Hooking-Up Through the London Review of Books

by Stephen J. Gertz

Volume 33 No. 2. 20 January 2011.

It's been awhile since we last visited the London Review of Books to further our cross-cultural anthropological studies on the mating behavior of book lovers.

While the weather has been hell this month it's comforting to know that the climate for the literary love-lorn has remained comically and pleasantly tropical with delightfully bent isobars manifesting themselves on the map.

As usual, we have removed all identifying and/or contact info to protect both guilty and innocent.

From January's issue:

Not an esoteric advert, just a sincere request. New York Jewish writer/lecturer (61) living in NW London, with beauty, style, wit and wisdom, a great smile, an exuberant spirit and an understanding heart – plus lots of faults too numerous to mention – seeks an honest kind London-based man for laughter, intimacy, adventure and mutual shelter from the storm. Enjoying the storm also works. The package you come in is less important than the soul shining through and the laughter in your eyes. Whaddya say?

[We like the smooth, clichéd personal-ad prose followed by the throw-away vernacular New Yorkism at its close. It's as if Eliza Doolittle tossed-off an 'Ow's that, G'vnr! after demonstrating perfect locution in the Queen's English to Professor Higgins].

My therapist has given me such a good rate I can afford to indulge my bouts of infidelity and still deal elegantly with my guilt. Attached but unfaithful London male 60 seeks female counterpart. I promise an intensity of sexual joy unexpected in the LRB.

Female, 34. All own limbs. Seeks man with low priorities.


So ouroboros has finally caught up with these ads. Not so me, M, 37, whom you’ll still find chewing through vegetarian nacho combos and nothing else at retail park restaurants across the North West long after this column has devoured its own head. I’ll be the one beneath the ‘Le Chat Noir’ poster refusing to pronounce ‘sangiovese’ correctly and challenging the waiter to fisticuffs.


Sexually I’m not like Switzerland at all, even although I live there. Monolingual M (53), Lausanne based, seeks F for the usual shenanigans.


Alas, my “Why Mahler?” advert lacked clarity: responses from women, lovely women, but women nevertheless. And I am a woman seeking a 60ish man, as described in the advert. Male responses welcomed.


American, M, early 70s though most don't believe it. Credit goes to the Canadian Air Force drills that have started my days for 35 years. A creature of habit, and so hope to continue to take my women in olive tones.


Fantasy made real? Strictly sexual woman will push your boundaries.
 

[Considering the publication it's not clear whether she means evolving the reading habits of a date from the Bible to the works of the Marquis de Sade, or same sans the reading].

And so ends another episode of Love is a Many-Splendored Thing. Roll theme music:

__________

We've mined this mother lode before. Why? Because the vein of gold in them thar hills runs deep:

"Have Books Destroyed Your Life, Too?"
London Review Of Books Personal Ads, Redux.
Miss Lonelybooks, Revisited.
Love In Bloomsbury.
Bibliophiliac Bleeds Books, Seeks Same For Mutual Bloodletting.
Are Americans Ruining the London Review of Books Personal Ads?
__________
__________

Are Americans Ruining The London Review Of Books Personal Ads?

Followers of this reporter know that he has a fondness for the London Review of Books' personal ads. Piquant. imaginative, savory, impudent, uninhibited, and delightfully insouciant, they have consistently demonstrated a wit and flair generally absent from Americans trolling for love (or a reasonable facsimile, or temporary illusion) who nail notes to the classifieds' wall in the U.S. The Brits practically dare you to answer their ads.

How can you not appreciate the nobility of spirit that animates this example from September 2009:

Without my grandfather’s contribution to agricultural reforms in 1912, this nation would currently have to import its turnips. While you think about that I shall remove my clothes. Man. 55.

Or this one:

Inelegant. Seeks same. Be my soul/slob-mate. F (42) seeks M (35-55) or best excuse for one.

And again:

Let's put our dentures in the same glass. I'm alive. You be too. Pacemaker a plus. Opioids even better. M, 74.

Each issue's personals section was a parfait of defiant yearning, every ad a middle finger to self-marketing conventions. But things seem to have changed.

Perhaps it's a reflection of the recent political cowpie in Great Britain where two parties with nothing in common entered into a marriage of convenience to avoid isolation in the wilderness, but many of the ads in this month's issue - nearly 40% - have lost that wacko lovin' feelin' we've come to depend upon from the LRB. It's almost as if the global economic downturn has hit Britain hard in the heart and the wind has thrown caution back to whence it came. Earnestness and sincerity have infected bookworms on the prowl for passion. It's enough to make a grown man cry.

Have they become as bland as the typical American personal ad? You be the judge. As always, we've removed contact info to protect privacy. .

