I’m in the eighth ditch of the eighth circle of Hell now, with the falsifiers. Today it would probably not be so populous a place, for relatively few of us moderns can claim to know the truth (thus how could we falsify it) enveloped as we are in cosmic molasses.

    Speaking of cosmic molasses, I was glad to see the Nobel Prize winner Dr. Peter W. Higgs, after whom the Higgs boson is named, does not use a cellphone or a computer — a laudable but perhaps inevitably doomed attempt by the so-called God particle’s discoverer to remain disconnected from the madding crowd.

    If eschewing a cellphone and computer is a sign of genius, which I think it is, I — a computer user but still cellphone celibate — can only lay claim to sub-genius status, which is proper, I suppose, for one who, despite today’s concern for concussions, remains a fan of pro football and of boxing (until the first real punch lands, then I’m for stopping the fight).

    The violent in the Inferno are sunk in a river (the Phlegethon) of their own blood. (I would argue that the vicariously violent, rather than full immersion, ought to be allowed to merely slog along in Phlegethon’s estuaries.)

    Dante, like Aristotle, “affirmed that the particular goal of mankind as a whole [was] to realize to the fullest all the potentialities of intellect.”

    When you read stories about scientists like Dr. Higgs and his fellow Nobelist, Dr. Francois Englert, you think we are doing just that.

    But the question remains: Will we achieve the concord toward which full knowledge aims before we blow ourselves up?

    Meanwhile, I want to e-mail Dr. Higgs and ask him if we should worship the Higgs boson as the Primum Mobile.

    Ah, but he doesn’t have a computer!

    I’ll ask Mary then.

    If you had told me last month that I would be missing a 45-pound bundle of muscle and joy, a “hound mix,” according to ARF, I wouldn’t have believed you.

    I’ve always been a “cat person.” Grew up with them. And despite getting cat scratch fever from my mean black-and-white cat, Furble, as a kid, have always had a love affair with them. Where dogs appeared clumsy, cats were graceful. Where dogs were needy and submissive, cats were noble and aloof. You can cuddle cats, hold them in your arms like babies — and yes, they were my baby substitutes — and sleep with them curled into cozy nooks of your body.

    I had friends whose dogs would jump on you as soon as you got out of your car by way of a messy and violent greeting, pawing with mud, ripping through clothes, bruising legs. Cute in their overaffection? Hell no. I always felt that conditional love had more value than unconditional.

    But all this didn’t preclude my appreciating the appeal of dogs. Certain dogs . . . with sweet aspects and curly of tail. I’m not a huge fan of small dogs with their stunted legs and yippy personalities. And big dogs I’m just not drawn to. Who knows why. Genetic disposition? I like my dogs the way I like my men: of medium build, tight and wiry. I envisioned myself walking along the edge of the surf, accompanied by a canine pal.

    A few Sundays ago while at the beach with my best friend and her daughter, dog lovers both, I suggested we stop at ARF on the way home, “just to look.”

    “I doubt I’ll get one,” I forewarned Molly. I knew it would take a very special dog for me to be seduced. As we walked in, a volunteer was cradling a tiny puff of what looked like smoke in her arms, the palest gray miniature poodle. She placed her in my arms, where this helpless, shivering creature dissolved all my prejudices toward small dogs. We took her into a room to “bond,” where she ran around in a frightened whirl.

    I was beginning to have my doubts, but guilt intervened. I’d brought her this far. “I’ll take her,” I said. A few minutes later, when we were informed that I couldn’t take her — she needed to be in a home with another dog — I went through a momentary range of emotions from outrage to relief.

    We were then given a tour of the facility, taken around the back where large dogs ran around in cages, some barking aggressively, others playfully nudging their noses through the grate. Our tour guide explained that the medium dogs were mostly off at an adoptathon. There was one, however, in the sick ward with an ear infection.

    Daisy looked up at me in that Princess Di way: head tilted away while rolling her eyes back at mine. Her body was lean and powerful, her face a countenance of love and joy. We walked her down a wooded path. She was well behaved and gentle. I was hooked.

    I picked her up the next day equipped with a borrowed crate, which I was told would make her feel safe. Feeling guilty about introducing her to my two-cat household, I needn’t have worried. Savannah and Nelson took only a few hours to allow her into their inner sanctum. The four of us took walks together, much to the delight of passers-by, and we all slept peacefully in my bed.

