Personal ads: A window into the soul or merely whimsy?

Personals ads are said to have first appeared hundreds of years ago in Britain. Today, they remain how some look for love, companionship and more, even as the forms of communicating multiply. “In the age of Facebook triteness, the ability to engage with even the most fractional components of writing has become an increasingly valuable commodity for any intellectually minded mate,” writes David Rose in the introduction to “Sexually, I’m More of a Switzerland,” which he edited. Here is a sampling from this second compilation of personal ads published in the London Review of Books.

It is my manifest destiny to find a man through this column and marry him. Woman, 103.

The usual hyperbole infuses this ad with a whiff of playful narcissism and Falstaffian bathos. But scratch below the surface and you’ll soon find that I really am the greatest man ever to have lived. Truly great man, 37.

The average person contains enough iron in their body to make a small nail. Not me. I’ve got about a tent peg’s worth. Man, 57, enjoys licking railings.

If we meet, it mustn’t conflict with my community service obligations. Edgy woman (51), not terribly fond of overhanging hedgerows or cats or postmen WLTM man to 55 who has other things to do for ninety hours over the next three months.

This ad is emblematic of, yet somehow transcends, my entire body of work. Magician and part-time shrimp peeler (M, 48).

I wrote this ad to prove I’m not gay. Man. 29. Not gay. Absolutely not.

This advert is about as close as I come to meaningful interaction with other adults. Woman, 51. Not good at parties but tremendous breasts.

I am Mr Right! You are Miss Distinct Possibility. Your parents are Mr and Mrs Obscenely Rich. Your Uncle is Mr Expert Tax Lawyer. Your cousin is Ms Spare Apartment On a Caribbean Hideaway That She Rarely Uses. Your brother is Mr Can Fix You Up A Fake Passport for a Small Fee. Man. 51.

Rich old buggers about to peg it, write to attractive, nubile young filly.

I wish they all could be Californian, but basically anyone within the M25 will do. Man. 43. No criteria beyond the limits of the London Underground network. Oh, and a D-cup.

What are the chances? 1 in 216, as Richard de Fournival astutely explained in “De vetula,” written between 1220 and 1250. I don’t expect you to know that, however, because you’re an idiot. Math professor, 58, not afraid of being absolutely right.

Everyone in this column has an agenda. Not me. Man. 41.

Love? My eyes will tell you all. My forehead, however, is slightly more reticent. My knees won’t give you a damn word. Paranoid military nutcase and part-time undertaker seeks F to 50.

If you don’t love yourself, I can’t love you. Although I’m still quite happy to have sex. As long as you buy me dinner. And theatre tickets. And a new pair of trousers. And a fridge magnet that says “Sagittarians do it with a quiver.” Man. 36. Happy to hook up with needy, desperate, confidence-lacking fems to 40 until someone better comes along.

If it wasn’t for this column I’d be the loneliest man alive.

Excerpted from “Sexually, I’m More of a Switzerland,” by David Rose. Copyright 2010 by LRD Ltd. Reprinted by permission of Scribner, a division of Simon & Schuster Inc.