![]() When it showed up in a second-hand bookshop as a recently published Vintage paperback (unblemished matt minimalist white cover and all) I bought it. Given that Casino Royale is also the very first Bond novel, it seemed to make sense to choose it as the first one I’d read. Casino Royale is my current favourite: the first Daniel Craig movie, and full of all the greatest Bond-isms (high-stakes gambling, beautiful heroes and heroines, deformed villains, violence and guns, international intrigue, fast cars, exotic locations, stunning title sequence) without any of the fluff (Moneypenny, silly gadgets, cheesy one-liners, overt misogyny). I’ve loved the series of films since I was a kid, and I’ve been lucky that as my critical awareness has developed, so has the franchise. When it comes to Bond, I’m a long-time watcher, first-time reader. Then the soul-erosion produced by high gambling – a compost of greed and fear and nervous tension – becomes unbearable and the senses awake and revolt from it. The scent and smoke and sweat of a casino are nauseating at three in the morning.
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