Casino Royale (1953) by Ian Fleming
“The scent and smoke and sweat of a casino are nauseating at three in the morning. 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 first two words of the second paragraph transform the name of an American ornithologist into a literary and cinematic trademark worth more money than I can possibly imagine.
Favorite #360 is not 007—and all that goes along with his licence to kill—but rather that first spin of the roulette wheel, the initial roll of the dice, the hole card you haven’t yet seen. Casino Royale (1953) by Ian Fleming could have been just another book. Even the best-written book with the excellent reviews and the full backing of an enthusiastic publisher can vanish without a trace in a decade. That James Bond lives on gives me hope, as does the fact that Fleming wrote Casino Royale when he was 44. No pressure, Jason.
