The Spy Who Loved Me … is the most unusual [James Bond book] of all. It marked a new departure for Ian Fleming. Hitherto, he had played the part of God, so to speak, looking down upon his remarkable creation and describing Bond's thoughts and actions in the third person. He did it well, better than any of his contemporaries, in my submission. I think there is little doubt that he could have gone on for many years doing much the same sort of thing…. (pp. 94-5)
I admire Ian Fleming for attempting what he did attempt. But when I first read the book I did not. Conditioned to expecting narratives written to something of a formula, as far as the broad plot is concerned, this book had a disturbing effect on me as well as on a great many others. For a start, James Bond does not make an appearance in it until more than halfway through it…. Then again, when Bond does show up, we get little of that engaging character-drawing we have come to expect, hokum though it may be. No cocktails, 'shaken, not stirred', no new information about Bond's fads and prejudices, and not a sign of M and the old crowd at Universal Export. This time we get a yarn purportedly written by the girl in the case, and so every observation, every description of her adventures is set down as it is seen by her. (p. 95)
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