Octopussy & The Living Daylights – A Summary
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It had been nearly two years since the death of Ian Fleming and Glidrose, Fleming’s publishing company, faced the possibility of not releasing a James Bond bookthat year for the first time since the series began, and it was during the height of Bond-Mania. Luckily, Glidrose had a couple of cards up their sleeves in the form of two wonderful Fleming James Bond short stories; ‘Octopussy’, a morality tale of a retired British major who is faced with his own daemons curtiousy of James Bond, and ‘The Living Daylights’, perhaps the grittiest tale of in the life of the SIS’s top ‘troubleshooter’. The two stories were releases as a pair in a book simply titled Octopussy And The Living Daylights. A third story, ‘The Property Of A Lady’, was added to the collection in later editions and in 2003 the Penguin editions added the short story ‘007 In New York’, a short story that had previously been published in the U.S. version of Fleming’s non-Bond book Thrilling Cities.
The Origin Of Solange In ‘007 In New York’? Saying It All: Octopussy & The Living Daylights ‘007 in New York’ To Whom It May Concern: Octopussy Octopussy And The Living Daylights
-Back of Pan paperback edition
Now there was extra traffic in the street below. The women’s orchestra came trooping down the pavement towards the entrance—twenty laughing, talking girals carrying their instruments—violin and wind instrument cases, satchels with their scores, and four of them with drums—a gay, happy little crocodile. Bond was reflecting that some people still seemed to find life fun in the Soviet Sector, when his glasses picked up out and stayed on the girl carrying the ‘cello. Bond’s masticating jaws stopped still and then reflectively went on with their chewing as he twisted the screw to depress the Sniper-scope and keep her in its centre. The girl was taller than the others and her long, straight, fair hair, falling to her shoulders, shone like molten gold under the arcs at the intersection. She was hurrying along in a charming, excited way, carrying the cello case as if it were no heavier than a violin. Everything was flying—the skirt of her coat, her feet, her hair. She was vivid with movement and life and, it seemed, with gaiety and happiness as she chattered to the two girls who flanked her and laughed back at what she was saying. As she turned in at what she was saying. As she turned in at the enterance admist her troupe, the arcs momentarily caught a beautiful, pale profile. And then she was gone and, it seemed to Bond, with her disappearance a stab of grief lanced into his heart. How odd! How very odd! This had not happened to him since he was young. And now this single girl, seen only indistinctly and far away, had caused him to suffer this sharp pang of longing, this thrill of animal magnetism! Morosely, Bond glanced down at the luminous dial of his watch. Five fifty. Only ten minutes to go. No transport arriving at the enterance. None of those anonymous black Zik saloons he had half expected. He closed as much of his mind as he could to the girl and sharpened his wits. Get on, damn you! Get back to your job! –The Living Daylights |
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