Optimistic Woman 40s, London. Seeks a kind and funny man for true love. 


Let me change the ribbon in your typewriter. American man 45, seeks letters from abroad: correspondence for an affair of the mind. Generalist musings encouraged. Fictionists, political pundits, American expatriates, and email aficionados discouraged. Reply with patience: All respondents answered. J.BS., Chicago, IL UNITED STATES.

Attractive, polyglot M, 49 would like to meet female in London for conversation in a language of their choice.

M Seeks F sole lover for the long-term. No marrieds; no mind games. Keyword: ‘Elemental’. Wants to have children.

Attractive, interesting American f, 64, seeking well educated friend, companion and more to explore countryside, attend theatre and concerts.

Of interest to an attractive, discerning, unattached man in search of a beautiful intelligent woman for conversation and the possibility of sharing life. F, 41. London.

Note that we Americans,  weary, apparently, from posting obits passing as personals in the New York Review of Books, appear to have crossed the Atlantic to morbidly infect the LRB with same.

Things, fortunately, begin to loosen up a bit:

I was recently victorious in a small claims court and with my compensation cheque I’d like to take you (F to 48) on a weekend bicycling trip to the Lake District Centre Parc. This offer doesn’t include meals or alcoholic beverages. M, 53.

F 33, Looking for debonair beau seeking accompaniment to London's swank parties. Think slimmer Kim Novak: vintage glamour, without the vertigo.

Then, a blessed return to the deliriously bent. The tears of sorrow run back up my cheeks, into my eyes, and run back down again, with laughter.

The size of one of my hands alarms me. If you are a hand doctor, female, under 35 and sexually adventurous, please write.

You’re not just any woman, you’re my reincarnated dead wife. Sylvia (or equally voluptuous Fs to 55), please write, I miss you, honey (or whoever you are).

(Suggest this person meet "slimmer Kim Novak...without the vertigo." Who says matches aren't made in heaven - or by Hitchcock? I smell kismet).

Replying to these ads may seem difficult. So I’m making it easier by sporting very casual clothing – denims, a jersey, no tie – while writing this. I also plan on revealing my first name so that you don’t necessarily have to call me Dr Clowder. Dr Clowder, 58, Louth.

I tested well with the 38-50 demographic. The same demographic also enjoys healthy cereal breakfasts and is open to product offers from financial institutes. If you’re 38-50, like museli, and would consider a savings account that gives you a 6.1% return on balances over £5000, write now to Eddy ‘Babycanon’ Mulligan.

I’m going to get this ad down quickly because I have two hours of cardio to do this afternoon. Publicity Exec (F, 28).

I’m at least 90% certain that we’re going to hook up. Under-grad statistician, 62.

I make love using sonar pings. It’s flank speed ahead with HMS Impregnator.

My lovemaking technique combines my two favourite passions – macramé knots and dentistry. F, 47.

Love with sonar pings, meta-metacarpals, necrophilia, museli, endurance freaks, over-aged under-grad statisticians, seminal ships at sea, dental procedures, yarn and knots. The lovelorn British bookworm really knows how to make a lasting first impression.
 Who knows where Cupid will lead Dr. Clowder, Eddy "Babycanon" Mulligan, and company?

As for the uncharacteristically unimaginative personals in this month's issue it's time for the editors to perform a little triage on the lame and catatonic supplicants currently posting to the LRB's ad space. A person could get the wrong idea and think they're reading Ennui!, the glossy magazine of matte boredom.

__________

Of related interest:

"Have Books Destroyed Your Life, Too?"
London Review Of Books Personal Ads, Redux.
Miss Lonelybooks, Revisited.
Love In Bloomsbury.
Bibliophiliac Bleeds Books, Seeks Same For Mutual Bloodletting.
__________

Bibiophiliac Bleeds Books, Seeks Same For Mutual Blood Letting

Spring is in the air - or maybe it's just in my step - with the scent of love wafting back from this coming fertility season all the way from Great Britain and the latest personal ads in the London Review of Books.

We provide these as a public service to warm and gladden hearts during this bitter cold snap in the U.S.

As always, response box numbers have been deleted to protect the innocently guilty or guiltily innocent.

As for you, you're an adult and don't need your hand held - unless for long, slow, candle-lit walks backward on the beach at sunset after driving up the coast in my Miata with the top down, a roaring inferno in its built-in fireplace, and vast library of rare volumes on lycanthropy and 320-bottle wine cellar in the back seat. We're talkin' 'bout a serious set o' wheels, baby. Speed off with me; let's burn rubbers.

