Great Britain: The Man with the Golden Bond

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Then came unflappable James Bond, Secret Agent 007, licensed to kill in pursuance of his duty. Bond moved easily through all levels of society, the .25 Beretta automatic snug in its shoulder holster, and was as conspicuous for his catalogue of brand names as for his consumption of alcohol, racing cars and gourmet meals. Possibly due to his early upbringing in Pett Bottom, near Canterbury, Bond was an inveterate womanizer, and his tastes were truly catholic, ranging from such blue-veined aristocrats as Tatiana Romanova to ex-lesbians such as Pussy Galore. Though thoroughly amoral, Bond nevertheless served the public good—a combination that proved irresistible to an age dedicated to affluence and to being with it.

Soon the literary critics were in full cry. A New Statesman pundit called Dr. No "the nastiest book" he had ever read, full of "two-dimensional sex longings." Breathing even more heavily, a professor in the New Republic discovered mythic overtones and likened poor Bond to Perseus and St. George. Ian Fleming could find only contempt for anyone who tried to read anything into Bond. He quite frankly wrote for money, and did not like his hero very much, although, he admitted, "I admire his efficiency and his way with blondes."

"A Tremendous Lark." Tall, slim and ruddy-faced, with long greying hair, Fleming's passions were fast cars, gambling, golf, bridge and skindiving. Three years ago, after a heart attack, Fleming was warned to cut down on cigarettes, alcohol, and other aspects of the strenuous life. He did to some extent—30 cigarettes a day instead of 60. But, essentially, Fleming was the sort of man to feel that a too-restricted life was not worth living anyway.

He had helped James Bond narrowly escape death by drowning, poison, bullets, knives, giant squids, falling cliffs, steam, rocket exhaust, auto wreck, buzz saw, scorpion bite, lethal plants, suffocation and surfeit of women. But there was no one to reciprocate for Ian Fleming, last week, in his apartment at Sandwich, where he was holidaying after reading proof on his latest, and last, James Bond adventure, The Man With the Golden Gun. He suffered a second heart attack, and four hours after he reached a hospital at Canterbury, Ian Fleming died. He had already spoken his own epitaph. "Oh," he said, "It's all been a tremendous lark."