When I was a teenager I used to collect the
James Bond books by Ian Fleming from second
hand shops. I am not sure why. I don't think
I actually read that many of them. I was forced
to sell them when we moved to the first of
the ever smaller houses we used to live in.
The only story by Fleming I remember was a man who kidnapped a Gypsy women for some reason. He chained her somewhere and fed her red meat. When he unchained her, she didn't want to leave him. In the few times that I have an intimate conversation with a women, they often say "tell me what you are thinking." I am mostly think that it is not wise to tell them about the Fleming story.
Anyway a week ago I read "Casino Royal" by the Ian Fleming. The book has a certain power, even without knowing the prehistory of the films. I had forgotten about how big a viscous shit he was.