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Daedalus Books and Music

Daedalus Books


Last Updated: 12/1/2009

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Gender: Female
Status: Single
City: COLUMBIA
State: Maryland
Signup Date: 8/13/2007

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January 7, 2010 - Thursday 
Half a century after Thelonious Monk’s heyday, his music is firmly ensconced in the Jazz canon. It seems hard to believe now, but at one time such tuneful compositions as "Round Midnight" and "Epistrophy" weren’t considered easy on the ear. The title track of his breakthrough album Brilliant Corners was so complex that it couldn’t be played accurately from start to finish, and so the recording had to be cobbled together from different takes. Nonetheless, when listening to such recordings I’m struck by their apparent ease, their perfect flow. Sooner or later, the avant-garde usually becomes the new norm. Thus, tunes like "Blue Monk" can never sound as unusual to us as they did to some of Monk’s peers.

In creating and performing his music, Monk had the assistance of such elite collaborators as John Coltrane, Sonny Rollins, Johnny Griffin, Miles Davis, and Roy Haynes. That he didn’t work with most of them for very long seemingly testifies to Monk’s mercurial nature and moody perfectionism. Fittingly, he was also an accomplished solo pianist; in such settings, Monk revamped his own music or that of Duke Ellington, often making it sound like mellow nocturnes.

Monk’s later years were marred by his bouts with mental illness, and perhaps a certain amount of disillusionment. Band members complained of his irritable and withdrawn nature, and his performances inevitably suffered. As Monk the man began to wind down, though, Monk the icon began to catch on. This was an artist who wasn’t interested in money or polls, and one who knew his art would outlast its many obstacles.
10:59 PM 
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December 31, 2009 - Thursday 
At Daedalus we provide information about the items we offer via a pithy little paragraph we call a "blurb." In the book industry, however, the term refers more specifically to book jacket testimonials by reviewers and fellow writers.

Recently we were perusing a book we are selling called By Hook or by Crook: A Journey in Search of English, and what should we come across but an account of how the word "blurb" was created!

The time was 1907 and the place a trade publishing dinner in New York. American humorist Gelett Burgess was there to promote his new book Are You a Bromide? (his term for a dull, conventional person), and free copies were being distributed. Burgess was disappointed with the cover, so he decided to draw a more eye-catching one himself. After the practice of pulp novels of the day, he sketched a buxom blond and labeled her "Miss Belinda Blurb." The term caught on and is with us still!

If you love words and their origins, you'll want to follow David Crystal, the author of this book, through the highways and byways—and lexicons—of the British Isles. As he points out, half of the 3,000 languages currently spoken will probably disappear by the end of this century. He's one linguist who is shoring fragments against their ruin.

**********

Lancelot and the Lord of the Distant Isles
From a group of 13th-century French narratives called the Lancelot-Grail or Arthurian Vulgate Cycle comes this rippingly good alternative telling of the Arthur/Lancelot/Guinevere saga, here recast as a quartet with the addition of Arthur's powerful foe turned friend: Galehaut, Lord of the Distant Isles. The vivid imagery and action as well as the psychological and ethical nuances are all one could desire, and the characters are both larger than life and appealingly human. (Arthur, for example, risks everything at one point because he is besotted with a damsel from the opposing camp.) The wondrous, magical, mythic history of Arthur and his chivalric kingdom is seen in these pages through an entirely new prism. Many more characters and incidents appear than found in Malory, for instance.

At one point Arthur's malevolent half-sister Morgan le Fay sends an impostor to court claiming to be the real Guinevere. While Arthur is confounded as to how to resolve the issue (which could result in the death of the true queen), Lancelot steps in and offers to challenge three of the pretender's best knights, thereby leaving the matter up to God.
"Although everyone who cared about Lancelot was appalled by the conditions he proposed" the tale recounts, "both sides had to agree that judicial combat offered the only hope of justice. A well-ordered appeal to the judgment of God was, after all, an obvious advance over mere undisciplined violence or arbitrary ruling, and no one, moreover, could publicly acknowledge that God might choose to remain neutral. The false Guinevere was one of those, however, who harbored a suspicion of divine indifference to knightly confrontations, so agreement was not difficult for her. Although she risked death if Lancelot succeeded, she was sure that, facing three foes, and God not withstanding, he would be defeated."
3:01 PM 
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December 23, 2009 - Wednesday 
As 2009 winds down, it seemed like a fine opportunity to take a break and paint a quick portrait of Daedalus Books & Music.

