Ian Fleming might not have been the greatest writer of the 20th century but he is unquestionably one of the most famous. His invention of James Bond sealed his fortune. The tragedy was that Fleming, having turned out the Bond novels with tremendous self-discipline between 1952 and 1964, did not live to enjoy his great celebrity or witness the massive industry that his creation inspired. A heavy drinker and smoker, he died of heart failure aged fifty-six.

This book is a collection of Fleming’s other writings – mostly journalism, but also a couple of short stories, some letters and even a memorandum drawn up when he was managing editor of the Kemsley group of newspapers and overseeing the foreign correspondents of the Sunday Times. The quality is varied, to say the least, even though Fleming writes as any well-bred and well-educated man of his generation would have done, and with the concision and clarity of a serious journalist. The fact is that books of old journalism are seldom successful. It is not just that the quality of the writing is usually unremarkable, but also that subjects gripping or fascinating at the time when the pieces were written are seldom of interest years later.

Another problem is that Fleming wrote about only a limited number of subjects, so there is therefore an element of repetition. He appears to have had a rather magnificent deal with Lord Kemsley that allowed him to spend the period from 15 January to 15 March each year in the