FEAR AND LOATHING IN THE LRB PERSONALS

Even if the personals in the London Review of Books don't usually bag a date, they're always fun to read. Unlike the staid ads in the New York Review of Books, where romantic hopefuls strive to demonstrate how well they conform with conventionally lofty standards ("intellectual", "fine dining", "Europe", etc), those who write into the LRB revel in eccentricity. In 2006 Scribner published a wonderful compilation of some of the strangest and most entertaining LRB personals in a book called "They Call Me Naughty Lola". To wit: the title came from an ad submitted by a "run-of-the-mill beardy physicist (M, 46)."

On Salon.com, Buzzy Jackson explored this difference in tone between the two literary bi-weeklies when the book came out. She speculated that this may be tied to the fact that NYRB readers tend to make more money:

Can it be possible that the relentlessly positive, "I-can-do-it!" attitude of NYRB readers accounts not only for the stylistic contrasts of their ads, but also for the gap in their salaries? Is Positive Thinking really that Powerful? Are the Seven Habits really that Effective? And what are the Seven Habits, anyway? Don't go looking for them in the LRB.

What's more believable, though, is that the personals are simply unmediated examples of the different ways that Brits and Americans express their basic feelings about courtship, sex and self-presentation. They can also capture larger shifts in the financial or social climate, it would seem, if my latest issue of the LRB is anything to go by.

Curled up with it one snowy evening last week, I was startled to find a string of ads that veered from this tradition of charming self-deprecation into something much darker:

I hate you all. I hate London. I hate books. I hate critics. I hate this magazine, I hate this column and I hate all the goons who appear in it. But if you have large breasts, are younger than 30 and don't want to talk about the novel you're 'writing' I'll put all that aside for approximately two hours one Saturday afternoon in January. Man, 33. box no. 31/04

Here's another:

Everyone. My life is a mind-numbing cesspit of despair and self-loathing. Just fuck off. Or else write back and we'll make love. Gentleman, 37. box no. 31/05

Oh dear. And then there's this:

Yesterday I was a disgusting spectacle in end-stage alcoholism with a gambling problem and not a hope in the world. Today I am the author of this magnificent life-altering statement of yearning and desire. You are a woman to 55 with plenty of cash and very little self-respect. When you reply to this advert your life will never be the same again. My name is Bernard. Never call me Bernie. box no. 31/01

A fourth, involving literary agents, will not be quoted here.

Can such angst-ridden meditations be attributed to the recession? Perhaps a toxic mix of the global economic crisis and a foul London winter? Hard to say. Regardless, it is perversely reaffirming to read these ads. It is as if they were created solely to make the reader feel both poisoned and spared.

Still, I found it hard not to chuckle when I came across this:

Dear LRB, I have no money. Please run my advert for free. I want a woman who is 38. Let her know I'm really clever and good-looking. Thanks. box no. 31/03

~ MEGAN BUSKEY

Picture credit: Porcelaingirl° {chromotherapy} (via Flickr)