In a small way, a reader can thus feel superior to Ian Fleming and to his creation: James Bond may be a jet-setting international man of action who knows his way around the bedroom, but I know my way around an auditorium.Ī discrete reread of Bond novels reveals that we have repeated the Bond-as-uncultured song for so long we tend to internalize it, but that it does not hold up in the long run. ![]() John Pearson, in his biography of Fleming, notes that he “had no ear for music.” Henry Chancellor, in James Bond, the Man and his World, states, “Of art, he knew nothing.” Fleming probably contributed to this image himself, calling Bond a “cardboard booby,” among other pejoratives. And it is common for Fleming fans to note that he and his creation didn’t know much about the arts. His product placement is riddled with incorrectly attributed products. Fleming creates sumptuous feasts, but, some say, the author really didn’t know food all that well. ![]() Among Bond and Fleming aficionados, it is almost as much fun to cluck our tongues affectionately at his mistakes as to delight in what Fleming does right.
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