Goldfinger: A James Bond Novel

By Ian Fleming

JAMES BOND MUST STOP A GOLD-OBSESSED MILLIONAIRE AND THE HEIST OF THE CENTURY

Auric Goldfinger is the richest man in England―though his wealth can’t be found in banks. He’s been hoarding vast stockpiles of his namesake metal, and it has attracted the suspicion of Bond’s superiors at MI6.

Sent to investigate, Bond uncovers an ingenious gold-smuggling scheme, as well as Goldfinger’s most daring caper yet: Operation Grand Slam, a heist so audacious it could bring down the world economy and put the fate of the West in the hands of SMERSH. Only 007 can stop the enigmatic millionaire and his murderous mania for gold.

• Language: English
• Publisher: HarperCollins
• Release date: May 23, 2023
• ISBN: 9780063298774

Ian Fleming

Ian Lancaster Fleming was born in London in 1908. His first job was at Reuters news agency, after which he worked briefly as a stockbroker before working in Naval Intelligence during World War Two. His first novel, Casino Royale, was published in 1953 and was an instant success. Fleming went on to write thirteen other Bond books as well as two works of nonfiction and the children’s classic Chitty Chitty Bang Bang. The Bond books have earned praise from figures such as Raymond Chandler, who called Fleming “the most forceful and driving writer of thrillers in England” and President Kennedy, who named From Russia with Love as one of his favorite books. The books inspired a hugely successful series of film adaptations that began in 1962 with the release of Dr. No. He was married to Ann O'Neill, with whom he had a son, Caspar. He died in 1964.

Book preview

Part One

Happenstance

1

Reflections in a Double Bourbon

James Bond, with two double bourbons inside him, sat in the final departure lounge of Miami Airport and thought about life and death.

It was part of his profession to kill people. He had never liked doing it and when he had to kill he did it as well as he knew how and forgot about it. As a secret agent who held the rare Double Zero prefix – the licence to kill in the Secret Service – it was his duty to be as cool about death as a surgeon. If it happened, it happened. Regret was unprofessional – worse, it was death-watch beetle in the soul.

And yet there had been something curiously impressive about the death of the Mexican. It wasn’t that he hadn’t deserved to die. He was an evil man, a man they call in Mexico a capungo. A capungo is a bandit who will kill for as little as forty pesos, which is about twenty-five shillings – though probably he had been paid more to attempt the killing of Bond – and, from the look of him, he had been an instrument of pain and misery all his life. Yes, it had certainly been time for him to die; but when Bond had killed him, less than twenty-four hours before, life had gone out of the body so quickly, so utterly, that Bond had almost seen it come out of his mouth as it does, in the shape of a bird, in Haitian primitives.

What an extraordinary difference there was between a body full of person and a body that was empty! Now there is someone, now there is no one. This had been a Mexican with a name and an address, an employment card and perhaps a driving licence. Then something had gone out of him, out of the envelope of flesh and cheap clothes, and had left him an empty paper bag waiting for the dustcart. And the difference, the thing that had gone out of the stinking Mexican bandit, was greater than all Mexico.

Bond looked down at the weapon that had done it. The cutting edge of his right hand was red and swollen. It would soon show a bruise. Bond flexed the hand, kneading it with his left. He had been doing the same thing at intervals through the quick plane trip that had got him away. It was a painful process, but if he kept the circulation moving the hand would heal more quickly. One couldn’t tell how soon the weapon would be needed again. Cynicism gathered at the corners of Bond’s mouth.

‘National Airlines, Airline of the Stars, announces the departure of their flight NA106 to La Guardia Field, New York. Will all passengers please proceed to gate number seven. All aboard, please.’

The tannoy switched off with an echoing click. Bond glanced at his watch. At least another ten minutes before Transamerica would be called. He signalled to a waitress and ordered another double bourbon on the rocks. When the wide, chunky glass came, he swirled the liquor round for the ice to blunt it down and swallowed half of it. He stubbed out the butt of his cigarette and sat, his chin resting on his left hand, and gazed moodily across the twinkling tarmac to where the last half of the sun was slipping gloriously into the Gulf.

The death of the Mexican had been the finishing touch to a bad assignment, one of the worst – squalid, dangerous and without any redeeming feature except that it had got him away from headquarters.

A big man in Mexico had some poppy fields. The flowers were not for decoration. They were broken down for opium which was sold quickly and comparatively cheaply by the waiters at a small café in Mexico City called the Madre de Cacao. The Madre de Cacao had plenty of protection. If you needed opium you walked in and ordered what you wanted with your drink. You paid for your drink at the caisse and the man at the caisse told you how many noughts to add to your bill. It was an orderly commerce of no concern to anyone outside Mexico. Then, far away in England, the Government, urged on by the United Nations’ drive against drug smuggling, announced that heroin would be banned in Britain. There was alarm in Soho and also among respectable doctors who wanted to save their patients agony. Prohibition is the trigger of crime. Very soon the routine smuggling channels from China, Turkey and Italy were run almost dry by the illicit stockpiling in England. In Mexico City, a pleasant-spoken Import and Export merchant called Blackwell had a sister in England who was a heroin addict. He loved her and was sorry for her and, when she wrote that she would die if someone didn’t help, he believed that she wrote the truth and set about investigating the illicit dope traffic in Mexico. In due course, through friends and friends of friends, he got to the Madre de Cacao and on from there to the big Mexican grower. In the process, he came to know about the economics of the trade, and he decided that if he could make a fortune and at the same time help suffering humanity he had found the Secret of Life. Blackwell’s business was in fertilisers. He had a warehouse and a small plant and a staff of three for soil testing and plant research. It was easy to persuade the big Mexican that, behind this respectable front, Blackwell’s team could busy itself extracting heroin from opium. Carriage to England was swiftly arranged by the Mexican. For the equivalent of a thousand pounds a trip, every month one of the diplomatic couriers of the Ministry of Foreign Affairs carried an extra suitcase to London. The price was reasonable. The contents of the suitcase, after the Mexican had deposited it at the Victoria Station left-luggage office and had mailed the ticket to a man called Schwab, c/o Boox-an-Pix Ltd, WC1, were worth twenty thousand pounds.

Unfortunately Schwab was a bad man, unconcerned with suffering humanity. He had the idea that if American juvenile delinquents could consume millions of dollars’ worth of heroin every year, so could their Teddy boy and girl cousins. In two rooms in Pimlico, his staff watered the heroin with stomach powder and sent it on its way to the dance halls and amusement arcades.

