The London Review of Books is Britain's most esteemed literary magazine. Published fortnightly, it features essays, reviews and the most outrageous personal ads ever set in type. The following is a selection from the latest issue.
*Pietas and Piñatas! Reply now to enjoy a front-row seat at one of my least disturbing puppet shows. Lutheran agit-prop ventriloquist and latter-day burrito enthusiast (M, 40).
*Are you 43-60, a bit sleazy but attractive, funny and a ladies man? That’s my type - but I’m open minded and I’ve been good long enough! Slim, pretty, smutty, witty Brighton woman (49) want you.
*It’s true. I have more than 200 books about post-revolutionary Russia. It’s my thing. I’m that guy. Write anyway.
*It’s true. I have more than 200 books about post-revolutionary Russia. It’s my thing. I’m that guy. Write anyway.
*This is an advert full of cheap innuendo, lazy come-ons, and needy sexual impropriety. Just like the LRB letters page. Woman, 49.
*My Vostok, your Salamanca. Whilst my pet names for you will recall early Soviet space projects, your terms of endearment for me will be tributes to the golden age of locomotion. Our love-making will be legendary and scholars will write about it in text books 700-pages thick. These books will be bound in leather and sit upon mahogany shelves in libraries filled with the scent of rich cognac and many taxidermies. Perry Anderson will review them all favourably in this very magazine. Upon submitting his article, he will retire. The piece will contain no edits, and every reader will weep upon seeing it. Man, 60. West Bromwich.
*Let your mind be dazzled, your senses tingled! I am a geography teacher in West Hartford. M, 57.
*Like lego? Guys called Eric? Write to Lego Eric.
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