Daedalus is located in Columbia, a small city in Maryland, population 90,000 or so. Columbia is a planned community, a clean well-lighted place dreamed up by developer James Rouse a few decades ago. Baltimore is roughly 20 minutes away in one direction, whereas Washington, DC is a similar distance to the south. The Daedalus offices, warehouse, call center, and original retail store are all located here. We also have an especially nice bookstore in Towson, a northern suburb of Baltimore.

The phone calls we receive aren’t outsourced, and we don’t answer calls for any other company. Although some customers think we write down their orders, we actually place them via computer. We use the internet to keep track of our own rapidly changing inventory, to follow up on the packages we send, and to verify everything from mailing addresses to the number of color photographs in a cookbook.

The original owners work onsite, and everyone in the building is on a first name basis. No one wears a suit. Some employees have been here for much of the thirty years we’ve been in business. Numerous married couples work at Daedalus, and on a few occasions the children grew up and came to work here, too. Sometimes, believe it or not, people bring their dogs to work. Better yet, the people (and the animals) tend to get along quite well.

All in all, it’s an old fashioned place, doing business in a modern manner. Having parted the curtains just a little, let us wish you all Happy Holidays and a prosperous 2010!
7:20 PM 
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December 17, 2009 - Thursday 
Looking for a last-minute token for Uncle Murgatroyd or Aunt Mildred? Daedalus's pristine sale books are always a good bet!

For any art lover—or person desirous of becoming one—I'd recommend Christie's expert Roy Bolton's A Brief History of Painting: 2000 BC–2000 AD. Perfect for a dilettante, his language is accessible, colloquial, and unpretentious. The compact yet full-page color reproductions feel luxurious and are surprisingly detailed. You'll find yourself flipping through it again and again when you have a few minutes to spare to refresh your senses (or brush up on your chronology).

A fascinating book of wide general interest is The Reverend Guppy's Aquarium: From Joseph Frisbie to Roy Jacuzzi, How Everyday Items Were Named for Extraordinary People. In investigating the genealogy of the humble Frisbee, author Philip Dodd reveals that its origins began in the early '40s with people such as Yale undergrads engaged in "pie-tin sailing" with salvaged missiles marked with an "F" (for the pie-making Frisbee family of Bridgeport Connecticut). Earlier incarnations of the plastic disc, which was first marketed under its current name in 1958, were Whirlo-Way, Pipco Flying Saucer, and Pluto Platter ("the sensational flying saucer that you command").
Dodd then goes back in time to marvel at the career and name of Belgian instrument inventor Adolphe Sax: "I don't think you could invent a better name for the instrument even if you sent out a thousand market research teams to focus group the ideas to extinction. The initial S, as curvaceous as the body and bell of a tenor. The A, a single, open, breathily vulnerable vowel. And the whole rounded off with a smacker of a smoochy late-night X, the sheer of a ride cymbal dissipating the name into the air of a smoky basement club."
Jules Leotard, the inventor of the flying trapeze, is now remembered for coming up with the stretchy, one-piece workout/performance garment that bears his name. Besides allowing freedom of movement, it displayed to great advantage his exceptionally admirable physique. Dodd reports that in 1861, while performing before the Tsarina in St. Petersburg, Leotard was forbidden to wear his preferred garment and had to sport a formal black suit with white gloves, which, through his mighty exertions, he tore to pieces by the end of the show.
Dodd fleshes out the backgrounds of his subjects like a detective, often meeting first-hand sources like Roy Jacuzzi. This blessed inventor of the soaking tub with water jets gave the device his own name because "Whirlpool" was taken. This cognomen also spurs Dodd to rhapsodize: "The Italian surname evokes la dolce vita. And the fizzing sizzle of its double z suggests the water enticingly bubbling and breaking."

