A review by lee_foust
Thunderball by Ian Fleming

3.0

As Bond novels go this is a pretty good one in terms of plotting. Yes, the racism, sexism, and fear mongering all go with the territory, sadly, and I officially disapprove--yet I'm still reading these damned novels, one by one. I suppose I need to ask myself why. I guess it's the films, which entranced me for their cleverness and Bond's grace when I was a kid. Despite all of the testosterone-fueled gook herein, Bond is still a thousand times less brutish than any American hero I can think of. (Leaving aside that other brand of American macho, the hysterical whiny, terrified cur that snaps at your heals when your back is turned--you know, the Trump, Bill O'Reilly, Charles Manson type.)

Funny here for literary aficionados is the post-coital scene (Why does Bond always get laid between chapters?) in which the diction suddenly becomes self-consciously Hemingwayesque. Seriously, you can't miss it and it can't be accidental. Not sure what Fleming was up to there--unless he'd just recently read Across the River and into the Trees and felt the need to blurt out a quick homage.

I'm off to read some sane and intelligent female authors for a while after this--so, you see, some good can come of evil.