On first read, I wasn't quite sure what to make of these. They're not the action-filled spy thrillers I've come to expect from the cultural idea of James Bond - whether that's more specific to the movies I don't know, but I was definitely surprised by these melancholy stories, more about daily aspects of Bond's job and about the man himself. Frankly, I was expecting Octopussy to be a woman sexualised to the point of camp. Her being a literal octopus caught me off guard.

When rereading, though, I was struck by what a tragicly honest picture they paint of Bond. Here's a man who hates his job, drinks to force himself through his duties, hopes with every mistake that this will be the one they fire him for... and the narrative knows this. In these stories -especially The Living Daylights - Bond's license to kill is not glamourised. If anything, it seems to be killing him in turn.

The missing star is for Maria Freudenstein, who deserved better, KGB agent or not.