The Shameful Dream is a fiendish story whose elements put us in mind of certain breeds of English writer: the hapless hero redolent of a Kingsley Amis protagonist, the darkly comic treatment of dog-eat-dog journalism akin to an Evelyn Waugh satire. Remarkably, it was written by James Bond’s creator, Ian Fleming. It couldn’t be any further from the world of 007. But what it lacks in thrills, intrigue, and glamor, it ably makes up for with its sinister and farcical premise and razor-sharp lines. “The whole operation,” one casualty tells Bone, before leaving to take up a position on the Nigerian Echo, “had been as clean as a whistle and as just as the execution of a murderer.”

Never before published, this story from 1951 features in a collection of rarely seen or newly unearthed writing by Fleming. All the other pieces are nonfiction. It is refreshing to read them, for Fleming’s only non-Bond offerings in print are his true-crime chronicle The Diamond Smugglers (1957) and his compendium of travel articles Thrilling Cities (1963). Talk of the Devil brings together a range of miscellaneous prose that will delight Fleming aficionados and show everyone else that there was a lot more to his writing than the series of books he called “straight pillow fantasies of the bang-bang, kiss-kiss variety.”

That eclectic mix is on display in the first section, dealing with World War II. In a letter to the Times in 1938, Fleming evaluates Adolf Hitler’s recent demands before going on to contemplate both the “bemused vapourings” of those advocating British neutrality and the “dangerous counsels of the slaughterhouse brigade.” In a memorandum written prior to the attack on Pearl Harbor, he imparts advice to William J. Donovan on how to set up the Office of Strategic Services, the precursor of the CIA. The Dieppe Raid is an exhilarating account of “a bloody gallant affair,” namely the 1942 Allied assault by air, land, and sea on the German-occupied port. And Intrepid is a portrait of the daredevil Canadian secret agent William Stephenson, whose wartime exploits and character facets — he made “the most powerful Martinis in America” — suggest he may have been the inspiration for Bond.

In the section on crime and espionage, we start to see more of Fleming’s journalism. In a Sunday Times piece from 1955, he expounds on the remits of Interpol, “the longest arm of the law,” and then goes on to show his excellent eye for detail in his observations of violent riots in Istanbul. In an Esquire article written two years later, Fleming shares his expertise on the sticky web of Soviet intelligence. After providing case studies involving the defection of key Russian Embassy officials in Ottawa and Canberra, he argues that the West still has to up its game significantly to win the Cold War and a battle “we are almost certainly losing,” the espionage war.

Fleming’s travel writing in this anthology takes various forms. There are his accounts of activities — exploring caves in France, hunting for treasure in England, deep-sea diving in the Mediterranean — and his scattered reflections of New York, including his take on “two lethal American inventions, canasta and cocktails.”

But the most absorbing pieces in this section are those that center on exotic islands, in particular Fleming’s beloved Jamaica, where he spent two months of the year away from the “cold and grime of winters in England” and wrote his Bond books. British readers in the monochrome 1950s would have relished these vivid articles about this far-flung, sun-soaked idyll. Today, Fleming’s writings on Jamaica have lost none of their color. As he takes us on a tour, regaling us with sights and sounds and superlatives — Blue Mountain produces “the finest coffee in the world” — his affection for the place becomes infectious.

The book’s last section is made up of an assortment of odds and ends. Some of Fleming’s topics happen to be his famous creation’s pursuits: fine dining, fast cars, golf, and poker — “a cold-hearted, deadly game that breaks and bankrupts men.”

However, those looking for more insight into Bond in general and the art of writing in particular will derive considerable satisfaction from the collection’s most compelling section on Fleming’s literary craftsmanship. One highlight of this chapter is an exchange of letters between Fleming and his friend, Raymond Chandler. The pair met in 1955 and developed what was, according to Fleming, “the half-amused, ragging relationship of two writers working the same thin, almost-extinct literary seam.” Chandler rates Fleming “the most forceful and driving writer, of what I suppose still must be called ‘thrillers’ in England.” But over time, he seems to have a change of heart. “I have just re-read Casino Royale,” Chandler later writes, “and it seems to me that you have disimproved with each book.” In another letter, he deals Fleming a barbed compliment: “Of course I liked Diamonds are Forever,” he tells him, “but I simply don’t think it is worthy of your talents.”

The two men agree that pace is the most important quality in their chosen genre. This component and others are scrutinized in the book’s other standpoint piece, the transcript of a talk Fleming gave to Oxford students in 1962 on the nuts and bolts of thriller-writing. After divulging tips on how to make the reader turn the page, right down to tantalizing his taste buds, Fleming reveals that what he aims at in his novels is “a certain disciplined exoticism.” Above all, though, he subscribes to the old adage of write what you know. Imagination isn’t enough, he warns: “You must know thrilling things before you can write about them.”

WG SEBALD’S ESSAYS FROM BEYOND

Not all the writing here is as rewarding. There are a few insubstantial squibs. A lengthier piece on Bond’s armory will appeal only to the most trigger-happy 007 enthusiast. The other short story, written when Fleming was 19, is juvenilia and shows a young writer suffering missteps while trying to find his feet. The sensitivity readers who have recently been at work nipping and tucking offensive lines from the Bond books may balk at the occasional turn of phrase.

But the vast majority of the collection is both captivating and illuminating. The diverse array of prose — stories, travel essays, reportage, lectures, book reviews, and prefaces — is studded with shrewd impressions, revelations, and personal anecdotes. Fleming informs us that he knows the name of the head waiter at the London luxury restaurant Scott’s: “It is Baker, and I know it because he did his best to have me arrested as a German spy at the beginning of the war.” He also tells us why he wrote his first book: “I was on the edge of marrying and the prospect was so horrifying that I was in urgent need of some activity to take my mind off it.” Readers facing a similar horrifying prospect may find delving into these pages acts as a welcome distraction.

Malcolm Forbes has written for the Economist, the Wall Street Journal, and the Washington Post. He lives in Edinburgh.