They stand together in a dusty corner of my father’s old bookcase, scratched and battered but still serviceable, as much a part of a boy’s coming of age in the 1960s as Beatle records and old copies of Playboy in which many of the Bond novels first made their way to junior-high-school-aged males. The Signet paperbacks—I don’t think I’ve ever seen a hardcover of one of Ian Fleming’s James Bond books—still conjure up images of adventures in exotic locales, Istanbul and the French Riviera, Japan and Jamaica.
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