•••

Summarily ejected from the NLP course entitled ‘How to Build a Better Girlfriend’, thanks to turning up with the Ikea catalogue, allen keys, amyl nitrate, a blowtorch, a blow-up doll, a picture of the Queen Mummy and a gallon of vodka, I find myself standing here with singed eyebrows and my face covered with bits of latex, the fact I am unable to sit perhaps connected with the disappearance of those damn allen keys. Or maybe the blowtorch. Will you be my girlfriend? Drunk, drugged and deluded M, 38, covered in fragments of burnt latex with allen keys stuck up his arse. Or perhaps it's a blowtorch.

I like to push artistic boundaries with all of my work. Except this. With this, I just want to get laid. Artistic man, 39. Would like to get laid.

In my version of The Matrix, love and respect fly around in slow motion detail in lieu of spent bullets and shrapnel. And, instead of sentient machines draining our energy, our body heat powers a system of levers and pulleys I’ve rigged up to gadgets in my kitchen. Every time I experience arousal you’ll automatically be rewarded with a Pop Tart: my way of thanking you for a job well done. M, 46. Both rewarding and ingenious and much friendlier than that Agent Smith character.

There’s not a reader amongst you can resist the uplifting message contained in this advert. Pam, 53. Enjoys scrapbooking. Worship Satan! Satan is your lord! Shropshire.

Write to me and if you don't find me to be a suitable mate I will send you free traffic updates on the hour, every hour for exactly one calendar year (for the Humberside region only). Traffic-broadcasting M, 34 (Humberside).

Suffering from a rare condition known as ‘Cow Legs’, I’m unable to do anything other than meander gently across pastures. Can you find a way to love me still? M, 53. Likes grass and gets all his news feeds from birds and squirrels.

I’m on level two of Maslow’s Hierarchy of Needs. I expect you’re at one. By joining forces, I’ll scale three in no time. You, however, will remain at one. I appreciate your sacrifice. Doughnut?

Writing this ad practically guarantees I’ll lose my membership to the Magic Circle, which didn’t even happen when I conjured a handkerchief from that deaf kid’s ear. Ex-communicated magician, bon-viveur, and – it’s true – soon-to-be your full-time lover, 48.

I enjoy art fashioned from driftwood and burlap, homemade pickle and apple butter. But if you think that makes me a closet sub-dom role play enthusiast, you’re very much mistaken. F, 54. Strictly all about the burlap and the apple butter. Cornwall.

Perchance you’ll read this advert. Perchance you’ll fall in love with me. Man, fifties. Perchance you’ll be a doctor and willing to confront the harrowing spectre of my mother’s extended coccyx.

Your parents probably once told that you would know the day when you found your perfect match and would experience true love for the first time. That day is now, with this ad. Did they mention anything about my court case or my lawyer’s advice to admit liability early on in the proceedings? Ex-yoga instructor (M, 41), taking whatever sign he can get at box no: xx

Looking for a partner, I’m placing an ad in this column. Things are significantly worse than I originally thought. Though clearly not as bad as they are for you, F to 40, who is reading this and thinking of replying. M, 34.

I don’t know about you, but 2009 was a very quiet year in terms of monumental bedroom events. Although it was a great year for both my medical team and my thyroid. Join me, F, 57, and celebrate a 2010 of regular, goiter-free sex.

In the days of the Inquisition, this ad would have been considered blasphemous and its author a dangerous heretic. Today it’s considered inoffensively charming, penned by a scampish wit. I leave you (F to 35) to decide which of these versions paints a cannier truth.

Fourteen years ago I was the bassist for metal-churning granny-frighteners, Deicide. Not really. M, 42: never once a member of Deicide.

I bet my friend £18 I could find a woman here and have sex with her. If you reply and have sex with me, I’ll cut you in at 37%. English Professor, 6

A single word to describe my sexual attributes? Compostable. Man, 46. 

In North Korea, this ad wouldn’t be banned, it would be revered and taught in schools as a palatable and preferable version of Western history. And in many ways, that’s all the truth the children of North Korea need. M, 38.

________

Love in Bloomsbury. Our Monthy Look at the London Review of Books Personal Ads

Though another page has torn off the calendar and the autumn leaves are falling, love is still in bloom, and, as usual, the personal ads at the London Review of Books are fecund with possibilities for casual or meaningful fecunding and the pursuit of happiness or a reasonable facsimile thereof. Contact info has been deleted to protect the delightfully guilty:

My attempts to find a suitable lover in this column would have been far more successful but for the bureaucratic pettifoggery of the LRB advertising department, the dilatory shenanigans of the British postal service, and the rambunctiousness of my gall bladder. Foppish dandy and laparoscopy enthusiast (M, 56) WLTM matronly fems to 60 with own stamps and collection of surgical dressings. Leighton Buzzard.