Schwab had already made a fortune when the CID Ghost Squad got on to him. Scotland Yard decided to let him make a little more money while they investigated the source of his supply. They put a close tail on Schwab and in due course were led to Victoria Station and thence to the Mexican courier. At that stage, since a foreign country was concerned, the Secret Service had had to be called in and Bond was ordered to find out where the courier got his supplies and to destroy the channel at source.

Bond did as he was told. He flew to Mexico City and quickly got to the Madre de Cacao. Thence, posing as a buyer for the London traffic, he got back to the big Mexican. The Mexican received him amiably and referred him to Blackwell. Bond had rather taken to Blackwell. He knew nothing about Blackwell’s sister, but the man was obviously an amateur and his bitterness about the heroin ban in England rang true. Bond broke into his warehouse one night and left a thermite bomb. He then went and sat in a café a mile away and watched the flames leap above the horizon of roof-tops and listened to the silver cascade of the fire-brigade bells. The next morning he telephoned Blackwell. He stretched a handkerchief across the mouthpiece and spoke through it.

‘Sorry you lost your business last night. I’m afraid your insurance won’t cover those stocks of soil you were researching.’

‘Who’s that? Who’s speaking?’

‘I’m from England. That stuff of yours has killed quite a lot of young people over there. Damaged a lot of others. Santos won’t be coming to England any more with his diplomatic bag. Schwab will be in jail by tonight. That fellow Bond you’ve been seeing, he won’t get out of the net either. The police are after him now.’

Frightened words came back down the line.

‘All right, but just don’t do it again. Stick to fertilisers.’

Bond hung up.

Blackwell wouldn’t have had the wits. It was obviously the big Mexican who had seen through the false trail. Bond had taken the precaution to move his hotel, but that night, as he walked home after a last drink at the Copacabana, a man suddenly stood in his way. The man wore a dirty white linen suit and a chauffeur’s white cap that was too big for his head. There were deep blue shadows under Aztec cheekbones. In one corner of the slash of a mouth there was a toothpick and in the other a cigarette. The eyes were bright pinpricks of marijuana.

‘You like woman? Make jigajig?’

‘No.’

‘Coloured girl? Fine jungle tail?’

‘No.’

‘Mebbe pictures?’

The gesture of the hand slipping into the coat was so well known to Bond, so full of old dangers, that, when the hand flashed out and the long silver finger went for his throat, Bond was on balance and ready for it.

Almost automatically, Bond went into the ‘Parry Defence against Underhand Thrust’ out of the book. His right arm cut across, his body swivelling with it. The two forearms met midway between the two bodies, banging the Mexican’s knife-arm off target and opening his guard for a crashing short-arm chin jab with Bond’s left. Bond’s stiff, locked wrist had not travelled far, perhaps two feet, but the heel of his palm, with fingers spread for rigidity, had come up and under the man’s chin with terrific force. The blow almost lifted the man off the sidewalk. Perhaps it had been that blow that had killed the Mexican, broken his neck, but as he staggered back on his way to the ground, Bond had drawn back his right hand and slashed sideways at the taut, offered throat. It was the deadly hand-edge blow to the Adam’s apple, delivered with the fingers locked into a blade, that had been the stand-by of the Commandos. If the Mexican was still alive, he was certainly dead before he hit the ground.

Bond stood for a moment, his chest heaving, and looked at the crumpled pile of cheap clothes flung down in the dust. He glanced up and down the street. There was no one. Some cars passed. Others had perhaps passed during the fight, but it had been in the shadows. Bond knelt down beside the body. There was no pulse. Already the eyes that had been so bright with marijuana were glazing. The house in which the Mexican had lived was empty. The tenant had left.

Bond picked up the body and laid it against a wall in deeper shadow. He brushed his hands down his clothes, felt to see if his tie was straight and went on to his hotel.

At dawn Bond had got up and shaved and driven to the airport where he took the first plane out of Mexico. It happened to be going to Caracas. Bond flew to Caracas and hung about in the transit lounge until there was a plane for Miami, a Transamerica Constellation that would take him on that same evening to New York.

Again the tannoy buzzed and echoed. ‘Transamerica regrets to announce a delay on their flight TR618 to New York due to a mechanical defect. The new departure time will be at 8 a.m. Will all passengers please report to the Transamerica ticket counter where arrangements for their overnight accommodation will be made. Thank you.’

So! That too! Should he transfer to another flight or spend the night in Miami? Bond had forgotten his drink. He picked it up and, tilting his head back, swallowed the bourbon to the last drop. The ice tinkled cheerfully against his teeth. That was it. That was an idea. He would spend the night in Miami and get drunk, stinking drunk so that he would have to be carried to bed by whatever tart he had picked up. He hadn’t been drunk for years. It was high time. This extra night, thrown at him out of the blue, was a spare night, a gone night. He would put it to good purpose. It was time he let himself go. He was too tense, too introspective. What the hell was he doing, glooming about this Mexican, this capungo who had been sent to kill him? It had been kill or get killed. Anyway, people were killing other people all the time, all over the world. People were using their motor cars to kill with. They were carrying infectious diseases around, blowing microbes in other people’s faces, leaving gas-jets turned on in kitchens, pumping out carbon monoxide in closed garages. How many people, for instance, were involved in manufacturing H-bombs, from the miners who mined the uranium to the shareholders who owned the mining shares? Was there any person in the world who wasn’t somehow, perhaps only statistically, involved in killing his neighbour?

The last light of the day had gone. Below the indigo sky the flare paths twinkled green and yellow and threw tiny reflections off the oily skin of the tarmac. With a shattering roar a DC7 hurtled down the main green lane. The windows in the transit lounge rattled softly. People got up to watch. Bond tried to read their expressions. Did they hope the plane would crash – give them something to watch, something to talk about, something to fill their empty lives? Or did they wish it well? Which way were they willing the sixty passengers? To live or to die?

Bond’s lips turned down. Cut it out. Stop being so damned morbid. All this is just reaction from a dirty assignment. You’re stale, tired of having to be tough. You want a change. You’ve seen too much death. You want a slice of life – easy, soft, high.

Bond was conscious of steps approaching. They stopped at his side. Bond looked up. It was a clean, rich-looking, middle-aged man. His expression was embarrassed, deprecating.

‘Pardon me, but surely it’s Mr Bond . . . Mr – er – James Bond?’

2

Living It Up

Bond liked anonymity. His ‘Yes, it is’ was discouraging.

‘Well, that’s a mighty rare coincidence.’ The man held out his hand. Bond rose slowly, took the hand and released it. The hand was pulpy and unarticulated – like a hand-shaped mud pack, or an inflated rubber glove. ‘My name is Du Pont. Junius Du Pont. I guess you won’t remember me, but we’ve met before. Mind if I sit down?’

