Once again he has faced danger, overcome it, and is left stewing over events alone, awaiting a flight home from Miami, with only an alcoholic beverage for company. Goldfinger begins with Bond reminiscing about the mission he has just completed. James Bond is a man who derives pleasure from the food he eats, the women he beds, and the cars he drives he basks in the finer things in life because his existence beyond those things is perpetually bleak. Not only is Goldfinger a brilliant, enthralling spy novel – capped with thrills, dastardly villains, and audacious action – but here, more than ever before, 007 is presented as a complex individual not just the callous, sardonic killer for Queen and Country, but a man, who, like the rest of us, suffers from an inner turmoil whose propensity for death has darkened his psyche.
With his seventh James Bond novel, Ian Fleming took his craft to another level.
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