And now for something completely different

She lounged at her desk, completely uninterested in the pile of papers that inevitably regenerated, hydra-like, from the station offices. Everything felt sluggish, from her aching knees to her head that refused to wake up from the morning stupor. For a moment, she was tempted to give in and make herself a small cup of Blue Mountain coffee with 3 round dollops of her personal stash of fresh vanilla bean gelato. She thought of the white frothy mixture slowly dissolving into the coffee in tight swirls, but had to steel herself. After all, she was on assignment in a few hours and couldn't risk the aftereffects of the caffeine. She threw herself out of her chair and did a few stretches in the middle of her office while waiting for the red light to blink on the telephone, silent but as blaring as an alarm.

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This is a typical start to a Bond-ish novel. It is at this point that the Bond-ish character starts reminiscing about previous assignments and the injuries he got and how he felt about the whole incidence.

He's a character that's very in tune with his body, I think. The way Fleming describes his physical condition, the taste of the food and drink and the sensations he gets from cigarettes is almost pornographic. Bond isn't a cultured man; it would be difficult to be one in the line of work that he does. The only respite he gets from the constant tension is his gluttony in the physical pleasures. I don't mean to say that he overindulges in anything, but the relish he gets from the precise measures of anything he consumes is evident in every page. (Side note: When James Bond describes the texture of eating Alaskan crabs drenched in melted butter with a loaf of crusty toast, I have this overwhelming urge to have some crab myself even though I don't like shellfish!) This is interesting, because when it comes to women, Fleming's writing becomes almost dainty in comparison. Bond does sleep with a lot of women and he is obviously a "breast man", but any description of the physical act itself is carefully behind closed doors. Somehow Bond changes from a cold and brutal man to an almost tender hero of romance novels. He sweeps her up in his arms and it's almost like the camera carefully pans away to the window; the curtains are drawn. It's a polite way of prodding the readers onto the next chapter. I find it a fascinating contrast.

Why am I writing this? Can't you tell from the first segment? I'm procrastinating from studying for my physiology midterm.