"All women want to be swept off their feet. In their dreams, they long to be slung over a man's shoulder and taken into a cave and raped. "

Book five in the James Bond series, and I'm starting to feel repetitive in my reviews.

These books are a product of their time. They are sexist, racist, ageist, and fat phobic, to name a few, but strangely compelling.

This book felt like the 1950s answer to gaslighting on a dating app.

A Russian spy gets hold of the British secret service to declare their love for 007, but all is not what it seems.

As these books go on, I'm convinced James Bond is a long-lost brother of the Chuckle Brothers. He really is rather dim. You're a spy Bond. You religiously check all your hotel rooms for devices and disturbances yet didn't notice a naked girl hiding under your sheets. Deary me.

The conversation between Tania and Bond where she asked him to beat her if she put on weight was probably the biggest eye roll I've ever done when reading a book.

Three stars for the sheer entertainment factor.

3.5 stars. An enjoyable, engaging spy thriller with a couple of plot twists. The Russians plan is to discredit the British Secret Service by assassinating James Bond, the British spy. The Soviet counterintelligence agency use as bait, a beautiful Russian woman in her early twenties. Set in Istanbul and on the Oriental Express train. An entertaining read.

The first part, carefully written, deserves quite a 4minus. The second, after the gipsy episode, is totally different, going to a scarce one. That's what I don't like:
- an escape by train in the plane era, which is quite the same as escaping by chariot
- spies who talk too much, before killing you, and finishing by being killed
- the spektor story, a very thin one
- it is hardly believeable that a blow-up in Istanbul can be on the front page in an Italian newspapaer
- the way Fleming talks about the Balcanic area, all of it dirty, bad-looking and old-fashioned
- Bond's ideea of staying together in the train compartment, AFTER Kerim's death, and in general his poor performance as an educated spy.

So, barely three stars...

Solid, sensational, superbly written work from Ian Fleming, as perfectly calibrated and electrifying as "Dr. No" - so far my favourite of the few Bond books that I have read. Perhaps this is even one better? Let's find out.

It should be noted here that while almost all other James Bond novels have been primarily exciting action-packed thrillers and less of exciting spy novels, "From Russia, With Love", I think, is the only novel from the series that is actually a spy novel first and then an action-packed thriller. There is no evil megalomaniac to be defeated here, there is no diabolical or apocalyptic conspiracy to be thwarted, there are no rockets, nuclear missiles, gardens of death or gold depositories involved here; instead, Fleming has built a superbly cinematic potboiler around a basic template of an espionage novel.

James Bond is on a mission to help defect a beautiful Russian woman named Tatiana Romanova from behind enemy lines in Istanbul to the safety of the West in London, since, well, since she has fallen in love with him. Or that is how the story goes. And along with her, Bond also has a chance to pocket the latest Spektor encoding machine that the Russians are using - almost a perfect dowry to go along with the romantic union of these two spies from the East and the West. But he does not seem to know that it might all be a conspiracy. Or is it? Or does he know already? I mean, this is James Bond we are talking about.

Well, I leave you to find out the answer. But for more than one reason, "From Russia, With Love" is a radically different James Bond novel and for good. Fleming spends about a sizable part of the first half of the novel in fleshing out, not his hero or the background to his new mission, but instead - and this is what first gripped me more convincingly - the "villains" of the story. And while a lesser thriller writer would have been content to portray SMERSH, the organisation of Soviet Intelligence dedicated to assassination, torture and deception, as a mere gaggle of incompetent caricatures, Fleming deserves extra credit for portraying them not only as shrewdly intelligent and determined but also cool-headed, technologically superior and also an intelligence outfit that has done its research well enough to know their intended target and his vices so as to lay out the perfect plan to reduce him to death and disgrace.

