Transcript
Narrator (0:00)
Rest of the story. It was the usual Tuesday morning conference in the boardroom of the London Sunday Times, and as usual, there sat Ion. On this particular Tuesday morning, however, something was wrong. Ian, ordinarily animated and involved, stared blankly down at the chairman's desk. The topics which had always most interested him now apparently did not interest him at all. The discussion among the newspaper men turned to color printing. Roy Thompson asked Ian to comment. The latter did so, and yet with uncharacteristic reticence and detachment, once again he stared vacantly. Dennis Hamilton leaned over, whispered gently in Ian's ear, are you all right? Nobody else heard Ian's answer, but Dennis, now apparently more concerned than ever, took his friend by the arm and quickly ushered him from the room. And the on thereafter was admitted to the London clinic. And there was no question about it, the doctor said Dennis Hamilton's prompt intervention had saved his friend's life. For all the while Ian was sitting at that meeting, seemingly dazed, he was having a major heart attack. This is the rest of the story. Recuperation was slow and tedious for Ian. He felt unfortunate for the many restrictions now placed on his heretofore cavalier lifestyle. But he was lucky to be alive at all. So he did not complain about having to quit smoking, although considering his excess in that habit, it must have been an arduous process. Then one day, while Ian was still recovering in the clinic, he received a parcel from a friend. It was a copy of Beatrix Potter's Squirrel Nutkin, the children's book. With nothing to do that afternoon, Ian read it, and except for the illustrations, he did not like it. He disliked it so much, in fact, that he took it as a personal challenge. He decided to write a children's book of his own. He decided to put it together the right way. Nobody knows whether the friend who had inspired all this had done so intentionally, but the effect was therapeutic nonetheless. For as Ian proceeded with his gentle invention, a marvelous calm came over him, a peace which no other literary exercise had ever brought. Day after day, Ian poured happily over his children's tale, and when completed, it was published. And when published, it stole its way into the hearts of youngsters all over the world for inadvertently emulating the Teflon coated character he had once created for adults, complete with intemperate drinking and smoking and risk taking. Author Eon had pushed himself ever closer to the edge of the abyss until he almost fell in. Remember then what helped pull him back? A delightful little book, later translated to the big screen by Walt Disney, the children's classic, Chitty Chitty Bang Bang, which incredibly flowed from the same pen that wrought the most daring, the most death defying, the most dangerous hero in the history of fictional espionage. For Ian was Ian Fleming, and it was he who wrote the fairy tales for grown ups. Chitty Chitty Bang Bang. Those came from the same pen of the same author who created James Bond. And now you know the rest of the story.