El dandy Flemming
Cuando uno piensa en un escritor dandy, no piensa necesariamente en Tom Wolfe, que con su trajecito blanco parece más una versión caricaturesca de un amo sureño a destiempo, ni tampoco en Oscar Wilde, cuya imagen refinada está unida para siempre con la de su dolor y el de profundis, sino en Ian Flemming. El autor policial, piensa uno, ha hecho de su personaje James Bond una réplica de sí mismo. Y no puede evitar pensar en un terno y un martini para acompañar la foto de solapa. Pero Charles Cumming, en un blog de The Guardian, ha decidido en medio del centenario del autor poner en duda esa imagen.
On the face of it, 007's creator was an impossibly glamorous figure, a womaniser and bon viveur, cigarette holder in one hand, Ursula Andress´s telephone number in the other. His books sold by the million. John F Kennedy revealed From Russia With Love to have been one of his favourite books. No novelist ever had it so easy, or so good. The reality, of course, was somewhat different. Fleming was insecure about his reputation; in common with most commercially-successful novelists, he wanted to be taken seriously by the literati. At times, he found the demands of writing the Bond novels overwhelming. In 1964, for example, as he was about to embark on The Man with the Golden Gun, Fleming wrote a letter to Sir John Betjeman. "I must warn you that I am seriously running out of puff," he complained. "My inventive streak is very nearly worked out." Later that year, at the tender age of 56, Fleming died. He lived to see just two of the Bond films, Dr No and From Russia with Love, and never fully enjoyed the fruits of his success.
Además, advierte contra la imposibilidad de ser actuamente un escritor de espionaje glamouroso como pretendemos que sea Flemming:
The market is now saturated in Fleming wannabes churning out thrillers at the rate of one a year. You can see them at book conventions, bestselling men in late middle-age with exhausted eyes and skin that would shame a snooker player. Who cares that their last book sold 250,000 copies in hardback? They've got to be getting on with the next one. The modern-day Fleming doesn't have time for cocktails and snorkelling: when he's not hammering out 2000 words a day in pursuit of a killer deadline, he's chasing readers on MySpace and Facebook, or picking a fight with his agent, demanding to know why he hasn't made enough money to buy his own little Goldeneye on Corsica or Ibiza.