It is at this point that I became aware of something further different - this is the first time that we see Fleming critically examining the strength and integrity of British intelligence with a discerning eye. Bond, M and the whole of MI6 falls easily to believe in Tatiana, eager to impress the Americans, without considering the possibility of a greater game afoot and as the dominoes start falling one by one, Bond has to rely on his own instinct, initiative and even support from networks in Istanbul and elsewhere to guard him and his quarry on the way back from the cold. At one point, Bond, so far always the bullet-headed soldier of Her Majesty, laments his own country as one where there are only carrots and no sticks, commenting that they have no more teeth, only gums. This self-critical dimension in this novel thickens it admirably and proves that Fleming had really the potential to approach the profound introspection and dry wit of Graham Greene and John Le Carre on his own.

But we read James Bond primarily for the pulpy thrills and spills and Fleming serves them up expertly, with the finesse of Buchan and Ambler and also with the lean, cold-blooded grit that is his own signature style. There is not much action in "From Russia, With Love"- it flows in fits and starts but the excitement and suspense and the sense of constant danger and menace thunders like the Orient Express in the last fifty pages. Even for one who has watched the film adaptation countless number of times, just like me, this is just extraordinary thriller writing of a whole new level, both tight and mesmerising in turns. There are many patches of superb, almost mesmeric and stirring prose that Fleming offers us and there are also equally many taut and suspenseful moments that remind us that we are here to enjoy the exhilarating and dangerous ride that he takes us through.

The girl herself, Tatiana Romanova is quite a welcome break from the usual Bond damsel in distress - in a few notable ways. She is demure to begin with but as the novel progresses, especially in the latter half, she has her own motives and layers and Fleming reveals them slowly and leisurely without entirely buttoning her down. In the end, though, he carves out Bond as a refreshingly chivalrous hero, something that the hard-nosed and unreasonable haters of this thriller seem to have missed out on. He is wholly admirable throughout the book, especially towards the end, and becomes a Buchanite hero worth rooting for.

One more character deserves some special mention here - I am not mentioning the villains of this thriller because they deserve to be discovered and encountered on their own and Fleming does not disappoint in that respect. This man is Kerim Bey, our man in Istanbul, who comes across as more of a charming, raffish, even flawed around the edges but more or less admirable spy out of Greene's novels rather than Fleming's usual penchant for tightly wound allies like Tanaka and Felix Leiter. He is proud about his half-gypsy ancestry, he is unabashedly rough and even unlikable on a first glance but beneath that regressive surface, he reserves unexpected depths of loyalty to the intelligence service he works for and also a deeper understanding of the realities of the game of espionage than even Bond himself.

Thrilling, suspenseful, well-characterized, atmospheric and, most importantly, concluding with a breathless confrontation which is not the one that you are expecting, "From Russia, With Love" is indeed seductive as its title suggests. You will fall in love with it, even as you know that it is going to tear your nerves apart.

Ian Fleming should get more credit than he does for writing fast-paced tightly-plotted thrillers. A little improbable at times? Sure, but the James Bond of the books is nothing like the superhero of the movies. This is adventure fiction that stays within the bounds of reason, and it's full of (almost) believable heroes and villains and not nearly as many outrageous gadgets as in the movies either. (Bond is actually given a cynanide pill dispenser in this book; he laughs and washes them down the drain.)

The plot is basically "Get Bond!" SMERSH wants to kill a prominent rival agent to send a message to all the other intelligence agencies, intimidate double agents, and impress the Kremlin. We get lots of Russian political machinations and the background of all the villains (and the love interest, Tatiana Romanova) before Bond is even introduced. Then to the story: SMERSH lures Bond to Turkey in what's an obvious trap, baited with Romanova and a Russian decoding device, but MI6 sends Bond anyway because the potential payoff is too good to pass up. Bond meets Romanova, is completely taken in by her, and makes several other blunders that will surprise anyone who's used to the cold, flawless cinematic Bond, before he confronts the real enemy, a psychopathic Irish defector who is now SMERSH's top assassin.

