From Russia, with Love by Ian Fleming

Politically incorrect doesn't even begin to cover it. This novel is so problematic, I don't even know where to begin, so I just won't. For some reason, I perversely enjoy James Bond novels. They're so uncompromisingly stark and unembellished and pig-headed. They're very cinematic in their plots and action, but also give an insight into the characters that films can't, while keeping a carefully guarded distance. Like other Bond novels, this one is pretty formulaic, and has this tang of excitement that I really like. Probably what I like is the opportunity to identify (however briefly) with Bond, who is basically a condensation of everything exciting, daring and fascinating into a very small space. But this doesn't at all mean that I like him as a character, and when he was stabbed at the end (obviously he doesn't die) I felt that he rather got what was coming to him and felt I could relish a description of him writhing in pain for a while. I'm very interested in the kitsch factor, which is a big part of James Bond films until the 90s, but is entirely absent from the book, but Fleming is constantly aware that he's hovering just on the brink of self-parody and works hard to pull back from it. Really entertaining and interesting as a cultural artifact. Also, completely and inadvertently hilarious if you happen to be Russian, since Fleming makes a huge number of mistakes in describing Russian language, customs and way of life.