The face, the name? Yes, there was something familiar. Long ago. Not in America. Bond searched the files while he summed the man up. Mr Du Pont was about fifty – pink, clean-shaven and dressed in the conventional disguise with which Brooks Brothers cover the shame of American millionaires. He wore a single-breasted dark tan tropical suit and a white silk shirt with a shallow collar. The rolled ends of the collar were joined by a gold safety pin beneath the knot of a narrow dark red and blue striped tie that fractionally wasn’t the Brigade of Guards’. The cuffs of the shirt protruded half an inch below the cuffs of the coat and showed cabochon crystal links containing miniature trout flies. The socks were charcoal-grey silk and the shoes were old and polished mahogany and hinted Peal. The man carried a dark, narrow-brimmed straw homburg with a wide claret ribbon.

Mr Du Pont sat down opposite Bond and produced cigarettes and a plain gold Zippo lighter. Bond noticed that he was sweating slightly. He decided that Mr Du Pont was what he appeared to be, a very rich American, mildly embarrassed. He knew he had seen him before, but he had no idea where or when.

‘Smoke?’

‘Thank you.’ It was a Parliament. Bond affected not to notice the offered lighter. He disliked held-out lighters. He picked up his own and lit the cigarette.

‘France, ’51, Royale-les-Eaux.’ Mr Du Pont looked eagerly at Bond. ‘That Casino. Ethel, that’s Mrs Du Pont, and me were next to you at the table the night you had the big game with the Frenchman.’

Bond’s memory raced back. Yes, of course. The Du Ponts had been Nos 4 and 5 at the baccarat table. Bond had been 6. They had seemed harmless people. He had been glad to have such a solid bulwark on his left on that fantastic night when he had broken Le Chiffre. Now Bond saw it all again – the bright pool of light on the green baize, the pink crab hands across the table scuttling out for the cards. He smelt the smoke and the harsh tang of his own sweat. That had been a night! Bond looked across at Mr Du Pont and smiled at the memory. ‘Yes, of course I remember. Sorry I was slow. But that was quite a night. I wasn’t thinking of much except my cards.’

Mr Du Pont grinned back, happy and relieved. ‘Why, gosh, Mr Bond. Of course I understand. And I do hope you’ll pardon me for butting in. You see—’ He snapped his fingers for a waitress. ‘But we must have a drink to celebrate. What’ll you have?’

‘Thanks. Bourbon on the rocks.’

‘And dimple Haig and water.’ The waitress went away.

Mr Du Pont leant forward, beaming. A whiff of soap or aftershave lotion came across the table. Lentheric? ‘I knew it was you. As soon as I saw you sitting there. But I thought to myself, Junius, you don’t often make an error over a face, but let’s just go make sure. Well, I was flying Transamerican tonight and, when they announced the delay, I watched your expression and, if you’ll pardon me, Mr Bond, it was pretty clear from the look on your face that you had been flying Transamerican too.’ He waited for Bond to nod. He hurried on. ‘So I ran down to the ticket counter and had me a look at the passenger list. Sure enough, there it was, J. Bond.’

Mr Du Pont sat back, pleased with his cleverness. The drinks came. He raised his glass. ‘Your very good health, sir. This sure is my lucky day.’

Bond smiled non-committally and drank.

Mr Du Pont leant forward again. He looked round. There was nobody at the nearby tables. Nevertheless he lowered his voice. ‘I guess you’ll be saying to yourself, well, it’s nice to see Junius Du Pont again, but what’s the score? Why’s he so particularly happy at seeing me on just this night?’ Mr Du Pont raised his eyebrows as if acting Bond’s part for him. Bond put on a face of polite inquiry. Mr Du Pont leant still further across the table. ‘Now, I hope you’ll forgive me, Mr Bond. It’s not like me to pry into other people’s secre—er – affairs. But, after that game at Royale, I did hear that you were not only a grand card-player, but also that you were – er – how shall I put it? – that you were a sort of – er – investigator. You know, kind of intelligence operative.’ Mr Du Pont’s indiscretion had made him go very red in the face. He sat back and took out a handkerchief and wiped his forehead. He looked anxiously at Bond.

Bond shrugged his shoulders. The grey-blue eyes that looked into Mr Du Pont’s eyes, which had turned hard and watchful despite his embarrassment, held a mixture of candour, irony and self-deprecation. ‘I used to dabble in that kind of thing. Hangover from the war. One still thought it was fun playing Red Indians. But there’s no future in it in peacetime.’

‘Quite, quite.’ Mr Du Pont made a throwaway gesture with the hand that held the cigarette. His eyes evaded Bond’s as he put the next question, waited for the next lie. (Bond thought, there’s a wolf in this Brooks Brothers clothing. This is a shrewd man.) ‘And now you’ve settled down?’ Mr Du Pont smiled paternally. ‘What did you choose, if you’ll pardon the question?’

‘Import and Export. I’m with Universal. Perhaps you’ve come across them.’

Mr Du Pont continued to play the game. ‘Hm. Universal. Let me see. Why, yes, sure I’ve heard of them. Can’t say I’ve ever done business with them, but I guess it’s never too late.’ He chuckled fatly. ‘I’ve got quite a heap of interests all over the place. Only stuff I can honestly say I’m not interested in is chemicals. Maybe it’s my misfortune, Mr Bond, but I’m not one of the chemical Du Ponts.’

Bond decided that the man was quite satisfied with the particular brand of Du Pont he happened to be. He made no comment. He glanced at his watch to hurry Mr Du Pont’s play of the hand. He made a note to handle his own cards carefully. Mr Du Pont had a nice pink kindly baby-face with a puckered, rather feminine turndown mouth. He looked as harmless as any of the middle-aged Americans with cameras who stand outside Buckingham Palace. But Bond sensed many tough, sharp qualities behind the fuddyduddy façade.

Mr Du Pont’s sensitive eye caught Bond’s glance at his watch. He consulted his own. ‘My, oh my! Seven o’clock and here I’ve been talking away without coming to the point. Now, see here, Mr Bond. I’ve got me a problem on which I’d greatly appreciate your guidance. If you can spare me the time and if you were counting on stopping over in Miami tonight I’d reckon it a real favour if you’d allow me to be your host.’ Mr Du Pont held up his hand. ‘Now, I think I can promise to make you comfortable. So happens I own a piece of the Floridiana. Maybe you heard we opened around Christmas time? Doing a great business I’m happy to say. Really pushing that little old Fountain Blue,’ Mr Du Pont laughed indulgently. ‘That’s what we call the Fontainebleau down here. Now, what do you say, Mr Bond? You shall have the best suite – even if it means putting some good paying customers out on the sidewalk. And you’d be doing me a real favour.’ Mr Du Pont looked imploring.