I like the original Bond stories; they're still fun despite being so dated. The literary 007 is a much more interesting character than he ever was on-screen. He's still a sexist pig, though, and he's usually one of the less misogynistic characters. Fleming was writing before Political Correctness was a blip on anyone's radar, so the books are chock-full of cringe-inducingly racist and sexist stereotypes. But if you can embrace them as the guilty pleasure they are, I think they are well worth reading, and From Russia with Love is a taut little thriller where the early chapters before Bond even appears are some of the most interesting. (But you'll want to read the rest for the naked gypsy catfight, the lesbian Soviet interrogation specialist and her poisoned knitting needles, the asexual pseudo-lycanthropic serial killer, the Istanbul dungeon crawl, and the Turkish spice merchant who tells Bond how he used his harem to raise his own personal spy ring.)

James Bond is fucking stupid. I don't mean the character. I mean the whole damn series. Years ago I read the first Bond book and thought, wow, this is some racist trash, and I didn't want to read any more, but I thought recently that I'd have to if I wanted to work my way through a list of best mysteries. So they had one Bond book on at least two different lists and this is the only one, so it's supposed to be the cream of the crop, yeah?

Only it's half a book of hand-rubbing Soviet bureaucrats, technocrats, and sadists plotting to bring down James Bond for no particular reason other than they want to have a success to put up on the tote board. Then they send their very best, most vicious, most sadistic killer in for the kill.

This "kill" scene happens at the very end of the book, so there is virtually no action or intrigue except for two gypsy women fighting for the death to marry a gypsy man (but really just so the two can catfight their way out of their clothes and naked and glistening with sweat writhe around biting, clawing, etc., boobs a flopping and whatnot) and then the gypsy camp is raided and there are some gunshots and some minor fisticuffs.

But I digress. The kill scene is plain dumb. The Soviet's very best hired gun is fooled by a simple trick before being killed and oh no big spoiler, the good guys win... OR DO THEY??? because Fleming throws in a last page twist that ends on a cliffhanger, but who the hell cares because he writes for shit and plots for shit and these books are dated ass trash.

Now, the movies are a different thing altogether and that's a discussion for another day, but the books I have reconfirmed, choosing the pinnacle title, are just godawful writing with godawful characterizations and Bond is simply an uninspring zero.

Daring opening with Bond not appearing for the first third of the book, daring ending too.

Преди да прочета тази книга, често съм се чудила какви ли са книгите за Джеймс Бонд. Дали наистина има множество фатални жени, яки джаджи и непосилни каскади. След като прочетох “От Русия с любов” вече знам, че отговорът е да.

Като сюжет, интрига, красота на изказа, романът на Флеминг е доста повърхностен. В него няма неочаквани обрати, по-скоро дадени пасажи са сякаш зашити с бели конци. Самата история е толкова странна, че до последно си задавах въпросите - “какво става и какъв е капана?”

За бъдещите читатели е редно да отбележа, че същинската част и появата на Бонд се разкриват едва в средата на книгата. Интересен, но и очакван момент е описанието на Изтока и представато на англичаните за българите. Отново сме представени като хора, вършещи черна работа, имаме украински имена и сме доста руси. Жените в романа са предмети, с почти никакъв здрав разум. След като прочетох книгата, изгледах филма и честно казано, с изключение на Спектър частта, той е едно към едно с романа, включително определени диалози. Беше любопитно да ги сравня. Също така прочетох някои факти за самия Флеминг и доколкото разбирам случките в романите му са базирани на неосъществени негови планове от Втората световна война, когато е работил в британското разузнаване.


Нямам представа защо “От Русия с любов” е в класацията на Кенеди за най-велики книги, но се радвам, че я прочетох. Така знам, че и мъжете имат своите чиклити, в които са герои, а дамите просто падат в краката им.

Best book and best movie. There's a strong implication that Bond was killed at the end of the book by that nasty Russian spy(Lotte Lenya in the movie - as an agent for SPECTRE) but it was left a cliffhanger and he was revived at the beginning of the next one. Date read is a guess.