If you can, and do, talk for hours and hours about your love of elderflower kombucha, refuse to eat anything containing wheat, endlessly refer to your travels to India at dinner parties, correct other people’s pronunciation at every opportunity and insist on naming your children (all four of them, born in rapid succession) after members of the Bloomsbury Set, are 46, cold and sexually hostile, you’re either my PhD supervisor or my ex-wife. Good day to you both. The rest of you can try saying something nice to: [info deleted].

M, 36, would like to see more reviews in this magazine centered around the ‘gay cowboy’ genre.

Compliant and trusting man, 43, WLTM F to 45 who doesn’t insist on using the chemical names for obscure proteins as the safety word. Stoke-on-Trent.

A graveyard in the dead of night. A spade. A curse. Then we turn the sods. Just a sneak peak into some of my dating habits, but we could start with dinner and a movie (something from the Dario Argento canon perhaps?) Ghoulish M, 57.

As a frequent attendee at LRB Bookshop events, I spend most of my time wrestling with my own internal monologue jokes and summoning up the courage to articulate these before an audience. Naturally, by the time my anxieties have subsided, the shop has emptied and I’m once again alone. My sexual experiences mirror this. Let’s hang out! M, 43.

Sulky M, 68, seeks acquiescent wife or punctual urologist. Preferably one in the same. No perverts/slackers.

Literary lads of the LRB! Know a girl who keeps in touch with all of her ex’s? Says she gets along with men better than women? Laughs about keeping up with their drinking? Recommends white beer with salmon rather than pinot noir? Well forget about her, she’s a manipulative, cackling lush who’s hated by female colleagues and the morose clutch of resigned eunuchs orbiting her Hoegaarden. Instead, date me. Post ironic, post feminist who enjoys informed conversation, gender theory and ranking the ladette phenomenon alongside the Britisches Freikorps in retrospectives of the 20th century.

Ever been the only person in the room to take a fancy dress invite seriously? Answer me this: was it worse than attending the IAEA Christmas Party as Dr Manhattan? Failed Dr Manhattan impresario. M. 64.

This zombie-in-contrary-context, trend will halt. After which my Cavaliers-in-Space vehicle will literally, literally take off.

Like every pícaro, I’ve suffered the degradations of an apparently infinite exile with resilience, but sometimes I wonder if this bathroom will ever be fully tiled. Rugged bachelor with roughish charm (think Rico Dredd on a penal colony made from grout) seeks literary fangirl to 34.

In 2004 I was a love machine…now I’m just an affectionate blender. Whirrr.

LRB geeks! Stop attempting the reappraisal of your literary hero’s sporting achievement. They were all shit at sport, just like you were. You might as well speculate on the blank verse of Chung Li or the prolific correspondence of Goru, four armed demi-God of the Netherrealm. Reconciled reader of Hemingway raised on the New Journalism and Megadrive, seeks brainy but useless former Goal Attack gal who wanted to be Cammy (I’m more of a Blanka myself though).

In the dive bar of the forsaken, I am a workhorse whiskey and every woman I’ve ever fallen in love with has been a surprise Britvic mini. After 8 years of being downed with cheap lager we were briefly united, but alas, you’d settled. It brings tear to my eye and puts a lump in my throat. Also 3 shots of tequila, a slice of lemon, half a cruet set and a long bitter tirade involving endless misquoting of the Whitsun Weddings addressed to a skipping juke box over which I stand sentinel. Two third empty, half cut literary barfly (M. 72) seeks a better bottling up rota from Love’s bartenders. No gingers or bitter lemons.

Possession is nine tenths of the law. Unless it’s possession of an A class drug, in which case it’s up to seven years, or an unlimited fine, or both. I’ll be out in 18 months though, probably, until then why not write to M.31 better at optimism than he is at transporting the Persians.

Dear Academic Commissioning Editor. There is no greater exposition of Guy Debord’s commodity cycle than the advertising campaign for Magner’s Irish Cider. Please publish my thesis. Or make love to me; former Whitbread employee and part time Birkbeck PhD. M. 37.

Man, anno MCMLXVI. Former Tito-jugend. Technical craftsman with short att.span. Tall, non ambitious. Affection for languages, astrology. Sátántangó, grappa. Is hunting. The one and only F 40-55. Pale, wide-eyed. Sensitive, extremely intelligent. To take her. For semi-nomadic life around EU. For intense long-term exchange of mind, heart and body fluids.

Shakespeare's sister, 36, seeks a charming man with passions just like mine for potential hand in glove relationship.

