Tóm tắt
TWENTY‐ONE YEARS AGO I was a publisher and a struggling one. After the war two friends and myself had started a new firm. Our first five books had all been slim volumes of poetry, and although we had been lucky with these—they had all covered their costs and received good notices in the press—we had not made a penny profit. The expense of running an office, even a one‐room affair, was eating into our savings, and it was at the moment when our small capital looked dangerously low that Ghandi's autobiography came our way. It seemed a godsend. We all three thought our fortunes were made.