Attention Hints from Heloise lovers: have I got a book for you! From the editors of Yankee magazine, it's Shameless Shortcuts: 1,027 Tips and Techniques That Help You Save Time, Save Money, and Save Work Everyday.
In this messed-up economy, we're all looking for ways to be frugal and efficient while maintaining quality of life. Here are a few corkers:

Ø    To avoid the saltiness, sugariness—and expense—of commercially prepared pizza sauces use doctored tomato puree for 1/3 the cost.

Ø    Don’t freak out about backing up your computer, programs & all. Just keep important files in a Docs folder and back that up to a CD, thumb drive, or an external disc drive once a month.

Ø    Use crayons for quick scratch repair/rust prevention on cars.

Ø    Put a plastic or plywood tabletop over your compost bin in summer w/ houseplants on top to disguise it; in fall take it off & spread the compost around.

Ø    Make lightweight but durable building blocks for kids with two half-gallon milk cartons jammed into each other. Great as walls for castles, forts, etc.

Ø    Running out of room on the fridge? Use artists' portfolios for archiving kids' art – date the pages & keep the portfolios under their beds for posterity.

Ø    Unclaimed election/"For Sale" signs – the wire supports make great stakes for plants.

Ø    Cheap cut flower preservative: 1 crushed aspirin, 1 tablespoon sugar, 1 teaspoon vinegar to 3 cups water.

Ø    Make a holiday coffee table centerpiece of copacetic ornaments in a crystal punch bowl or vase.
8:10 PM 
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December 11, 2009 - Friday 
Wild Strawberries. Persona. Cries and Whispers. It is Ingmar Bergman, perhaps more than any other film director, who is associated with the idea of the "art film," a term suggesting both unique creativity and to some, ambiguous plots. Bergman is best known for The Seventh Seal, with its iconic images of Max Von Sydow playing chess with Death. This film, as well as many of Bergman’s other movies, affects the viewer in the way that poetry does, by way of potent symbols and carefully wrought atmospherics. The reputation these films have for being difficult should not prejudice a viewer against seeing them, or perhaps seeing them twice.

Having viewed perhaps 20 of Bergman’s films, I think it is important to mention that I’ve never been disappointed by any of them. I cannot make such a strong defense of some of my other favorite directors, including such reliable masters as Kurosawa, Buñuel, Fellini, Kubrick, or Wyler. Somehow Bergman’s films manage to be more than the sum of their parts, and are chockfull of scenes that you will remember for years afterward. These films, most of them written by Bergman himself, form a cohesive whole, mapping out one man’s universe. His career encompasses early naturalistic works like Summer with Monika and Brink of Life and the later, more unsettling pieces like The Hour of the Wolf, Shame, and The Serpent’s Egg. If perhaps his films tend toward solipsism, pessimism, or even total despair, one must recall that he was the son of a somewhat sadistic Lutheran pastor, and just as importantly, he was a stereotypically introspective Northern European. A similar claim could just as easily be leveled at other artists from that part of the world, like Knut Hamsun, Edvard Munch, and Jean Sibelius. On the other hand, Bergman shows a flair for comedy in Smiles of a Summer Night, which was the basis for Stephen Sondheim’s Broadway hit A Little Night Music. And if you look for it, you’ll find Hope, like a glimmer of arctic sun, in Fanny and Alexander, Through a Glass Darkly, and The Virgin Spring.

In a career spanning nearly six decades, Ingmar Bergman was fortunate to have a devoted coterie of actors at his service. Max Von Sydow is the most widely known of them, but he also worked with Liv Ullmann, Erland Josephson, Bibi Andersson, Gunnar Björnstrand, and Harriett Andersson. Autumn Sonata features Sweden’s other greatest export, Ingrid Bergman (no relation), and in Wild Strawberries, Bergman memorably directs Victor Sjöström, Sweden’s first internationally renowned director. Just as importantly, many of these classics feature the stunning cinematography of Sven Nykvist, twice honored with an Academy Award for his work with Bergman. At the end of the day, though, Bergman was an auteur who was ultimately responsible for every detail.

Essentially, the movies of Ingmar Bergman are about our inner lives. Using the mechanical methods of film, he depicted the strangeness of the human condition with an acuity that would be the envy of a great novelist. If one of these films doesn’t appeal, keep going; eventually that universe will wind up making sense to you.
2:38 AM 
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December 3, 2009 - Thursday 
"If it doesn't give you pleasure, it is bad design…. Good design is really intelligence made visible." So writes co-author Terence Conran in the preface to a profusely illustrated tome called Design: Intelligence Made Visible, which covers the history of his profession and its myriad products in a most engrossing manner. It merged nicely with a recent PBS Independent Lens show I watched on the same topic, the purview of which ranged from potato peelers to toothbrushes to public seating (why is it so uncomfortable?) to iphones to cars, which one designer likened to moveable sculptures that portray the personalities and preoccupations of their owners.

Conran's book pleased me greatly with this quote from a job application from Leonardo da Vinci to Lodovico Sforza:
Though human genius in its various inventions with various instruments may answer the same end, it will never find an invention more beautiful or more simple or direct than nature, because in her inventions nothing is lacking and nothing is superfluous.

….as well as this one from George Nelson:

How many things can you do to enhance and how do you avoid those things which do not? If there is a moral commitment—or an opportunity—for a designer, that is it.

************************************************

I am addicted to Masterpiece Theatre and not too proud to own up. If you're of like mind, you will want to pick up Juliet Nicholson's The Perfect Summer: England 1911, Just Before the Storm during the lulls between delectable period costume dramas and adaptations of Austen et al.

Nicholson is the granddaughter of Vita Sackville-West and Harold Nicolson (the famous writer/diplomat couple who were the subject of the book Portrait of a Marriage), and she provides a vividly panoramic, "you are there," slice-of-life–type overview of British society, from top to bottom.

First, the excesses.

Churchill's mother Jennie Cornwallis-West is pictured arriving at a fancy dress ball as Empress Teodora wearing a profusely embroidered Byzantine cope. The Duchess of Rutland parries with a velvet medieval gown, and the Duchess of Marlborough is resplendent as Madame de Pompadour, but Princess Kawananako of Honolulu carries the day with her cape of yellow feathers that "occurred singly on the head of a native bird, a species already so endangered that this one coat ensured its extinction."

The top event of the summer for the "quality" was the coronation at Westminster Abbey of George V. Six thousand stools of fine mahogany bearing the royal coronet were made especially for the ceremony, each one inscribed with the name of the exalted guest whose posterior would rest upon it. The foresight and attention to comfort even extended to emergency sandwiches in grease-proof packets meant to be secured in the lining of the coronets worn by the famished lords and ladies.

Among the swag found (and turned in!) by the cleaning crew after the royal do were three ropes of pearls, 20 brooches, 6 bracelets, 20 golden balls from the coronets, and part of a diamond necklace.

As far as summer amusements went, there were nude tennis matches and that unfailing diversion, nocturnal room-hopping at weekend house parties in the country. Nicolson reports that "Lord Charles Beresford became particularly vigilant after leaping with an exultant 'cock a doodle do!' into a darkened bed, believing it to contain his lover, only to be vigorously batted away by the much startled Bishop of Chester."' To combat her insomnia, Lady Ruthven had her husband's valet read racy French novels to her until the wee hours (purportedly because she enjoyed his French accent).

The owner of four huge estates, Walter Rothschild "would send round a carriage drawn by two zebras to collect his guests to view his extensive menagerie, which included a collection of kangaroos, cassowaries, giant tortoises, a wolf, and several bad-tempered glisglis, a variety of succulent edible dormice."

