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This is a rag-bag of stories that screams of a collection put together posthumously. It’s amazing how little excitement there is within these four tales; indeed they all just drift aimlessly into each other. But then, to be fair, I can’t now remember any detail about the adventures in ‘For Your Eyes Only’ either. Perhaps it’s the case that Fleming was a much better long-distance runner than he was a sprinter, as these tales – which mostly lack sex and dramatic tension – seem far removed from even his lesser novels. So we have James Bond going to an auction in one story, and confronting a disgraced officer with a love of octopi in another. And if you’ve read those vague descriptions of them, then you’ve pretty much read the whole thing.
The highlight is certainly ‘The Living Daylights’, which does throw in some action and sexual frisson with its take on Bond as a hired killer. Undoubtedly the worst is ‘OO7 in New York’, which is a weird kind of travelogue. Basically if the most exciting thing to happen in a story is Bond giving out a recipe for scrambled eggs, then something vital has got lost somewhere.
The highlight is certainly ‘The Living Daylights’, which does throw in some action and sexual frisson with its take on Bond as a hired killer. Undoubtedly the worst is ‘OO7 in New York’, which is a weird kind of travelogue. Basically if the most exciting thing to happen in a story is Bond giving out a recipe for scrambled eggs, then something vital has got lost somewhere.