THE BEST IS YET TO BE! Delightful Devonshire Lady of substance and charm. Refreshingly curious mind, adventurous spirit, gentle outlook, with a real passion for life. Attractive, very youthful and active. Adores travel, bridge, film, music from Jazz to opera, eating out and cooking. Seeks an equally affluent, well presented, refined educated male between 75-85, fit, active,N/s, perhaps retired military officer, to join her on a journey of love and laughter. Devon/Dorset/Somerset/Wiltshire/Cornwall/Gloucester replies please. Initially, please contact: [deleted]. NO fee is required to meet this lovely lady.

Whoa! How did this last person find her way into the LRB personals carnival of yearning, carnal or otherwise? An accident? On purpose? LRB has high standards for personals; this one is so… New York Magazine!
_____

Of Related Interest:
London Review of Books Personal Ads, Redux.
Miss Lonelybooks, Revisted.
"Have Books Destroyed Your Life, Too?"

London Review of Books Personal Adds, Redux: The Hits Just Keep on Comin'!

It’s September and, apparently, the season in Great Britain for love-lorn book lovers to sharpen their pencils and post some of the wittiest, most imaginative personal ads yet seen in a single issue of the London Review of Books:

Without my grandfather’s contribution to agricultural reforms in 1912, this nation would currently have to import its turnips. While you think about that I shall remove my clothes. Man. 55.

I have a dream. And that dream is to try on every pair of shoes in the world. That’s where you come in: brusque, butch fem cobbler to 55 with expansive collection of animal skins and a strap-on. Man, 76.

I have no idea if my advert will attract a mate, but I’m very drunk and don’t especially care at this moment. Woman, 43. Aylesbury.

I cast a magic spell on you. And now you are reading this advert in a literary magazine that exists only in your mind. Soon you will fall in love with me. When we meet, the odour will not concern you. Mr Mesmer: amateur hypnotist, professional shrimp-farmer (M, 51). Also available for weddings and birthdays.

This advert is my biggest undertaking since breakfast. M, 36.

The sweet smell of apples in the orchard carried on the warm, gentle breeze. A hushed moan, the curtains swish softly. Slowly my breasts come into focus. The goat bleats. The shackles tighten. And then the chanting starts again. Scary woman, 52, looking for a very specific type of ‘perfect Sunday’.

LRB-reading women to 45! I flex my muscles and this advert results.

I rule the reader comments section on my blog with an iron fist. In the bedroom I allow my sensitive nature to come out. Between these two versions of the same reality, you will find perfection manifested in the form of a 46-year old gay male podiatrist and freelance juggler.

I dream of the day when I can make love to you all (red-haired women to 25) with reckless abandon. Man, 72.

Hit jump, punch, block, jump, forward, punch, kick to activate my flaming ninja fists of doom. Dork, 34 (M), really hoping to find a nice woman for whom ‘enjoying the latest Mark Greif piece in the LRB’ is a valid (and attractive) Street Fighter character ability. Failing that, any of you will do. Also looking for a flat to rent in Wimbledon.

According to the Myers-Briggs Type Indicator, I’m a perspective-altering sex-conundrum. Librarian (man, 48) WLTM similar.

Man, 56. Impervious to the effects of pepper spray, as discovered at a recent London Review Bookshop subscriber evening. In my own dimension, this is not unusual, but here it pretty much makes me a super hero. WLTM easily impressed, unarmed woman of any age and any camber.

I flow like a harpoon daily and nightly. What does that mean? If the readings on my ambulatory blood pressure monitor are correct – and I think they are – it means I’m currently not allowed solids but I am allowed cuddles. Tactile man and lecturer in cultural studies, 52, patiently waiting for the hearing to return in his right ear. So much love to go around.

One day I will start the first LRB-reading group on the moon. Its members will drink special coffee and listen to NPR. Until then I will continue to cover my fists with mayonnaise and lick it all off while wishing I’d been born a Reptilian Love King rather than having to take these stupid pills every damn day.

This advert is exactly what happens when you ignore the label’s warning and actually do ingest the Listerine. Idiot man, 38.

Your response to this ad should be sent in a standard envelope with first class postage. If you’re posting with my luck, imagination and via my mendacious postal wallah however, it is required that you stamp and post your response after first ensuring that it is properly wrapped in accordance with guidelines, weighs above 13oz but not more than 5lbs, gives a rendition of Pruit Igoe & Prophecies when lightly rattled but a baritone performance of Largo al factotum when vigorously shaken. The package must stem the glacial retreat in the Bhutan Himalaya, weigh 16lbs for expedited delivery but not surpass the dimensions of a book of matches. Your parcel will be filled with dark matter. It must ignite on command, fit through the eye of a needle on which no less than 14 angels dance upon the head of, kinetically agitate the other parcels, come via Basel, be stamped with the Seal of the Danish Court, generate long term growth following online initiatives in the fourth quarter, enjoy positive word-of-mouth, post updates every hour and be fully downloadable. Your parcel is a ship that will never dock and I am the lighthouse that never goes out. Slightly over wrought researcher and Alan Moore fan will buy you dinner once the check arrives in the post. Manhattan.