Eccentrics abound, such as The Duke of Portland, who had such a phobia about being seen that he had a maze of underground tunnels built so that he could slip undetected from room to room. (He also traveled in a black-draped carriage that was loaded in its entirety into a railway truck.)

Often these quirks were reported in memoirs by longsuffering "downstairs" staff, such as the poor sod who had to pick up after a "dithering gentleman who, on Sundays, liked to try on every one of his 60 suits before deciding on the perfect one for church."

Nicholson does not stint on covering the social unrest that pervaded the country, reporting that 700 families owned one-quarter of it and that a dockworker's take-home pay for a week might amount to one pound, five shillings—"often only enough to rent one room for an entire family." Furthermore, "the living standards of 30 percent of the population fell below those at which the barest needs were met."

She also bring in the doings and relationships of writers and notables such as Virginia Stephen, Leonard Woolf, Rupert Brooke, Ottoline Morrell, Anna Pavlova, Sergei Diaghilev, Nijinsky, Nellie Melba, Edith Sitwell, and Emmeline Pankhurst.

In her coverage of social and cultural history she recounts such tidbits as a contemporary account of the President of the Rational Dress League, Viscountess Haberton, "arriving in the salon the of Hautboy Hotel in Ockham, Surrey, wearing 'bifurcated garments'"; the post office providing headphones with a live link from private homes to shows and operas on the West End stage; and antsy projectionists speeding up films so that they were comically out of sync with the live orchestras accompanying them.

The book is unique, well-written, and extremely well-researched, so I say bully for her!

6:18 PM 
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November 25, 2009 - Wednesday 
For most of my reading life, I suppose I have been an avowed snob. Without a second thought I avoided all genre fiction, anything that smacked of "pulp", apart from a few novels by Philip K. Dick. Recently, though, I’ve finally felt the pull of the mystery novel. It might be part of a general desire to read everything ever published, or perhaps these books have a distinct and undeniable charm.

Appropriately I embarked upon this truly vast study with Arthur Conan Doyle’s Sherlock Holmes. I quickly discovered why these tales earned the praise of Jorge Luis Borges; the Holmes stories aren’t lurid or bloodthirsty, but are as cerebral as a game of chess. These are mysteries in which you very well might not manage to unravel the case before the sleuth does, since his knowledge borders on ESP. Books like The Sign of Four are just plain fun, and it would be hard to dismiss it as morbid or juvenile.

The numerous novels of Alexander McCall Smith are a similar pleasure. The Number 1 Ladies’ Detective Agency books aren’t hardboiled detective fiction; the charming Mme Precious solves Life’s everyday mysteries, rather than merely chasing killers. Along the way we get to tour the landscape and culture of Botswana, where McCall Smith lived for several years. He writes with Mozartean lightness, and his diverse character sketches are in the tradition of Charles Dickens.

The founding father of noir, Maryland’s own Dashiell Hammett, launched thousands of careers by creating tough guy detective Sam Spade. The Maltese Falcon is jam-packed with sex, violence, and wit, much of which couldn’t sneak past censors into the classic film. Likewise the humor sparkles in his final novel The Thin Man, though again I have to prefer the movie, due to the convincing rapport between alcoholic lovebirds Nick and Nora, unforgettably portrayed by William Powell and Myrna Loy.

Reading Raymond Chandler is what hooked me at last. Novels like The Big Sleep (adapted into another great Bogart film) and Farewell, My Lovely evoke the Los Angeles of the 1930s, in all its boom town decadence and splendor. Chandler graces his books with poetic details and surprising turns of phrase, never settling for the cliché. His private eye Philip Marlowe, much like Georges Simenon’s Inspector Maigret, is fallible, sympathetic, and believable. Chandler’s influence can be seen everywhere, from the films of Quentin Tarantino to TV shows like "Moonlighting."