Bond had already decided to accept – blind. Whatever Mr Du Pont’s problem – blackmail, gangsters, women – it would be some typical form of rich man’s worry. Here was a slice of the easy life he had been asking for. Take it. Bond started to say something politely deprecating. Mr Du Pont interrupted. ‘Please, please, Mr Bond. And believe me, I’m grateful, very grateful indeed.’ He snapped his fingers for the waitress. When she came, he turned away from Bond and settled the bill out of Bond’s sight. Like many very rich men he considered that showing his money, letting someone see how much he tipped, amounted to indecent exposure. He thrust his roll back into his trouser pocket (the hip pocket is not the place among the rich) and took Bond by the arm. He sensed Bond’s resistance to the contact and removed his hand. They went down the stairs to the main hall.

‘Now, let’s just straighten out your reservation.’ Mr Du Pont headed for the Transamerica ticket counter. In a few curt phrases Mr Du Pont showed his power and efficiency in his own, his American, realm.

‘Yes, Mr Du Pont. Surely, Mr Du Pont. I’ll take care of that, Mr Du Pont.’

Outside, a gleaming Chrysler Imperial sighed up to the kerb. A tough-looking chauffeur in a biscuit-coloured uniform hurried to open the door. Bond stepped in and settled down in the soft upholstery. The interior of the car was deliciously cool, almost cold. The Transamerican representative bustled out with Bond’s suitcase, handed it to the chauffeur and, with a half-bow, went back into the terminal. ‘Bill’s on the Beach,’ said Mr Du Pont to the chauffeur and the big car slid away through the crowded parking lots and out on to the parkway.

Mr Du Pont settled back. ‘Hope you like stone crabs, Mr Bond. Ever tried them?’

Bond said he had, that he liked them very much.

Mr Du Pont talked about Bill’s on the Beach and about the relative merits of stone and Alaska crabmeat while the Chrysler Imperial sped through downtown Miami, along Biscayne Boulevard and across Biscayne Bay by the Douglas MacArthur Causeway. Bond made appropriate comments, letting himself be carried along on the gracious stream of speed and comfort and rich small-talk.

They drew up at a white-painted, mock-Regency frontage in clapboard and stucco. A scrawl of pink neon said: BILL’S ON THE BEACH. While Bond got out, Mr Du Pont gave his instructions to the chauffeur. Bond heard the words: ‘The Aloha Suite,’ and ‘If there’s any trouble, tell Mr Fairlie to call me here. Right?’

They went up the steps. Inside, the big room was decorated in white with pink muslin swags over the windows. There were pink lights on the tables. The restaurant was crowded with sunburnt people in expensive tropical get-ups – brilliant garish shirts, jangling gold bangles, dark glasses with jewelled rims, cute native straw hats. There was a confusion of scents. The wry smell of bodies that had been all day in the sun came through.

Bill, a pansified Italian, hurried towards them. ‘Why, Mr Du Pont. Is a pleasure, sir. Little crowded tonight. Soon fix you up. Please this way please.’ Holding a large leather-bound menu above his head the man weaved his way between the diners to the best table in the room, a corner table for six. He pulled out two chairs, snapped his fingers for the maître d’hôtel and the wine waiter, spread two menus in front of them, exchanged compliments with Mr Du Pont and left them.

Mr Du Pont slapped his menu shut. He said to Bond, ‘Now, why don’t you just leave this to me? If there’s anything you don’t like, send it back.’ And to the head waiter, ‘Stone crabs. Not frozen. Fresh. Melted butter. Thick toast. Right?’

‘Very good, Mr Du Pont.’ The wine-waiter, washing his hands, took the waiter’s place.

‘Two pints of pink champagne. The Pommery ’50. Silver tankards. Right?’

‘Vairry good, Mr Du Pont. A cocktail to start?’

Mr Du Pont turned to Bond. He smiled and raised his eyebrows.

Bond said, ‘Vodka martini, please. With a slice of lemon peel.’

‘Make it two,’ said Mr Du Pont. ‘Doubles.’ The wine-waiter hurried off. Mr Du Pont sat back and produced his cigarettes and lighter. He looked round the room, answered one or two waves with a smile and a lift of the hand and glanced at the neighbouring tables. He edged his chair nearer to Bond’s. ‘Can’t help the noise, I’m afraid,’ he said apologetically. ‘Only come here for the crabs. They’re out of this world. Hope you’re not allergic to them. Once brought a girl here and fed her crabs and her lips swelled up like cycle tyres.’

Bond was amused at the change in Mr Du Pont – this racy talk, the authority of manner once Mr Du Pont thought he had got Bond on the hook, on his payroll. He was a different man from the shy embarrassed suitor who had solicited Bond at the airport. What did Mr Du Pont want from Bond? It would be coming any minute now, the proposition. Bond said, ‘I haven’t got any allergies.’

‘Good, good.’

There was a pause. Mr Du Pont snapped the lid of his lighter up and down several times. He realised he was making an irritating noise and pushed it away from him. He

Reviews for Goldfinger

[leslie398 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

Fleming partially spoiled this book for me with the views on women he gives Bond near the end regarding Tilly Masterton & Pussy Galore -- too misogynist for me! {In case you were wondering, I am referring to the fact that he blames Tilly's lesbianism to giving women the vote!! Plus then Pussy, who is also a lesbian, succumbs to Bond because he is a "real man" }The plot about Goldfinger himself though was quite enjoyable. Not as good as "From Russia With Love" in my opinion, but still worth reading.

[ghost_boy-691444 · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

I liked this book a lot. It has an interesting plot and it has interesting characters too. This on is my favorite movie too, so I was excited to read the book finally. Also, the theme so to this is stuck in my head.

The first few chapters ere kind of boring to be honest, but as soon as Goldfinger appeared this book got a lot more entertaining. I still like Bond as a character, but I really liked Goldfinger in this too. He makes a great villain. He's not fully bad either. He's super rich, but he also has manors in some weird way. I mean he invites Bond to a game of golf and dinner too.

It was interesting to see more then one Bond Girl in this book too. Although one we don't see as much, but she is turned into that iconic golden girl. The Tilly is kind of plain in my opinion, but I still liked her. I liked Pussy Galore a lot though. Found it kind of funny she is part of a lesbian gang, but then sleeps with Bond at the end (oh the 1950s).

Out of any of the characters in the book though, I liked Oddjob the most. He's basically the same as he is in the movie. For a henchmen I like his because he's got a neat weapon and fighting style and he is silent. Plus he has a cool name too.