    At first I was put off by certain things about Daisy: her unfamiliar dog smell, slightly gamey, unlike the fresh-baked-batter scent of cats, and her slime factor, most noticeable when she aimed her tongue at my mouth. Walking her was a tangle of fur and leash, with me pirouetting out of makeshift lassos. My extremities sported a patchwork of bruises. Like new lovers, we hadn’t yet discovered each other’s rhythms. The next ARF dog-training session was weeks away.

    Daisy was not housebroken. The shelter personnel guessed that she was about a year old, an age I had mistakenly thought mature. I would walk her and walk her, yet she would wait till we got home to “do her business.” I wasn’t so bothered by the mess as by our lack of communication.

    On her second day, the lawyers who worked in offices downstairs from my apartment complained that “it sounded like a construction site” after I’d leave her in her crate. So, I brought her into work, where she charmed most everyone and lay quietly at my feet.

    Everyone had advice about bringing up Daisy. What to feed her, how much to feed her, what not to feed her. Naturally, the first treat I bought, a nice-looking (if I were a dog) piece of rawhide twisted into a bone shape and stuffed with a smear of meaty goop, was deemed unhealthy.

    Then there were the toys: action toys, distraction toys, comfort toys. Ka-ching. Ka-ching. Ka-ching. My cats were perfectly content hunting moles and mice all day. Daisy had to be continually entertained.

    One night, invited to dinner by a friend with a fenced-in yard, I brought along Daisy. She scampered playfully with his dog, the two occasionally entwined like long-lost friends.

    She began to run away. She wasn’t running from me, but rather in hopes of finding me, I guessed, as it happened the only two times in our two weeks together that I left her alone. The first time I met a friend for dinner, down the block at Cittanuova. I was gone only an hour. When I returned, Daisy was gone, though I’d closed all the windows to within three inches. There was seemingly no way she could have escaped. Except . . . out the cat door? Normally only her head could get through. My friend said no, impossible. Thank goodness she was microchipped. I got her back within the hour.

    A few nights later I went out again — this time closing the windows and locking her out of the kitchen and access to the cat door. Upon my return, she was missing again. A second-story window had been chewed, the screen busted through; she had propelled herself out the window. This time I spent the entire night worrying. But the next morning Animal Control called to say she’d been found in Montauk. Montauk!

    Turns out she’d coiled herself up at the bus stop on Newtown Lane, where she’d been rescued by a guy who worked at Waldbaum’s, and taken on the bus to his house, where she’d escaped — without her collar. The police found her within minutes on Old Montauk Highway. I was able to piece this all together when I heard from the very nice landlord of the rescuer, who had spent the night worrying about Daisy too, and had dispatched searchers in the morning. I took Daisy back for a visit and to retrieve her collar. “I’d take her,” he said, “but I’m 89.”

    I thought long and hard about keeping Daisy. I had grown to love her, and her smell. I could get her drugs to stop her separation anxiety. I could get her a trainer. I could get her more toys. But I kept thinking about what she would really want. And I knew what it was. She wanted a big yard and a family with a dog. I returned her to ARF with that proviso. Within two days, they found Daisy such a home. Farewell, my dear Daisy. You are missed.

    Debra Scott is a real estate columnist for The Star.

    I’ve been through hell — as it was envisioned by Dante — and it doesn’t strike me as being too different from much of life as we know it (though there are many arresting phantasmagorical special effects).

    So, I am ready to move on — it seems everybody’s ready to “move on” these days, at least that’s what they say in the newspapers — through purgatory and from there into the light — just as the fly did this morning through the open window in The Star’s upstairs bathroom.

    Envy and pride were the worst sins, Dante thought, giving rise, as they did, to various forms of political and spiritual discord. And the bottom circles were thus reserved for those whose acts were evilly willed.

    The sins of appetite — lust, gluttony, avarice, wrath, and sloth — occasioned less dire consequences. Their avatars were found by the Pilgrim and his guide, Virgil, in the circles of upper hell — a better address, as it were, than those circles south of Dis.

    Being a modern, a modern liberal, no less, I do wonder what all the fuss is about, though, obviously, some lines must be drawn lest we replicate the Inferno entirely on this planet.

