trade-off is that it makes undeniably outstanding programmes).

There is even a movement to make listening a communal activity again. The same hipsters responsible for the resurgence of vinyl sales are organising “listening parties” at trendy venues with high-quality sound systems. Live shows have become an important source of revenue for podcasters. Eleanor McDowall, a producer at the Falling Tree radio production company, organises subtitled “screenings” for podcasts in languages other than English. I even have a friend who is part of a “podcast club”, run on the same lines as a monthly book group, with a group of people coming together to discuss one show on a regular schedule.

The next big technological breakthrough for audio will be when cars can support internet-based shows as easily as conventional radio. We might never again gather around the wireless, but our family holidays could be much improved by a podcast.

Caroline Crampton is assistant editor of the New Statesman. She writes a weekly podcast column.

This article first appeared in the 16 February 2017 issue of the New Statesman, The New Times