Out of the first 7 books I've read of Bond, From Russia With Love and Goldfinger are my favorites. Sill find it cool that Fleming doesn't really write all these book the same. He has motifs, but he doesn't make the books longer and longer as they progress, nor do the books have the same writing style. It makes reading the series fun because you get curious how he will write the next book, and the next one is a lot shorter then the three I just read.

[tomdonaghey · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

Goldfinger (1959) (Bond #7) by Ian Fleming. Here we meet another red-headed German (actually he is a Baltic native) as Bond’s foe, although he doesn’t know the true nationality of the man. And again this enemy is brought to Bond’s attention because he cheats at cards. The first was Hugo Drax, evil mastermind behind the Moonraker threat to England. Now it is Auric Goldfinger, ready to steal America’s gold supply stashed at Fort Knox. And the book is different than the movie in some ways, although if you only know this title from the excellent movie version, you are not far from what had been written.Bond, on his way back from a mission in Mexico, is waylaid by a fellow who saw him play cards against Le Chiffre from the Casino Royale novel. This Mr. Du Pont feels he is being cheated at cards and induces Bond to be his guest at his fabulous Miami Beach hotel, all expenses paid, in order to size up the opposition player and, if he is cheating, put a stop to it.The cheater is Goldfinger and you probably know the rest of the story.What you don’t know is just how inept Bond is in this book. Several times he should be on his guard, or trust another, or just open his eyes and use his well tuned “spy” intuition to guide him, but he stumbles through blindly. He rescues a girl from Goldfinger’s clutches, then brazenly sends her back to him. He stops another from shooting Goldfinger outright which precipitates all types of trouble for the both of them unnecessarily.The novel doesn’t have a laser to be found, but there is something just as terrifying on hand for Bond. There is no horse farm in Kentucky, but there is Pussy Galore, only she doesn’t fly. Instead she is the crime boss of a New York lesbian gang, invited to participate in the assault on fort Knox.Several of the set pieces found in the movie are here, and the cast of characters is very similar. Odd Job is even more daunting in the novel, and his demise is far different than the movie version.One of the most fascinating hallmarks of all the Bond books is the grand methods Mr. Fleming used to make the games played by Bond and his adversaries as intriguing as any other part of the novel. If broadcasters could make golf as interesting as depicted herein, I might watch it. It seems the favorite motto for Goldfinger is “If you’re not cheating, you’re not really putting your all into it.” Unfortunately there is a lot of discrimination on view throughout the novel. You name the group and there is probably a disparaging remark or ten tossed at them. Reading this book today you might be offended, but recall that this writing reflects, positively and negatively, the time it was written, namely the early 1950’s. WWII was lest than a decade past and a lot of hatred towards the Oriental was common among those who had been in the British military during the fight. Not that that excuses the written words. Anger is hard to disperse with in our little lives.And the views of what makes a man a “Man” and a woman a “Woman” are so antiquated as to be almost, but not quite, laughable.Despite all the negatives to the tale, this is a fast paced and exciting read, and you can understand why the movie version of this story is one of, if not the top Bond film of all time. Higher recommended, despite all it’s faults.

[aadyer · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

One of the great James Bond classics, which is sadly aged to the modern audience. Some of the attitudes in particular towards sexuality were extremely dated, and would be offensive to the modern reader.The plot was taught and very exciting, with a lot of fast paced action and a feeling that you didn’t know where the plot was going next.With the exception of the antiquated episodes there didn’t seem to be a slight rush on the last third.Hugh Bonnaville‘s voices were excellent.The climatic scene was also very rewarding.

[ekerstein-986148 · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

The plot of Goldfinger is excellent and has many challenges that Bond must puzzle his way out of. Goldfinger himself is one of the most interesting Bond villains so far.

Having said that, I also think that the movie version is the only one so far that improves on the book. The ending is much cleaner in the movie and improves on some minor plot details.

Like all Bond books, this one contains sexism and, in this book, some racism against Asians. This is also the first book with gay characters and there are some passages that haven't aged well with regard to that.

Overall, the Bond of Goldfinger is a harder, less vulnerable, and more stereotypically masculine secret agent than that of Dr. No, which happens to be my favorite book so far.

I also want to touch on the female characters of Bond. As I've commented in previous reviews, I find it interesting that yet another female character has a history of sexual assault or rape. That's at least 3 out of 7 books so far that use this as a way of characterizing women and explaining their reluctance around men.

I've come to think that Fleming uses that as a way to "prove" Bond's virility. To Bond, women are a conquest and if he can convert a lesbian or convince a woman who has been assaulted to let down her guard, then he has accomplished quite a feat. As Ms. Galore said, "I'd never met a man before", until Bond, that is.

[mikepen-881889 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

4.5 stars perhaps. One of the best in the series, so far.

[johnfishlock · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

This is my favorite Bond book so far out of the 7 I have read. Goldfinger is an amazing villain with a very unique personality. I enjoyed the travels through France and Switzerland. 4.6

[bcrowl399 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

This isn't my favorite Bond story. I think the movie was much better, but I appreciate the differences due to the time period.

[booksfordinner · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

Read one of these every year on vacation. No idea why, really. Have to say, he's one of the all time greats in the genre of course, the godfather I suppose, but wow, some of the writing really doesn't hold up. Not all writers have this much backwards thinking about social subjects just cause it was of 'the time'. Flemings thoughts in this one on women, Koreans, and homosexuality aren't just offensive, they are hysterical. Some seriously idiotic stuff.

[birdo82 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

Fleming's formula for the British, Bond spy adventure has never worked better.

[lydia1879 · Rating: 1 out of 5 stars]

... so I read this book last year, and I was so hoping I would love it as I did the previous James Bond collection I read, and I just didn't.

I know the sexism is just a part of the books and that's fine, I can accept that - as long as it remains part of the character's flaws, and not the author's prejudices.

Auric Goldfinger's workmen or thugs are Korean, but Fleming refers to them as gorillas, beasts or animals. He describes their physical features in a way that objectifies them, makes them ugly and makes me so uncomfortable.

Fleming also implies through his writing that Pussy Galore is a woman, (or, lesbian) who merely needs a proper man to show her what he wants.

~~ Spoilers! ~~

Bond does, of course, in the end. Which is fine, I guess, but it still really affected me so if you're going to read this book I would be prepared for that. It's such a shame because I read another collection of short stories and absolutely loved it!

But this time around, I just couldn't get past Fleming as an author because I realised he and I would not have much to talk about, and I wouldn't like him as a person.

... other than all of that? The book had a solid plot, except for The World's Longest Game of Golf (TM), and some really nice quotations. I just didn't find it worth the effort.

