Skip to main content

Goldfinger by Ian Fleming

Cover image © Penguin Viking
With the occasional shadows of the clouds moving up the hillside from the Atlantic Ocean, my James Bond summer holiday reading continued this year in Blanchard, Saint Lucia. Sheltering from the occasional downpour, I settled down on the loggia to read Goldfinger (1959) by Ian Fleming – the seventh novel in the Bond series.

The novel opens with James Bond in the departure lounge at Miami Airport having just successfully dispatched with a Mexican heroine smuggling operation. Whilst musing on the dirty nature of his job, as Bond does so with increasing frequency through the first six books, he is approached by Junius Du Pont, a fellow gambler he’d met briefly in Casino Royale, to look into the Canasta playing of his playing partner. 

Auric Goldfinger seems to be on an inconceivably long winning streak and Bond, taking on this bit of private non-Secret Service work, soon discovers that, along with his assistant, Goldfinger is cheating Du Pont during each of their card games. It also doesn’t take long for Bond to have his first interaction with a member of the opposite sex – Goldfinger's assistant.

This chance meeting between Bond and Goldfinger sets the tone for the novel, sensibly divided into three sections: Happenstance, Coincidence and Enemy Action.

Upon his return to the UK, Bond is on night duty and decides to do a little digging into the Secret Service’s archives to see what can be found on Goldfinger. The files are empty, but, by coincidence, the following morning M calls Bond for a meeting. The Bank of England are concerned about the amount of gold being smuggled out of the country and there are no prizes for guessing who the prime suspect is.

The action moves forward to the fairways of a Kent golf course, continental Europe and eventually America, the location of Goldfinger’s exceptionally audacious planned gold heist.

The action in Goldfinger is, in many ways, a lot slower and more drawn-out compared to other more action-packed novels in the series such as Moonraker and From Russia With Love, but the character of James Bond is definitely explored in a greater level of detail. The time waiting at Miami Airport and on night duty does give the reader a greater insight into his thought process compared to other novels.

In the words of novelist Kate Mosse, “There is more doubt and something of Rider Haggard’s unglamorous Allan Quartermain than in the slap-bang-wallop superhero of some of the other Bond novels.”

Goldfinger is also the novel in which we meet the amusingly named Pussy Galore, leader of band of lesbian gangsters in America. There is something quite awkward about elements of Miss Galore’s inclusion in the story, not least the fact that Bond ends up ‘turning her’ in a very dated and misogynist perspective on sexuality, but, perhaps within late 50s British society this was the prevailing view.

All in all, I like the pensive, thoughtful 007, but I did miss the sweeping action set pieces and opulence of the earlier novels in the series.

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

From a Crooked Rib by Nuruddin Farah

Cover image. © Penguin Books. I stumbled across Nuruddin Farah’s novels when searching for something written by a Somali author. Perhaps due to the conflict that has raged for years in Somalia, it is very difficult to find much from Somali writers published in English. From a Crooked Rib was published in 1970 and tells the story of Ebla, a young, orphaned, illiterate nomadic girl, who runs away from her encampment. She takes the decision to leave upon learning of her Grandfather’s intention to marry her off to an older man within their Jes (a group of families living in an encampment together). She firstly escapes to a town, Belet Amin, where she finds her cousin and his pregnant wife. She also finds a guide and confidante in a character known only as the widow. Things seem settled until, yet again, Ebla finds her freedom compromised by a male character – this time her cousin, whose wife and child Ebla has been nursing. In her haste she leaves Belet Amin with the w

The Bakiga Window: Taufiq Islamic Primary School: Part II

In a manner so typically Ugandan, Yasim approaches silently and politely asks whether he can have a word with me – it is one of those ironies that a word has to be had in order to have a word with someone. Irony aside, he has heard back from the Sheikh and arranged an appointment for me. It is Wednesday 20 th April and once more I find myself en route to Taufiq Islamic Primary School. The morning started in the usual way: waking up sleepy students, ensuring that everyone had 'taken' breakfast and had a supply of bottled water, and then walking with the group down the hill, into the town. At the foot of the hill, the group scattered into many fragments, with everyone off in search of their own adventures. I head straight on, past the noise of the metal workers, over to Taufiq. After having had to beat a hasty retreat last week , I was unsure of who would be in my reception committee. Teacher Bright was the first to greet me, before taking me inside to m

Beach Huts, Southwold, Suffolk

Sleeping beach huts on Southwold Beach, Suffolk. Safely back from my annual visit to Rotterdam, my parents invited me to spend a few days with them in a small holiday cottage in Southwold, Suffolk. Give or take driving through Newmarket a few years back when studying at Anglia Ruskin University, I'd never really seen much of the county. Southwold itself is a beautiful seaside resort which happens to be the home of Adnams , a well known brewery, which means that for a small place there are a healthy number of pubs - suddenly Dad's choice of location made sense . On the early afternoon of Wednesday 20th February  I took a walk to the Harbour Inn to meet my parents for lunch. The pub was just under two miles away from Grace Cottage , where we were staying. This gave me the opportunity to take some pictures of the sea. On our way towards the see we also spotted  Georgie Glen  from Waterloo Road humming happily to herself on the High Street. Southwold is lovely,