The personals section of the London Review of Books holds a plethora of dirty, steamy, literary content where the geeks of the writing world seduce one-another through witty and meandering prose. It’s a hoot in anybody’s book.

Male readers of the LRB: trawling for sex as your opening gambit doesn’t really work. Talk to me about your favourite author; the painting that means the most to you; what smells remind you of your childhood; the day you first saw your parents differently; your first holiday; your favourite place to read; the last recipe you followed; the most recent newspaper clipping you kept; the name of a lover you most recently remembered; your favourite stretch of water; what you like most about Paris or Rome or London; the last time you fed ducks on a pond. Actually, I’m short on time. Go ahead and trawl. Woman, 39. Publishing. Get on with it. Box no. 08/09

Massive-breasted heiress, 38, seeks witty Nobel-awarded intellectual beef-cake gardener-chef-poet with stonking pecs. Like me, you are dynamic, hilarious, serious, ironic, passionate, practical, affectionate, kind, funny, have most of your own legs, and are startled to find yourself still cruising the aisles of the Lurve Bazaar. Unlike me, you don’t exist. Am I right? If so, will consider any M who can make conversation, sense, a living, friends, four cooked meals, hot love and me laugh. Box no. 07/01

Yes, sir. I can boogie. Man. Academic. 62. Quite possibly gay. Box no. 08/12

LRB Personals

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