[stahl2ricco · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

Fun to be reading this on the Opening Day of baseball 2016, as I just got to the part about "Operation Grand Slam"! I hadn't read it since my early teens, and I was glad to pick it up again. My favorite part of this book is Oddjob - the toughest damn bad guy ever! My disappointment in this book was it's negative portrayal of Koreans and lesbians. Fleming seems to believe that gay women really just need a strong male to straighten them out. I know it's a reflection of the times it was written in, but it's still hard to read. But the "Bond" action is pretty dang good, especially the last handful of chapters! It'll be interesting to read "Trigger Mortis" next!

[benuathanasia · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

The movie bored me, so I wasn't looking too forward to this particular installment of Bond, however I was very pleasantly surprised! World-building was phenomenal. I particularly liked the character development of Goldfinger himself. He started off as something of a sympathetic character - it was hard for me to see him as being a "bad" guy simply because he wishes to reap the full benefits of his own endeavors. As a huge endorser of First-Sale Doctrine, I felt it was his right to what he chose with his own gold that he had lawfully purchased. To me, his morals became exceptionally questionable when the incident with the cat occurred (I won't spoil it, but...poor kitty...). He then became thoroughly reprehensible once we find out what happened to his assistant Jill. Finally, he become irrevocably hell-bound once his ultimate plans are revealed. It was a gradual, brilliant unfolding. I was very pleased. My favorite part of the novel was when James believed he was dying/dead and starts pondering what heaven would be like - how would the various dead Bond girls feel about each other once they had James with them in heaven? It was rather amusing.And finally - Yay! Felix to the rescue!!!

[bishopjoey · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

Amusing stuff - read it primarily because the new Bond novel takes place right after it and also has Pussy Galore.

[antiquary_1 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

Bond is dealing with an attempt to steal the gold from Fort Knox.

[polaris4_1 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

Auric Goldfinger is perhaps the quintessential Bond villain: Wealthy beyond compare; menacing calmness personified and patient to the extreme (unnecessarily so in the case of the most lethal of his enemies: "Perhaps I should have killed you Mr Bond when I had the chance..."); a cheat at Canasta and golf; evidently asexual - unless his conquest is first painted head-to-toe in liquid gold. He drives (or rather is driven in) an almost anachronistic and armour-plated yellow Rolls Royce Silver Ghost; is a chauvinistic xenophobe who likes to employ foreign servants and bodyguards by the dozen. His evil plans know no bounds. Even all the bullion in Fort Knox isn't safe.Bond on the other hand is made of sterner British stuff. At least that's what Fleming will have you believe. Despite the corny characterisation I was mildly shocked at the steady stream of questionable and racially charged quippery that emanates from 007. His homophobic rant towards the story's end - directed in his own mind at the charming 'Lesbian' crime boss named Ms Pussy Galore, and his dismissive judgement that an Italian mafia boss' swarthiness meant that he would "...probably HAVE to shave every three or four hours..." {my capitals} made me arch an eyebrow in true Roger-Moore-as-Bond fashion. The traps that Bond falls into would surely have him failing the modern-day MI6's entry requirement at an early opportunity (I hope!), but he is devilishly dashing and so somehow gets away with it. Nice to see one or two scattered references by Fleming to Bond's earlier escapades - a table partner at the Baccarat table in Casino Royale, and his former love Vesper Lynd from that same mission - illustrating a depth of character that is usually absent from the film adaptations. The usual glamourous locations are to be found of course: Miami {this is 1959 don't forget!), the French countryside, Geneva, Kent's finest stately homes and golf clubs, and, er, an East River warehouse in New York... I wanted a change of pace and flavour - and that's what I got. Fleming's books are a lot of fun and really quite silly, but he does manage to instill a sense of urgency and excitement through his thrillers. Recommended for those seeking a page-turner that'll make you laugh at all the bits you're not supposed to.

[guymondo-1 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

I came to this book without having seen the Sean Connery film except as short excerpts in documentaries on film, photos in books, and such. The upside of this is that I had some clear visual references for the characters in my head which made reading more enjoyable. The most interesting thing about the book is that it is very different from what I knew of the film. There are no fantastic gadgets, no trick cars. Bond's one "secret agent"-styled piece of equipment turns out to be fairly mundane: a knife in the heel of his shoe. There are, also, the very non-PC cultural references concerning Koreans, Cold War-era Russia, Americans, Italians and the changing gender roles that were a major part of the sixties that would, surely have the younger generation crying "foul". This was nothing unfamiliar to me having grown up in the 1960s. I enjoyed the broadly drawn, stereotypical characters and was surprised at how late in the book one of the more famous characters, Pussy Galore, doesn't show up until three-quarters of the way through the book. Another thing I found interesting that Bond gets his butt kicked more than I expected compared to the judo-chopping martial artist in the films. I also learned more about golf than I would have expected in spy novel. Now I really want to go out and get the movie version.

[richardderus · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

Rating: 4.8* of fiveThe 1964 film gets almost five stars. I doubt very seriously the book would get more than one.So, first let's talk about the song. *swoon* If you don't like the song, don't ever tell me. I will unfriend you and make a voodoo dolly to do awful, awful things to you. Ever read The Wasp Factory? Yeah, that'll sound like Sunday school. K? Clear enough? Good.Then there's Connery beefcakin' around in a skimpy swimsuit. There's a passel of cool cars, including the iconic Aston Martin DB5 *swoon* and a 1964 Thunderbird and a 1964-1/2 Mustang convertible *gasp* and...I'd better stop, things could get messy.The real over-the-top-putter moment is the fight sequence in Fort Knox, with all that lovely (fake) gold. Odd Job, the villain with the lethal hat, comes to a shocking (heh) end, after a balletic slugfest. And of course the nuclear bomb inside the truckbed tool case is disarmed at...007 seconds to go!I feel sure there was a plot in there somewhere, but frankly if you're watching Bond films for plot you're a sad creature. It's got verve and gusto and style. Watch it to bathe in the unrepentant sexism and piggery and racism of a bygone day, served up without malice. It's all there, it's all appalling by today's lights, but it wasn't put there to shock or edify as it would be today. That's just how it was, so that's what they show.If they remake this one in the Craig reboot, I will be on tenterhooks waiting to see what they come up with to call Pussy Galore the pilot.I loved every ridiculous frame of it.

[ptdilloway-1 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

I got a good chuckle at some of the old-fashionedness of the story. Like when Bond gets shot down by Tilly Masterton, who opts to hang out with Pussy Galore. Bond rants to himself about women with their hormones reversed and what sissies so many people are today. But later he gets Pussy to switch teams pretty easily, so I guess the joke is on Tilly. Anyway, sometimes it seems the Bond in the books is closer to Austin Powers than the James Bond we think of in the movies. He walks into one trap after another, some of which were pretty obvious.

