Found 317 results for "Fleming, ian, 1908-1964"
Casino Royale
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...
Live and let die
by Ian Fleming
There are moments of great luxury in the life of a secret agent. There are assignments on which he is required to act th...
From Russia, with love
by Ian Fleming
Der nackte Mann, der ausgestreckt neben dem Swimmingpool auf dem Bauch lag, hätte ebenso gut tot sein können.
Goldfinger
by Ian Fleming
James Bond, with two double bourbons inside him, sat in the final departure lounge of Miami Airport and thought about li...
Doctor No
by Ian Fleming
Punctually at six o'clock the sun set with a last yellow flash behind the Blue Mountains, a wave of violet shadow poured...
Diamonds are Forever
by Ian Fleming
With its two fighting claws held forward like a wrestler's arms the big pandinus scorpion emerged with a dry rustle from...
Moonraker
by Ian Fleming
The two thirty-eights roared simultaneously. The walls of the underground room took the crash of sound and batted it ...
The spy who loved me
by Ian Fleming
I was running away. I was running away from England, from my childhood, from the winter, from a sequence of untidy, unat...
You Only Live Twice
by Ian Fleming
The geisha called "Trembling Leaf," on her knees beside James Bond, leant forward from the waist and kissed him chastely...
For Your Eyes Only
by Ian Fleming
The eyes behind the wide black rubber goggles were cold as flint. In the howling speed-turmoil of a B.S.A. M.20 doing se...
Chitty-Chitty-Bang-Bang, the magical car
by Ian Fleming
Most motorcars are conglomerations (this is a long word for bundles) of steel and wire and rubber and plastic, and elect...
The Man with the Golden Gun
by Ian Fleming
The Secret Service holds much that is kept secret even from very senior officers in the organization. Only M. and his Ch...
Thunderball
by Ian Fleming
It was one of those days when it seemed to James Bond that all life, as someone put it, was nothing but a heap of six to...
On Her Majesty's Secret Service
by Ian Fleming
It was one of those Septembers when it seemed that the summer would never end.
