WILLIAM Boyd’s latest book Solo whose French translation appeared last week in Paris has been the cause of much stir in the popular media, resulting in a number of exclusive interviews of the author.

Sixth in the line of writers who have assured the continued adventures of secret agent James Bond since after the death of his creator Ian Fleming, Boyd says as he began the book the uppermost thing on his mind was not to follow the example of his immediate predecessors by giving 007 the modern techniques of smartphones, internet and computers.

“I stayed in the Cold War era. The action of Solo takes place in 1969 in the imaginary African country Zanzarim in complete conformity with Fleming’s original line of thinking; secret agent 007 in my book retains a very clear vision —and reactions— of a World War II veteran.”

It takes little effort to envision, William Boyd’s admirable idealism apart, movie-makers jumping in following the ineluctable commercial success of the book. Then a James Bond, be it Daniel Craig or someone else but certainly more of an electronic Tarzan than Ian Fleming’s idea of 007, will hop, skip and machine-gun his way to the end of the film through computerised imagery.

Though the original hero has miraculously survived the ravages of time in Fleming’s 12 novels and two collections of short stories, as far as movies are concerned, Dr No (1962), From Russia with Love (1963) and Goldfinger (1964) are the only ones that have preserved the spirit in which Bond was described by the author — an elegant and blunt weapon in Cold War strategy.

Following the end of World War II, bored with the idea of assuming responsibility in the family’s banking business, Ian Fleming sat down to write his first book Casino Royale based on souvenirs as a secret agent in Britain’s Naval Intelligence Division. It was an immediate success when it came out in 1952.

Literary critics accorded their blessings to Casino Royale and the four other works that followed: Live & Let Die, Moonraker, Diamonds are Forever and From Russia with Love.

Then, in 1958 things changed with the publication of Dr No when a magazine accused Fleming of evidencing “a strongly marked streak of voyeurism and sado-masochism with total lack of any ethical frame of reference”.

Another critic wrote: “Nothing but sex, snobbery and sadism! I have just finished what is, without doubt, the nastiest book I have ever read. Mr Fleming has no literary skill and the construction of his work is chaotic. Entire incidents and situations are inserted, and then forgotten, in a haphazard manner.”

Despite this harsh and by now negative reaction from the literary elite, 007 adventures sold reasonably well. Then something happened resulting in a tsunami in the publication world. James Bond sales quadrupled following an article in Life magazine of March 17, 1961 that described Fleming’s latest novel From Russia with Love as one of President Kennedy’s 10 favourite books.

A month later Ian Fleming suffered a heart attack and was ordered by his doctor to take a rest in bed. The six-week forced repose resulted in a children’s novel, the only one Fleming ever wrote: Chitty-Chitty, Bang-Bang.

The same year he signed a contract with film producers Harry Saltzman and Albert Broccoli to turn the James Bond plots into movies. From Dr No onwards, 007 has so far appeared 25 times on the screen, portrayed by seven actors. Each film was a box office success bringing hundreds of millions of dollars to the producers.

Like Bond, his creator himself was a dapper English gentleman who loved chain-smoking, double vodka-martinis and haute cuisine, though he did not have a very positive opinion of the first sin on this list.

“Smoking I find the most ridiculous of all the varieties of human behaviour and practically the only one that is entirely against nature. Can you imagine a cow or any animal taking a mouthful of smoldering straw then breathing in the smoke and blowing it out through its nostrils?”

But drinking he considered less ridiculous: “I’d rather die of a drink too many than of thirst.”

This year happens to be the 50th anniversary of Ian Fleming’s death on August 12, 1964 at the relatively early age of 56 following his second and fatal heart attack.

In his own words: “I am greedy for life. I do too much of everything all the time. Suddenly one day my heart will fail and the Iron Crab will get me, but I am not afraid. Perhaps they will put on my tombstone the following line: Here lies the man who died of living too much.”

—The writer is a journalist based in Paris.

(ZafMasud@gmail.com)