[bridgey_1 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

Goldfinger - Ian Fleming ****Bond's seventh outing under the pen of Ian Fleming. I have been reading the Bond books in order and have to say that with each novel they just keep getting better. As with the film Bond is pitted against Auric Goldfinger and his personal assistant Oddjob. So many reviewers here seem to give away the plot twists that make the book different from the film, so I won't go into any plot detail. Suffice to say that there is enough of a difference to allow the reader a few oohs and aahs as they follow Bond on his journey.Fleming (in more than any of the previous novels) allows us into the thoughts and feelings of Bond on various subjects - or are they Flemings?....Views on Koreans, Homosexuals and short men are expressed. But any reader should place the book in the context of the time that it was written. Too many people seem to give a book a negative review because it fails to meet todays PC attitudes.As usual with Fleming excellent descriptions of people and places are included that allows the reader to really get involved. The only reason that I have given the book 4 stars instead of 5 is the whole chapter dedicated to an almost shot by shot narrative of the golf game got a little weary.As any fans of the film will tell you the most iconic shot is Bond spread-eagled under the laser beam. And the immortal 'Do you expect me to talk Goldfinger....' replied with 'No Mr Bond, I expect you to die!' The book in my opinion far exceeds this dialogue, and is replaced by these words:Bond:"Then you can go and f**k yourself" Goldfinger: "Even I am not capable of that, Mr Bond") Pure brilliance.Edit | More

[tanya8dogearedcopy · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

James Bond, agent with Britain's Secret Service and with a license to kill (as denoted by the double-ought digits in his agent number, 007) meets up with Auric Goldfinger, a card cheat and greedy-for-gold businessman who is also suspected of gold smuggling and subsequently undermining world markets. Bond is given the assignment to figure out how Goldfinger is doing it. In the process, Bond discovers that Goldfinger has an even more ambitious scheme of robbing Fort Knox of $15 million in gold bullion!

One of the great things about the Bond novels is that, unlike the films, Bond is not the hero who emerges from his escapades unscathed and looking pretty. In past novels, the vicissitudes of the trade are visited upon Bond and others in rather shocking and graphic detail. As any given scene is introduced and unfolds, you really aren't sure how it's going to end and hence, Fleming brings true suspense to his spy thrillers:
"He let his head fall back with sigh. There was a narrow slit down the centre of the polished steel table. At the far end of the slit, like a foresight framed in the vee of his parted feet, were the glinting teeth of a circular saw."
Scenes don't end the way you think they will and, it's in the how far they go that leaves readers a bit shocked or even gasping aloud.

Goldfinger was written in 1959, and what might give today's readers/listeners pause in regards to the Bond novels is the political incorrectness in the stories. The sentiments that are expressed can be jarring and it is somewhat bizarre that in every novel so far there has been at least one passage or idea expressed that compels a knee-jerk reaction to the 21st century reader. In Goldfinger, there is this:
"Bond came to the conclusion that Tilly Masterson was one of those girls whose hormones had got mixed up. He knew the type well and thought they and their male counterparts were a direct consequence of giving votes to women and 'sex equality'. As a result of fifty years of emancipation, feminine qualities were dying out or being transferred to the males. Pansies of both sexes were everywhere, not yet completely homosexual, but confused, not knowing what they were. The result was a herd of unhappy sexual misfits - barren and full of frustrations, the women wanting to dominate and the men to be nannied. He was sorry for them, but he had no time for them."
Cringe-worthy indeed. Wait until you see how Fleming draws Pussy Galore :-/

Simon Vance narrated Goldfinger ably and well: His characters are well delineated, though if one were to quibble, it would be that his American accents are not quite what they could be. Vance's later works (e.g. Paul is Undead by Alan Goldsher wherein he narrates the part of a native Chicagoan) show how far he has come in ten years :-)

Redacted from the original blog review at dog eared copy, Goldfinger; 01/19/2012.

[denverbook · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

I ordered four of the original James Bond thrillers to have a matched set replacing old worn out paperbacks. The books are much more exciting and believable than the gadget filled overglossy charactered movies. The story lines are more subtle. Those that prefer the movies cannot be true readers.

[comfypants · Rating: 1 out of 5 stars]

Absurd, nonsensical, hateful and dull.

[mahallett · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

ok but too many unbelievable parts. why doesn't goldfinger just kill bond ? how did bond survive the plane crash? how is bond able to change pussy's sexual orientation?i remembered thecard cheating part of the movie pretty well.

[bnielsen_30 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

England, ca 1960James Bond løber i en Junius Du Pont, der er blevet snydt i Canasta af en Mr. Auric Goldfinger. Begge er hovedrige, så egentlig er det ligemeget med nogle tusinde dollars, men Du Pont kan ikke lide at blive snydt, navnlig når han ikke kan finde ud af hvordan det sker, så han hyrer Bond til at finde ud af det. Bond finder en sød pige Jill, en teleskopkikkert og en radiosender på et hotelværelse med udsigt til det udendørs Canasta-bord og forbindelse til Goldfingers høreapparat.Bond indkasserer en belønning og vender hjem til M, som fluks sætter ham til at kigge på noget guldsvindel, muligvis med en hr Goldfinger bag. Faktisk mistænker efterretningstjenesten Goldfinger for at financiere SMERSH.Bond lokker Goldfinger til at lokke ham med til en omgang golf. Goldfinger snyder, så Bond snyder endnu mere, men på en måde så Goldfinger ikke er helt sikker på at det var snyd.Goldfingers håndgangne mand Altmulig er karateekspert og går med en bowlerhat med savklinge. Det praler han lidt med overfor Bond, inden han flyver sin tonstunge Rolls Royce til Frankrig. Bond følger diskret efter og ser Goldfinger skjule en guldbarre. Bond fisker guldbarren op og fisker også Tilly Masterton op. Hun vil slå Goldfinger ihjel for at hævne søsteren Jill, som blev dræbt fordi hun havde været sammen med Bond et par dage.Både Tilly og James Bond bliver fanget af Goldfinger og torteret, men dog ikke dræbt. De bliver i stedet sat til at hjælpe med en plan om at plyndre Fort Knox vha en atombombe. I planen indgår også Pussy Galore og hendes pigebande, og Jack Strap fra Spangbanden foruden nogle andre gangsterbander.Bond får sendt besked til Felix Leiter - som har fået en stålkrog i stedet for den ene hånd - og i sidste øjeblik dukker kavaleriet op og redder Bond og Fort Knox. Tilly er dog død for Altmuligs hånd.Goldfinger, Altmulig og Pussy er egentlig sluppet væk, men beslutter at vente lidt og kidnappe Bond. Det lykkes, men Bond slipper fri og prikker hul i ruden på deres fly i 10 kms højde. Altmulig bliver langsomt trukket ud gennem hullet og Bond kvæler Goldfinger med de bare næver. Flyet bliver bragt til nødlanding og Bond redder Pussy på mere end en måde, mens guldet synker ned på havbunden.Underholdende action-knaldroman uden den store grad af sandsynlighed over plottet, men pyt.

