by Ian Fleming
I’m not going to waste much energy recording my impressions of The Spy Who Shagged Loved Me. The less I remember about this steaming turd the better. If this is an accurate representation of Fleming’s idea of how a woman thinks, all I can say is ew.
I WAS RUNNING away. I was running away from England, from my childhood, from the winter, from a sequence of untidy, unattractive love-affairs, from the few sticks of furniture and jumble of overworn clothes that my London life had collected around me; and I was running away from drabness, fustiness,...
* The tenth Bond book.* Having already experimented with a James Bond story that wasn't about Bond at all (the marvelous "Quantum of Solace"), Fleming here tells a Bond story in the voice of a young French-Canadian woman held hostage by a couple of underworld thugs in an otherwise deserted motel in ...
As a snapshot into male imagining of female charaters circa 1960 it has some historical insterest. Which is a polite way of saying reading this book felt, well, icky.
Finished Oct. 20, 2012.
An odd one. Bond hardly appears in this novel at all, and it's the weaker for it. Fleming wrote Bond well. As his character he seemed to understand him. Other people not so much. Vivienne isn't James, and throughout the best part of the book you're waiting and hoping for Bond to arrive and start bei...
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