Slim, good looking, literary blonde, slightly higher maintenance (37) seeks affable and well educated man, 30 – 40, for irrelevant witty emails before possible meeting. Unless you miss an email that is. I like them twice daily, one at 9.30am and a second at 4pm. Both must make me laugh out loud for hours. Neither must compromise wit, depth, literary allusion or flattering remarks at any point, even if you’re involved in a complex task for a difficult job at a time of precarious employment during a terrifying recession.

This personal ad is the digitally re-mastered version of my 2001 appearance in this column. Featuring; improved soundtrack, fewer fuzzy marks round my outline, never before realised potential and the addition of a massive, ill tempered Bantha where previously my (now ex) wife starred. Marvel as our hero triumphs against the venal and ruthless imperial empire while the grumpy Bantha disparages his endearing forgiveness of Episode I’s crimes of exuberance. Gasp as the moody Bantha throws a huff and then applaud as she joins a herd of like minded Bantha’s and takes her goddamn Serenity Director’s Cut with her.

***
Note the person (they neglect to state their sex, age or anything else) from Manhattan trolling for mates in England. They recognize that sunsets on the beach, drives with the top down up the coast, fireplaces, wine & cheese, full, distinguished resume, and the desire to be politically correct may put our best foot forward for prospects but those prospects are likely to be as boring as the average writer of personal ads in the U.S.

Britannia may not rule the waves anymore but its citizens sure know how to write personal ads.
_______

Of Related Interest:

Miss Lonelybooks, Revisited
"Have Books Destroyed Your Life, Too?"

Miss Lonelybooks, Revisited

As one who has braved JDate, aka desperatehebrews.com, I know why the caged bird swings in hope. The New York Review of Books and the London Review of Books provide opportunities for the bookish and alone to meet. But Americans and British have completely different styles when it comes to personal ads.

We Americans commodify and market ourselves with can-do! go-get 'em! spirit that weighs heavily. We're singing the lyrics from Best Foot Forward to the tune of Sinatra's One For My Baby, One More For the Road, a torch song beneath the bright, snappy prose composed to wring assets out wishful-thinking during an economic downturn that appears to have placed verbiage with cash in inverse ratio. These people are just too marvelous for words but that doesn't stop them. The format appears to be designed to maximize sales.

The British? Brief, to the point, no B.S., self-deprecating and delightful.Their spirit? Bollocks and piss off if you don't like me or my ad.

And so, a recent selection of personals, Part Two of "Have Books Destroyed Your Life, Too?"

NYRB: EASYGOING ALLURE, bright smile, and dash of mischief. Slender, athletic, adventurous. Very nice-looking with passion for the outdoors and for keeping our planet healthy: hiking, skiing, snowshoeing, investigating nature, buying/eating locally, respecting the environment, working with Heifer Project International, Habitat for Humanity, Red Cross Relief. Lighthearted, curious, sensual. Widow, lives in the Rockies, ties to East Coast. Loves art, music, dogs, gardening--though welcomes help from others, does best with cacti. Gravitates to travel that involves learning--Nepal, Morocco, Turkey, language study in Paris. Would love to hike Switzerland, discover more of New Zealand, do service project, or just hang out together at home with bright, active, fit man with residence west of Mississippi River, 56-74.

LRB: Cantab pair (M 22, F 21) seeks clever F (40 - 50) to share ideas & bed.

NYRB: PASSIONATE ARTIST; lovely, thoughtful, sensual, successful painter. Local exhibitions--landscapes, seascapes, street scenes, paintings that tell stories. Happiest painting outside, indoors only when weather insists. Naturally slender, athletic, divorced, good-looking with mischievous spark. Enjoys ideas, photography, Monhegan, Provence painting trips, NPR, books, DVDs, skiing, planning dinners with interesting mix of friends. Loves ease, conviviality of eating out--intimate conversation across the table, no planned agendas, someone else to cook/do dishes. Easygoing, relaxed. Works to make the world better and greener place, attends Bioneers conference annually. Lives wonderful life just missing someone special--friendly, fit, active, Mass./Rhode Island-area man, 57 to 72.

LRB: Let's put our dentures in the same glass. I'm alive. You be too. Pacemaker a plus. Opioids even better. M, 74.