[brettjames · Rating: 2 out of 5 stars]

An exciting read, if by 'exciting read' you mean a mercilessly complete, thirty-page description of a golf game.

[polarbear123_1 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

One of the better bond books indeed. Takes the form of three parts - Canasta cheating discoveries, golf shenannigans and megalomania Fort Knox tomfoolery. Good stuff. Oh and there is also OddJob to revel in. Auric Goldfinger makes a formidable baddy even though his demise is a little too easy. The narrative rattles on at a fair old pace and as with all the best Fleming books, the other characters are more interesting than Bond himself. Forget the sexist attitudes, I mean complaining about those is irrelevant - its Bond - what did you expect. This is a great boys own adventure and well worth a read or a revisit.

[dmatty5 · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

Yes, it's dated, and yes, it's sexist, and yes, many of the plot devices have been used by Fleming before ... but it still has good forward momentum and stylish writing. Not his best (by a long shot) but enjoyable -- and I (for one) enjoyed the golf match. May be the only Bond novel that the movie is superior to the book.

[tootstorm · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

This has been a long time coming. Doctor No, as much ass as it kicked in the Bondverse, will have to wait—I read it in November and it’s been far too long, I’m afraid, that I couldn’t give it a proper review, and now…now…—, it’s time for Goldfinger to get a comment or two! It’s time to look at Bond’s seventh adventure! an adv. trailing off of the high note double-face-punch of From Russia, w/ Love and Dr. No, an adv. that I really expected to keep up the quality of the previous bad-guy’s-name-as-story-title book (especially considering I associated good feelings with the film), but it fails to come anywhere near it, or even near the quality of Diamonds are Forever, previously imagined as the low point for the series. We’re introduced straight away to the villain, a cunning, wealthy douchebag the likes of which we’ve seen before, in a fashion the likes of which we’ve seen twice before: Villain X is cheating at a card game for an incidental figure of cash he doubtlessly doesn’t need, and it’s up to Bond to figure out how he’s cheating and put an end to his highly original trickery. This game, a repeat of scenes from Casino Royale and Moonraker, is the best part of the story. Auric Goldfinger is a terrible character, the sort of clichéd, 2-dimensional villain you find in numerous young adult thrillers these days, with piercing x-ray eyes that seem to see through Our Hero(ine) at all times (i.e., this is brought up every time Bond looks at Goldfinger). After Bond successfully helps Background Character From CR beat a cheating fat blob of shit, he travels back to England and talks with M about his next assignment no one could have foreseen: GO WATCH THIS GOLDFINGER CHAP HE’S GOT A SUSPICIOUS AIR ABOUT HIM I DARESAY. Oh, and Oddjob is here to kick ass and chew bubblegum as one of the more fascinating flat, racial stereotypes.'Have you ever heard of Karate? No? Well that man is one of the three in the world who have achieved the Black Belt in Karate.’Taking a break from the story—which at this point starts to feature a 30-page action-packed game of golf b/w Bond and Goldy—, we all know that Ian Fleming held a lot of typical beliefs of snooty upper-class white folks back in the mid-20th century, and Goldfinger actually manages to be more racist and more sexist than any previous Bond story—including the infamous Live and Let Die. This time all enmity is directed rather than at women (general), or the French, or Negroes, or Germans, or Americans, or Russians, or even the majestic Chigroe of Doctor No, but at Koreans and, you guessed it, lesbians! …Bond intended to stay alive on his own terms. Those terms included putting Oddjob and any other Korean firmly in his place, which, in Bond’s estimation, was rather lower than apes in the mammalian hierarchy.Fleming is downright vicious in creating his cast of Korean servants, and I mean vicious. He doesn’t hold anything back, doesn’t hide any of his beliefs behind “kind” patronizations like before. Yes, Mr. Fleming, we know Koreans are all heartless, stupid, disgusting people, the most ruthless people on the planet, who only communicate by raping ugly white women and making incoherent barking noises. Sure, sure…Bond said amiably, ‘I may be able to. I got us out of our graves.‘After getting us into them.’Bond looked thoughtfully at the girl. He decided it would be ungallant to spank her, so to speak, on an empty stomach.The (apparent) Bond girl this time around is one Miss Tilly Masterton (and until the end of the book, I mistakenly read that as Masterson; it seems the scriptwriters did as well), but she sadly turns out to be a lesbian, and because of this, she’s killed for being wrong and stupid. Her actions that lead to her death make absolutely no logical sense, and only serve to push Ian’s belief that lesbians are…well…I’ll let Ian speak for himself:Bond came to the conclusion that Tilly Masterton was one of those girls whose hormones had got mixed up. He knew the type well and thought they and their male counterparts were a direct consequence of giving votes to women and ‘sex equality’. As a result of fifty years of emancipation, feminine qualities were dying out or being transferred to the males. Pansies of both sexes were everywhere, not yet completely homosexual, but confused, not knowing what they were. The result was a herd of unhappy sexual misfits—barren and full of frustrations, the women wanting to dominate and the men to be nannied. He was sorry for them, but he had no time for them.Thankfully, Bond’s manliness is enough to magically turn the leader of the lesbian outcasts, Pussy Galore (as sexist and cheesy as it is, that name is awesome), straight with absolutely no character development involved. A couple glances is enough to correct her “mixed up hormones,” or whatever the fuck sex equality and voting rights did to the poor girl.Around page 140 of 191, after a long game of golf, and an even longer “chase” scene, Bond and Tilly are captured by Goldfinger and co., and for some reason, I guess for the sake of the plot, Goldfinger has the brilliant idea to keep Bond around and in fact hire him to help his men break into Fort fucking Knox. Things go awry and Bond bangs Pussy. The end.‘There is no harm he can do at the rear of the plane but he is not to approach the cockpit door. If need be, kill him at once, but I prefer to get him to our destination alive. Understood?’‘Arrgh.’F.V.: 60%[988]

[jbreedlove_6 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

The most cartoonish and movie like of the James Bond novels that I've read so far. But none the less a good read. I am always impressed how Fleming condenses so much plot in 250 pages or less.