Literary License to Kill: James Bond and the Rise of Bookish RebootsBy
It’s 1969, and James Bond has a hangover. He’s squeezed into a seat on a dimly lit passenger jet bound for war-torn West Africa. In his mid-40s, with flecks of graying hair and a smoker’s cough, the secret agent described by author William Boyd in his new book, Solo, feels a lot more like Don Draper than Daniel Craig, whose muscular onscreen 007 raked in more than $2 billion at the box office in recent years.
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