NYRB: AMERICAN GIRL-NEXT-DOOR, blonde good looks. Really pretty, smart, sensual, non-workaholic CEO--known for insightful irreverence, quick mind, and ever-present dash of self-deprecating humor. Slender and active with true explorer's spirit, be it exploring around the corner or the world. Easygoing, genuinely warm, classy, intellectual, not dry or stuffy, just the real deal. Passions include: photography, travel (just returned from Egypt, Jordan), weekends in Maine, literature, movies, music (especially Latin and World), cooking, discovering great neighborhood restaurants. Would love to meet co-conspirator, 50-65, bright, active, cosmopolitan man.

LRB: Attractive F, 32, seeks M, of a not too dissimilar age, who smells nice, dresses well & is good at sex. But must not be a cock. London.

NYRB: THE REAL DEAL--classy, confident, and really cute Ph.D. Sensual and stylish, sweet and successful, Boston-based. Brains, looks, and a great sense of fun. Toned, fit, romantic, blonde. Proactive, easygoing, generous, yet no tolerance for injustice or arrogance. Traveler, writer, adventurer--can never get enough of Paris, San Miguel, Puerto Escondido (dreams of one day speaking Spanish fluently), fantasizes about visiting Rome or exploring Outer Banks with special man. Fan of political humor, legislative policy, jazz clubs, Prosecco, fiction, New York weekends, Central Park, fireworks on the Esplanade. Appreciative of talent, be it sports, theater, music. Seeks bright, passionate, active man, 50-early 70s.

LRB: Inelegant. Seeks same. Be my soul/slob-mate. F (42) seeks M (35-55) or best excuse for one.

NYRB: IMMEDIATELY LIKABLE. Intelligence and sensuality. Known for great figure, shy beauty, infectious laugh, dedication to improving the lot of those less fortunate. Documentary film producer, photographer, accomplished professional. Warmth, passion, whimsical sparkle, and most of all--fun. Politically left, team player, former race car driver, maintains motorcycle license. Divorced, proud of Fulbright scholar son. Fan of in-depth travel, Connecticut seacoast house, biking, scuba, science, great food, entertaining friends/family, Morocco, Italy, opera/chamber music, though despite hours listening still can't "name that tune". Learning Spanish. Excited by work in Oaxaca, preserving and exhibiting work of local artisans. Seeks smart, sociable, attractive, active man--50-68.

NYRB: BRIGHT, CAPTIVATING, affectionate artist and outdoor adventurer. Graceful, natural athlete, leggy slim figure, easygoing, great looks, 49. International experience and sophistication yet deep roots in New England with the best of its philosophy and love of its landscape and light. Mischievous and genuine, sexy and comfortable with herself. Loves challenge of the elements: downhill skiing, sailing, hiking, breathtaking views. Passionate about photography, architecture, Maine, Japan (spent 3 years there), spur-of-the-moment fun, the environment. Authentic and game. Contributes to the community, sits on boards. Improvisational cook. Seeks kind, hearty, secure, worldly, competent man, 45-57--mature yet young at heart, Boston/New England-area.

LRB: Two hefty, tattooed Brighton skinheads, 43/45. One writes, one reads. Want uncensored sex with bookish blokes who like rough drafts.

I rest my case.

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Dinner is Served: New Book Provides Entrée to Cannibalism

‘I sautéed the steak of Bernd, with salt, pepper, garlic and nutmeg. I had it with Princess croquettes, Brussels sprouts and a green pepper sauce”
Fresh on the, ahem, heels of Julia & Julie, the new movie by Nora Ephron about Julia Child and her worshipful acolyte-blogger, Julie Powell, comes a new book about the cuisine that dare not speak its name. Master this sort of cooking and the only thing you’ll actually be serving is a prison sentence.

Those who enjoy Bernd Steak well done will salivate over An Intellectual History of Cannibalism by political scientist at the University of Bucharest, and Docent, Department of Social and Moral Philosophy, University of Helsinki, Catalin Avramescu, translated by Alistair Ian Blyth (Princeton University Press, 2009).

The above, scrumptious quotation is from a television interview by Armin Meiwes, the notorious German anthropophagus who was tried and convicted of manslaughter for the death of Bernd Brandes, who Meiwes invited to dinner, killed (by consent!), butchered then dressed, ate, and digested. It was a cautionary tale of watching what you eat and portion control, and feeding the hungry heart – sauté’ed and garnished with an insouciant sprig of insanity.

Avramescu focuses his thesis on the theory and thought of cannibalism, their historical reality irrelevant. “Whether cannibals existed or not is a fact of marginal importance,” he writes. For political scientists, historians of ideas and anthropologists, cannibalism offers a smorgasbord of political and social philosophy to chew on. It’s rich food for thought if not consumption; actual cannibalism interferes with intellectual digestion. Those prone to intellectual heartburn may want to keep some Rolaids around for the read.