James Bond escapes death, solves a mystery, and has some sexy escapades.

From Russia With Love, movie trailer.

My Bond project continues with From Russia With Love, the second Bond film and the fifth Bond book (and yes, this out-of-order thing is totally starting to bug me... but I will prevail!).

So most interesting, in the movie the group that's after Bond is the non-specific SPECTRE (SPecial Executive for Counter-intelligence, Terrorism, Revenge, and Extortion), whereas in the book it's the very, very Soviet organization SMERSH (...mumble mumble mumble something Russian mumble mumble... roughly translated to "Death to Spies" or something or other). According to Wikipedia, SPECTRE became a thing so as to be apolitical. Good luck with that, film industry.

Doesn't matter what they're called, they are a mean, lean killing machine.

And when they get a lady involved, then it's all just about sex.

This book has taken the sexism to a whole new level in which Tatiana makes some comment about getting fat, and will Bond beat her if she gets too fat that he can't have sex with her, and he totally says he will. That charmer, Bond. I'll take three just like him.

Interesting anecdote - apparently Bond has a scar! In the movie the scar was shown on his lower back (right lower quadrant, I believe) and it was teeny tiny, like maybe he just had a pesky kidney removed or something. But in the book he has some scar across his face and across one shoulder. I haven't read all the books prior to this one yet, so I don't know what the real deal is with that, but my point is that we don't get to see that side of him at all in the movies. Sean Connery with the lovely puppy-dog brown eyes... the real Bond is supposed to be blue-eyed and all Scarface. I call bullshit on the whole film industry. It's like they weren't even trying.

Also missing from the book - a cat. There is no mention of a cat in the book. There is, however, a cat in the movie. Kitty gets to eat fishies. But why leave it out of the book? Maybe the cat was the director's cat in real life and he wanted to immortalize the animal on screen. Whatever, I missed the cat in the book.

The movie also included a helicopter and a boat scene that were definitely not in the book, so if you're into that sort of stuff, I recommend the movie. The book, as usual, was a little less action-y than the film, but that's to be expected.

Somehow this was slightly better than Dr. No, but it could just have been my mood was improved while reading this one.

But really, Bond is such a douche.

Next up: Goldfinger.

Although a trap is suspected, James Bond travels to Istanbul on the promise, from a double agent, of getting his hands on a Russian cipher machine.

After a couple of months of acid reflux issues – leaving energy levels on the low side, I hadn’t been in the mood for anything too taxing or with multitudes of characters to concentrate on. Re-reading Ian Fleming has been the perfect antidote. Damn good, straightforward adventure storytelling.

Most of the books are not without some flaw (Moonraker has a rather preposterous plot, others have overly fantastical episodes – which may include giant octopuses! - and others have such highs as to inevitably be followed by just the occasional periods of dullness – Live And Let Die and Thunderball come to mind). But with From Russia With Love, Fleming, for me, reaches a peak - remaining consistent throughout. It’s solidly constructed, with no straying to anything too fanciful, and has a plethora of crystally well defined characters that linger long in the memory (and we’re not just talking the bad guys here – Bond’s local ally Kerim is just as clearly drawn as the tough Red Grant and Rosa Klebb). Fleming is a master of choosing and describing the relevant detail, and the darkly exotic locale and 1950s atmosphere transfer you a million miles from the realities of today. It’s understandable why the film makers for once didn’t stray too far from the book. It’s consistent, and for me, the best of the series.

Re-acquainting with these books is a real pleasure. This is my third reading. With older eyes I’m seeing lots that I missed before (good and bad), and drastically changing opinion on certain books isn’t something I expected from an oeuvre that I thought I was familiar with – whereas Moonraker has gone down a few notches, the next book (after this one) has risen – The Spy Who Loved Me.

Maybe losing yourself in the nostalgia and distant times of these books (especially in these current CV-19 days) adds to the warmth and charm of re-reading this series.