Mysteries have gone global over the years. I can look forward to trying out Janwillem van de Wetering, Stieg Larsson, Dame Ngaio Marsh, and Henning Mankell. If anyone has any recommendations I’d be glad to hear them. I’ve been chastised, and now I know that I can’t overlook any field of fiction. Can horror, westerns, and the Twilight series be far behind?
7:51 PM 
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November 19, 2009 - Thursday 
Ridiculing the arcane aspects of classical music may seem to some like shooting fish in a barrel, but no one does it better than Peter Schickele, a.k.a. P.D.Q. Bach. The plays on his name he no doubt endured in grade school may have led to the use of humor as a self-defense mechanism; in any event, his musical and verbal wit never cease to amuse. Who else but Schickele could posit Bing Crosby ("der Bingle") as a descendant of Hildegard von Bingen, put forth a lied called "Gretchen am Spincyle," or set the funeral oration from Shakespeare's Julius Caesar to a jumpin' jive tune? The live performances in P.D.Q. Bach: The Jekyll & Hyde Tour are some of his best.

Fresh Air's Terry Gross is masterful at eliciting frank responses from the people she interviews. Never is this gift more apparent than in her smart, well-informed, and never squeamish conversations with actors, that much-besieged class of humanity who entertain the masses. In the CD collection Fresh Air with Terry Gross: Stars she commiserates with Lisa Kudrow and Robin Williams about fans who treat them like one-dimensional performing seals; discusses Transylvanian transvestite couture with Rocky Horror's Tim Curry; catches Stephen Colbert in the transition between The Daily Show and his own program (he calls his op-ed newscaster character "a well-intentioned, poorly informed person, a high-status idiot who thinks he's going to bust things wide open"); talks to Billy Bob Thornton about his phobia regarding antique furniture ("I can't be around it. I could never live in a castle with velvet draperies") and growing up in the woods eating squirrels, possums, and raccoons caught by his grandfather; discovers that George Clooney was afflicted during childhood with facial paralysis arising from Bell's palsy and used humor to cope (a self-deprecating tactic that has helped him keep his perspective vis à vis his subsequent fortune and fame); and in general creates a feeling of being noninvasively palsy with the A-list. Is Gross the Dick Cavett of radio?
9:26 PM 
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November 12, 2009 - Thursday 

When many of us hear the name Bette Davis, we picture a dour, withered old crone, and perhaps recall her legendary obnoxiousness. Much like Elvis or Truman Capote, Davis is usually pictured in her later years. And yet this is the same woman who in her heyday was a revered actress, sex symbol, and Hollywood power broker. To understand her greatness, there’s no substitute for going back and watching her many classic performances.

 

Bette Davis began making a name for herself as the fickle waitress Mildred in Of Human Bondage, and it was a minor scandal when she was passed over for an Oscar nomination. She would be nominated 10 times in her career, so it would seem she had the last laugh. She won twice: for Jezebel, in which she plays a spoiled southern belle who finally learns the value of self-sacrifice, and also for Dangerous, in which she not surprisingly portrays a troubled actress.

 

Davis took on many sorts of roles, but it seems she never played a weak woman. In Dark Victory, she is a society girl with a terminal illness, trying to die with dignity. She is the woman every man wants in Mr. Skeffington, but finally learns to prefer her husband. In The Little Foxes she is again a southern belle, but this time an icy and unrepentant one.


When Bette Davis appeared on a postage stamp a few years ago, it was in the role of Margo Channing in All About Eve. Davis is in peak form here as the aging actress who must defend her prized role, reputation, and husband against the seemingly unstoppable upstart Eve Harrington (Anne Baxter). Directed by the versatile Joseph Mankiewicz, All About Eve was a smash hit, and it revitalized Davis’ career, as well as giving the public a peek at the Eve-like rising star Marilyn Monroe.

