Just finished Ian Fleming's Casino Royale. Gosh, he was a strange writer. I think I gained some understanding of the popular appeal of the novel from the central sections. Once Bond is chasing the villain and then finds himself being savagely tortured by the bad guys the narrative builds real momentum. The violence is genuinely gripping and extremely disturbing in terms of the full-on sado-masochism of it all, and I can see a dark power at work here. There's some surprisingly expressive writing in those segments.
But once the number one bad guy is almost casually eliminated Fleming turns to what on one level is just trashy romance, replete with tin-eared dialogue. Plot seems to disappear for pages, even though it's obvious that the girl Bond has fallen for double-crossed him. And that naivety is entirely out of character for the hard-bitten, sceptical agent, except that he doesn't have any consistent character as far as I can make out. I mean, the intensely intelligent and clear-headed gambler of the game that dominates the first third of the text sort of vanishes the moment he's won and decides to behave in supremely dumb fashion. Oh, and the description of the game, which goes on for pages, is not exactly compelling, except for experts at baccarat.
I suppose Bond is just Fleming in ill-fitting fictional disguise, and the weirdness of the writer translates into an odd power for those who like this sort of thing. I kept thinking that a good editor would have cut at least half the text and insisted it be reshaped - but then it sold gazillions in the strange shape it has - so what do I know?
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