For years, I struggled to answer the question of my favourite place in Dubai because, strangely enough, my favourites are all rather basic. A Chinese restaurant tucked away somewhere in Al Quoz. A coffee shop in Business Bay, just across the street. And the bookshop in Dubai Mall.

That last one is Kinokuniya — the one every resident knows, and the only one I have found with a surprisingly large selection of books in my native language (happily, it is growing), alongside all the science, psychology, detective fiction and cookery books I could ask for in other languages. So I pop in every now and then and always leave with something new, even when I don’t really need it. (Forgive me, my dear husband. I am guilty.)

A few days ago, I made my usual rounds and stumbled upon a new display of Penguin Great Ideas series: slim little volumes at 36 AED each, with some rather weighty historical names on the covers. What exactly are they? Why buy them? And which one should I pick? I am choosing as we speak.

The name of the series hints at what to expect inside, but it doesn’t tell you the whole story. To really understand the concept, you need to know where it came from.

It begins around 2004, when Simon Winder, an editor at Penguin Books, one of the world’s biggest and best-known publishers, was in Italy and noticed something odd. Philosophy books were being sold at ordinary newsstands. Winder was struck by how casually serious ideas were being sold, and he wondered why Penguin couldn’t do the same.

Back in London, he set to work on what would become Penguin Great Ideas. The series launched in September 2004 with 20 titles by influential thinkers, among them Seneca, Marcus Aurelius and Virginia Woolf, each priced at just 3.99 £.

Much of its success came down to simplicity. Penguin didn’t simply repackage famous authors in cheaper covers. Most of the works were already in its Classics catalogue, but Winder stripped away the lengthy introductions, academic notes and scholarly apparatus. Philosophy was no longer something to be studied. It was something to be read and experienced directly. The books were small, affordable and beautifully designed.

The titles did their part too. They took old, weighty thoughts from great minds and turned them into questions we still ask ourselves every day. Why are we always short of time? What does it really mean to understand yourself? Why do we create anything at all, and what are we trying to say? Penguin didn’t always invent these titles. Some are the original names of the works or essays, while others are the titles of individual passages chosen for the collection. Either way, the effect is clever: instead of facing a daunting philosophical treatise, you see a subject that speaks directly to your own life.

The formula worked. By 2010, the series had sold more than 2.5 million copies, proof that there was a real appetite for philosophical, political and literary writing when it was presented differently.

The titles caught my attention first, of course. But it would be a lie to say that was all. Kinokuniya is enormous, and I walk past dozens of shelves without giving them a second glance. So why did I stop at this one? Well, the answer has a lot to do with the design of these little volumes. And believe me, it is very intentional.

When Penguin launched the series, its designers went digging through the history of book design, studying typefaces, ornaments and artistic styles from different periods. The idea was to give each cover a visual connection to the time in which its author lived, rather than simply putting a serious-looking philosopher on the front and calling it a day.

But before this turns into a lecture on typography (which I certainly didn't sign up to give), let me show you what I mean.

Take Aristotle's One Swallow Does Not Make a Summer. The original work, Nicomachean Ethics, sounds, if not intimidating, then at least not particularly tempting for an afternoon read. But a swallow? What on earth does a bird have to do with philosophy?

Aristotle used the proverb to explain that one happy day doesn't make an entire life happy, just as one swallow doesn't mean summer has arrived. And there you have it: a rather serious discussion about happiness and what makes a good life, introduced through a bird. Much more approachable, isn't it?

Or let’s take Simone Weil's The Power of Words. At first glance, with its narrow columns, tiny print and stern black-and-white palette, the cover looks like an old newspaper, or perhaps a book on communication by a New York Times columnist. But look a little closer and you will notice something odd: parts of the text have been crossed out or blacked out, as though someone has deliberately decided what you should and shouldn't read.

And that is where the design gets clever. Weil was interested in how words could be used as instruments of power, distorting reality and shaping what people believe. So the cover does more than illustrate the subject.