The London Review of Books has an excellent review of the book, All Eat All by novelist Jenny Diski. It’s quite a meal about a book that’s an all-you-can-eat buffet.

Coming Soon: Unpublished book by Julia Child, posthumously issued - Cooking Jacques Pépin.
Bon appetite!

(And Bon Livres).

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"Have Books Destroyed Your Life, Too?

by Stephen J. Gertz

We book folk are often socially inept or, if ept, we'd rather be reading: excepting the occasional clunker, a close relationship with books is very satisfying to the single/divorced and persnickety printslut.

But even the most cerebrally occupied must bow to the will of  the flesh and the desire for human company. Thus the appearance of personal ads in the New York Review of Books and the London Review of Books.

The nature of the ads in each of these august publications is, however, decidedly different, and reveals the character of the British and American book-lovers who place them. Without putting too fine a point on it, the Brits are much more direct, often brutally honest, eccentric and, yes, wittier than we are on this side of the Atlantic (book) Shelf.

"My animal passions would satisfy any woman, if only it weren't for the filibustering of this damned colon. And the chafing of these infernal hospital sheets.  Write now to M, 83, for ward visiting hours and list of approved solids."

"You'll regret replying to this ad - its owner smells of peas."

"Bald, short, fat and ugly male, 53, seeks short-sighted woman with tremendous sexual appetite."

"Sinister-looking man with a face only a mother would love."

"Love is strange - wait 'til you see my feet."

"I am the literary event of 2007, or at least the most entertaining drunk on my ward."

"Blah, blah, whatever. Indifferent woman. Go ahead and write."

"Disreputable, mean, ruthless, perverse, hateful wretch. But what do divorce lawyers know?"

"Get out of my space and quit touching. Otherwise friendly F, 42, wants to get to know you. Box 4213 (please include full CV, medical records, five recent bank statements, photo and proof of signature)."

"I've divorced better men than you. And worn more expensive shoes than these. So don't think placing this ad is the biggest come-down I've ever had to make. Sensitive F, 34."

"5 September is the anniversary of my divorce. So too are 17 November, 12 January, 8 March and 21 June. Summer is usually much quieter - take advantage of the sunshine and lawyers' vacation periods by dating impatient, money-grubbing F, 39."

"I butchered three volumes of Seamus Heaney to produce this ad."

"Meet the new me. Like the old one only less nice after three ads without any sexual intercourse. 42 year old fruitcake (F)."

"Every time I read these ads I cringe with the knowledge that they are all me. And some are you."

"Today just isn't my day. Neither was yesterday. Tomorrow will be worse. I'm putting all my money on Thursday week. Also my ex-wife's car and my children's tuition fees for 2005-08. Compulsive gambler (M, 53) seeks either love or sound racing tips. Or both. Though, strictly speaking, the latter generally results in the former."

"Last time I had this much fun, I was on forty tablets a day. It's all downhill from here, so reply to edgy woman, 36, before the good times come to an abrupt halt and the prescriptions finally dry up."

"So many men to chose from, so few vitamin supplements. Arthritic F, 73."

"In a certain light I look like Robert Mitchum. In a certain light you look like Kim Novak. More usually I look like Shrek. More usually you still look like Kim Novak. Yes, you're very unlucky. Now pass me the Doritos and get over it."

"Tell me your dreams. I'll laugh at them all and prove how unlikely you are to achieve them."

"List your ten favourite albums. I don't want to compare notes, I just want to know if there's anything worth keeping when we finally break up."

"I have known only shame. Then, last week, I experienced surprise."

The above (as well as this post's headline) appear in They Call Me Naughty Lola (Scribner, 2006), an inspired collection of personal ads from the London Review of Books amassed by LTR editor, David Rose.

Contrast these with the personals found in the latest online edition of the New York Review of Books.

We are so lame here, so earnest, so sincere, so sappy, so boring, and anxious with a whiff of desperation. With far too many U.S. personals, it's all sharing romantic walks on the beach, sunsets, picnics in the park, drives up the coast with the top down, a glass of wine in front of the fireplace. There's a distinct lack of imagination exhibited, an overabundance of banality and idealism, and a lot of wishful thinking. It's a wonder anyone in the U.S. finds a viable partner through the personals. The Brits don't seem to care about optimizing first impressions, marketing themselves and creating positive brand awareness: This is who I am, take it or leave it but I will never bore you! You can make book on it.

And what a delightful book They Call Me Naughty Lola is, social anthropology at its entertaining best. Put it on your list of approved solids.

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Originally appeared in Fine Books & Collections on this date.