 

In the astonishing Now, Voyager, Davis plays a homely woman who is being emotionally crushed by her overbearing mother. Thanks to the intervention of a perceptive psychiatrist (Claude Rains) and the love of a married man (Paul Henried), she comes out of her shell and takes charge of her life. Her scenes with Henried (best known as Laszlo in Casablanca) are exquisite, including his surprisingly romantic habit of lighting two cigarettes at once, then passing one to her. It is a film devoid of sentimentality or easy conclusions, one that reminds us that classics attain that status not by following a formula, but by surprising us. Perhaps there’s no better way to sum up Bette Davis herself; and if you go back to her films, she is as surprising as ever.

 

 

8:11 PM 
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November 5, 2009 - Thursday 
The British have refined snarkiness and self-deprecating humor into art forms. Both sides of the coin are reflected in They Call Me Naughty Lola: Personal Ads from the London Review of Books. Eminently collectible, these "in search of"s are heaps more enjoyable than those found in the LRB's more earnest American cousin, the New York Review of Books.  Readers are warned in the preface that "the ads in this volume are no longer active and as such responses cannot be forwarded on to advertisers"— quel dommage!

The following are snippets from a few of the more quirky characters:

This woman pens a distinctly endearing come-on:
"I'm just a girl who can't say 'no' (or "anaesthetist'). Lisping Rodgers and Hammerstein fan, female lecturer in politics (37) WLTM man to 40 for thome enthanted eveingth."

The crucial element of surprise is the "gotcha" in this ad from a
"Mature gentleman (62), aged well, noble grey locks, fit and active, sound mind and unfazed by the fickle demands of modern society seeks … damn it, I have to pee again."

This one devolves into a stand-up (sit-down?) comedy routine:
"Take the last train to Clarksville and I'll meet you at the station. Unless the 10.15 to Watney has been delayed. In which case I'll get the bus—meet me at Morrisons, by the front entrance. If you can't find your way there, get a taxi and I'll give you the fare when I arrive, but make sure you take some change with you. If you don't have any change, take a trumpet so that you can busk for some….. " Etc.

I would love to know how many replies this guy got:
"Bastard. Complete and utter. Whatever you do, don't reply—you'll only regret it. (Man, 38)."
A little reverse psychology anyone? Or is he a Heathcliff looking to ensnare an Isabella?

This woman uses the personals to strike a blow for spousal propers:
"If my Christmas present this year is a gift subscription to History Today I'm going to be pissed off. Then I'm going to get pissed. Then I'm going to divorce you. You know who you are. Perfume, lingerie, nice womanly things, please, to your wife at box no. 6824."
Like Aretha, she want R-E-S-P-E-C-T when he gets home.

This gent is a true original whose squib has the glimmerings of a postmodern autobiographical novel:
"67-year-old disaffiliated flaneur picking my toothless way through the urban sprawl, self-destructive, sliding towards pathos, jacked up on Viagra and on the lookout for a contortionist who plays the trumpet."

This fella's enticements are not hackneyed in the least:
"Dress up like a Viking and join me (M, 51) in my York farm-dwelling. Not only will we experience crazy Jorvik mud-love, but we'll get Local Heritage Initiative grant funding. Have cake – eat it. All at box 2187."
Shades of Cold Comfort Farm!

A choosy supplicant called Mimi really tells it like it is:
"Mimi, 64, WLTM man whose first name is composed entirely of Roman numeral letters. You must also have a degree in advanced mathematics and be very well endowed."

And here lurks a poet manqué:
"The uncomfortable mantle of guilt, the heavy cloak of ignominy, the coarse socks of denial, the iridescent trousers of doubt, the belligerent underpants of self-loathing. All worn by the haberdasher of shame (M, 34, Pembs.). Seeks woman in possession of the Easy-Up iron-on hem of redemption and some knowledge of workaday delicates. No loons."

Very little can top the Haberdasher of Shame, so on that note I'll close. (I should say that I am not alone in my appreciation of this book. It's quite a favorite at Daedalus. You should really get a copy for yourself—and select friends and family—before they run out!)
 
9:09 PM 
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