Well, Kinokuniya at Dubai Mall has around 40 different titles from the series, and the Galleria Mall branch in Abu Dhabi might have even more. So how on earth am I supposed to recommend just one or two?

I have come up with a slightly different approach. Rather than telling you what to read, I will introduce you to a few books with particularly interesting stories. Consider it a little beauty pageant, but for books. And hopefully, by the time you reach the shelf, you'll have an idea of which one might be for you.

The readers' favourite: Why I Write, George Orwell

We don't have the latest sales figures, or even a definitive winner, but Orwell certainly deserves a place in this category. By 2010, his titles in the Penguin Great Ideas series had sold around 140,000 copies between them. Not bad for a collection of essays by a man who died in 1950.

And what makes Why I Write so appealing? Orwell is remarkably frank about why he became a writer. Yes, there is a love of language and a desire to tell the truth, but there is also something rather less noble: sheer egoism. The wish to be noticed, remembered and taken seriously. Rather than presenting writing as some grand, selfless calling, Orwell admits that vanity has its place in the creative process too.

The unexpected hit: On Art and Life, John Ruskin

Now, here is someone Penguin probably didn't expect to make much money from. John Ruskin was one of Britain's most influential nineteenth-century thinkers, yet the publisher had previously struggled to keep his selected writings in print. Even the great minds can have trouble finding an audience.

Then came Penguin Great Ideas. A small collection of Ruskin's essays, On Art and Life, went on to sell around 70,000 copies. What were all these people suddenly reading?

The book brings together two essays on Gothic architecture, craftsmanship and the relationship between art and labour. One of Ruskin's most interesting arguments concerns imperfection. He admired medieval craftsmen because their work reflected individual creativity and freedom. They were signs of a human being making something rather than a machine producing another identical object.

The most scandalous: The Prince, Niccolò Machiavelli

Imagine writing a book that essentially tells rulers how to stay in power, even if that means lying, manipulating people or being downright cruel. That is more or less what Niccolò Machiavelli did in 1513, arguing that political success sometimes requires decisions that conventional morality would condemn. Unsurprisingly, the Catholic Church wasn't particularly impressed: in 1559, The Prince was placed on its list of prohibited books.

Five centuries later, The Prince is no longer banned, but its reputation remains rather controversial. Scholars still debate whether Machiavelli was encouraging ruthless behaviour or simply exposing how power really works. And now, thanks to Penguin Great Ideas, one of history's most notorious political texts comes in a rather charming little paperback.

The one that changed history: Common Sense, Thomas Paine

Some books make you think. Others help change the course of history. Common Sense belongs to the latter. Published in January 1776, Thomas Paine's short political pamphlet made a bold case for American independence from Britain, at a time when many colonists were still hoping for reconciliation.

And it worked. The pamphlet spread rapidly, helping to build public support for independence. Just six months later, on 4 July 1776, the United States adopted its Declaration of Independence. Of course, Paine didn't start a revolution single-handedly, but his words certainly helped give it momentum.

And here is a rather amusing detail: a text that once encouraged Americans to break away from the British monarchy can now be found in a charming little paperback published by a British company. Quite the historical twist.

The most unexpected author: Anarchist Communism, Peter Kropotkin

A Russian prince who decided the world would be better off without princes. Sounds like the beginning of a novel, but that is more or less the story of Peter Kropotkin.

Born into one of the Russian Empire's most privileged families, Kropotkin could have enjoyed a perfectly comfortable aristocratic life. Instead, he became convinced that society should exist without inherited privilege, rigid class hierarchies or centralised state power. And he didn't just write about it. His political activities led to his arrest, a rather daring escape from prison and years spent in exile.

In Anarchist Communism, he explores what such a society might actually look like: people cooperating voluntarily, sharing resources according to their needs and organising their lives without a central authority telling them what to do.

And what did I buy? Where I Lived, and What I Lived For.

Don't ask me why, it is just the title that caught my eye. Ever since returning from Shanghai, I have found myself increasingly drawn to the idea of a slower pace of life, preferably surrounded by greenery. But that is probably just the holiday effect. It will wear off soon, don't worry.