Mr. Fleming Escapes from Belgravia—Thanks to James Bond
By Thomas Wiseman (Evening Standard, Oct. 7, 1960)
Mr. Ian Fleming, gentlemanly chronicler of the bizarre and ungentlemanly adventures of James Bond, secret agent, did something very unusual yesterday: he went to one of his wife’s renowned luncheon parties in Victoria Square at which the guests included Mr. Somerset Maugham, Mr. Cyril Connolly and Mr. Angus Wilson.
Normally Mr. Fleming finds such occasions an unmitigated bore. He much prefers to be in a low bar in Hamburg.
It is possible too, that in the presence of such literary celebrities, Mr. Fleming feels a trifle intimidated: a discussion of Mr. Fleming’s literary creations, such as the lady who wears nothing but a leather belt, might not be exactly apposite in this setting.
Startling
The contrast between the published life of James Bond and the private life of his creator is startling. Fleming is the son of a Tory MP, the husband of the former Lady Rothermere, now one of the leading hostesses of London; a friend of Sir Anthony Eden; he was educated at Eton; and until recently occupied an important executive position on one of the posh Sunday papers.
As the author of James Bond’s adventures, Mr. Fleming has been responsible for a series of best-selling novels which, to put it mildly, emphasize the less refined relationships of the sexes.
It is instructive to talk to Mr. Fleming about this apparent split in his personality; for one discovers him to be a kind of Walter Mitty; a man living the high life and hankering for the low life.
“My wife,” he explains, “fully understands my attitude, that I don’t care for her parties and literary friends. For one thing, you know, if you are married to a hostess, you find that she will seat the most interesting men next to herself and saddle you with their boring wives. So whenever possible I avoid going to wife’s parties.
Not sociable
“I am, anyway, not a very sociable person. Of course, my wife hates the whole James Bond business. I think she rather wishes I were a Cyril Connolly or something respectable like that. She would like me to write on a much higher level. I have to tell her that I am not capable of writing on a higher level. I’ve got nothing to say on that level. I am not ambitious.
“I find the people one meets in a low strip-tease joint in Hamburg infinitely more interesting than anyone one would meet a Belgravia dinner party. Give me a cheap joint any day.
“That Belgravia crowd, you would need a tin-opener to get at them. They may, of course, be just as interesting as anyone else underneath, but it would take years to find out, and then, of course, they might turn out to be as boring underneath as on the surface.”
The creation of James Bond has provided Mr. Fleming—if only in fantasy—with an escape route from Belgravia. In his smartly decorated office off Fleet Street, with its green-striped walls and shelves of garish paper-backs, Mr. Fleming can transport himself into the world in which James Bond operates: a world in which blondes are always and instantly available, in which fiendish foreigners inflict unimaginable tortures on unimaginable heroines, in which blood is spilt as cheerfully as a dry-martini.
Such a cad
Upon reflection, Mr. Fleming is not sure that he likes James Bond very much. “He really is a frightful cad,” he admits, “and, apart from the fact that he wears the same clothes that I wear, he and I really have little in common.
“I do rather envy him, his blondes and his efficiency, but I can’t say I much like the chap.
“His success with women is pure wishful-thinking on my part.
“All Englishmen are shy with women and I am just as shy as any of them. I suppose one projects one’s secret fantasies in this sort of fiction. That I suppose is why male readers like my stories; they express what every man hopes might happen and jolly well knows doesn’t happen.
“The reason women like the stories? Well, women are all masochistic and I suppose they like the way the female characters are bashed about.”
He accepts criticisms of his writing—that it is sadistic, erotic—with equanimity.
“It doesn’t hurt to raise the blood pressure of novel readers a bit. It could do with a bit of raising. I don’t think any of my books do any harm. It’s all good, healthy fun.”
Only the suggestion that James Bond is something of a snob about food and wine succeeds in momentarily ruffling Mr. Fleming.
“You can’t call a liking for caviar snobbish,” he protests, “it’s just bloody good stuff.”
Some recent Fleming news: on a Bond Facebook group I came across the Daily Mail article “Ian Fleming’s rules for life are revealed as James Bond creator’s private notebook goes up for auction.”
As Heritage Auctions reveals, the rules are from a 39-page notebook Fleming kept during his trip to Japan to research You Only Live Twice. Here are some scans:
Fleming’s rules are:
- Don’t draw your gun unless you can see both the other man’s hands.
- Don’t waste your time on women who wear a bracelet on their left ankle.
- Beware of motorcars with 2 women in the front seat.
- Don’t play cards against married couples, unless they are drunk.
- See the brand name on the bottle.
- Avoid people who call you ‘Old Boy,’ and all politicians.
- Never eat scrambled eggs unless you make them yourself.
- Talk secrets only in the open air.
- Don’t buy anything that eats.
- Beware of people who smell and tread carefully in the company of moustaches, side-burns, or beards.
- Have nothing to do with correspondence in coloured ink - particularly when variegated.
- Cut down on your drink when your eyes get red and on your smoking when your breath feels short. Don’t worry about cirrhosis of the liver or cancer.
- Live until you’re dead.
And speaking of death: