Thunderball (James Bond, #9)

by Ian Fleming

All drugs are harmful to the system. They are contrary to nature. The same applies to most of the food we eat – white bread with all the roughage removed, refined sugar with all the goodness machined out of it, pasteurized milk which has had most of the vitamins boiled away, everything overcooked and denaturized.

Is M the Food Babe

When Blofeld had all his names right, he christened his network tartar and made a discreet approach to the German Military Attaché with one or two specimens of its work. He was rapidly passed on to the representative of A.M.T. I.V. of the Abwehr, and from then on things were easy. When this pot was bubbling merrily, and the money (he refused to accept payment except in American dollars) coming in (it came in fast; he explained that he had so many agents to pay off), he proceeded to widen his market.

Not a fan of Garbo, Ian?

Ears that, from dead in front, looked almost pointed, added to an animalness that would devastate women.

He went into the stateroom and carefully made himself a tall glass of his favourite drink – crème de menthe frappé with a maraschino cherry on top.

He always runs while others walk because he is sugared the fuck up.

I’m the world’s authority on giving up smoking. I do it constantly.

OK that is solid.

Women are often meticulous and safe drivers, but they are very seldom first-class. In general Bond regarded them as a mild hazard and he always gave them plenty of road and was ready for the unpredictable.

Says the guy who has wrecked at least two cars in this series plus a boat and nearly an airplane.

If that little heap of ironmongery isn’t worth a quarter of a billion dollars my name’s P. Rick.