    Dante was all for world government, I’m happy to say, believing it would be the only way to secure our happiness, and, according to my copy of the “Inferno,” which was translated and annotated by Mark Musa, thought that “the man who does not contribute to the common good fails sadly in his duty.”

    Is East Hampton, then, an earthly paradise? For I find many here do contribute to the common good. Perhaps the many here who act in this communal way do so because they’re inspired by our beautiful natural surroundings. Being blessed, they wish the same for others. It’s something to think about as “we come out to see once more the stars.”

    At first blush, it was hard to understand why Southampton Town officials would fight a lawsuit brought by a group of churchgoers who claimed their civil rights were violated when they went to Southampton Town Hall on July 26, 2011, to protest against same-sex marriages on the first day such marriages became legal in New York State.

    It has been widely reported that police refused to allow them to remain on the steps of Town Hall because the building had been declared a “Bias Free Zone” in 2008, with a sign posted to that effect.

    The group, which the Web-based Religion News Service called the Southampton Six, was comprised of the Rev. Donald Havrilla of the Southampton First Gospel Church and five congregants of his and other churches. They alleged their freedom of speech, free exercise of religion, equal access, equal protection, and right of due process had been violated.

    The town, of course, had no choice but to respond to the suit, brought in Federal Court for the Eastern District of New York, and an attorney for the town said it had moved “as expeditiously as necessary” to settle the case after Judge Joseph Bianco refused to dismiss it,  finding a potential civil rights issue. As might be expected, settlement took a long time.

    The irony is that signs designating public places Bias-Free Zones were initiated by the town’s Anti-Bias Task Force, whose intent was to promote civility rather than to “impede upon anyone’s first amendment rights,” as Town Councilwoman Bridget Fleming said last week after some of the terms agreed to were reported.

    In a press release last week, the town said it would pay the plaintiffs’ attorney $40,000; that it had rescinded the 2008 resolution, and authorized that new, more carefully worded, signs go up soon “to reinforce the town’s commitment to ensuring that all citizens that the town interacts with will be treated in a bias-free manner.”

    In the court of public opinion, it seemed the protesters had won, but the suit never went to trial and the facts about exactly what happened that day in July are in dispute. “We gave some, and they gave some,” Ms. Fleming said, adding that she could not elaborate.

    The plaintiffs alleged that they were forced to move from the steps to an area flanked by seven-foot-tall bushes, and that this effectively kept them from interacting with others.  Attorneys for the town, however, indicated more was involved, only hinting — because the agreement had not yet been filed with the court and therefore was not official — that protesters may have headed inside the building to the town clerk’s office, where they may have intended to interrupt things. 

    “Local public officials do not have the constitutional authority to relegate people to the back of the bus in the public forum because of their religious views,”  the protesters’ attorney told the Religious News Service. I don’t know whether this is a fair or exaggerated reflection about what happened, but the essence of it is a principle on which all sides are likely to agree.

    With Halloween upon us, a ghost story would seem appropriate, and, as it happens, there is a tale of Congress Hall to be told.

    The house, which stands on Main Street overlooking the East Hampton Village Green, is ancient and storied. It was in the Mulford family from when it was built, sometime after 1680, until 1976.

    Congress Hall got its name somewhat cynically during the mid-19th century to note that it was where many of the men of the village would gather to talk, welcomed by their bachelor host, David Mulford.

    A descendant, David E. Mulford, sent me an excerpt from a family history he wrote that described the place, from which I learned much about the house and its inhabitants. The story was told, he wrote, that around 1805, the family added an extra room for their “slave girls.”

    Mr. Mulford related that the house was rented to summer tenants beginning in the 1870s and that the painter Thomas Moran, who later built a house and studio just up the street, was the first tenant. Another was Gen. Nelson A. Miles, a one-time commanding general of the United States Army.

    Round about 1885, the town trustees ordered that Buell Lane be widened, and over the protest of the then owner, David G. Mulford, the work required that a triangular section of the house be removed. It was.

    Mr. Mulford described his earliest memories of Congress Hall, which date to the early 1930s — how warm the massive central fireplace kept it and the sound of a Dominy tall clock ticking in the front hall. In summers until 1975, the house was rented to others, but that year, the family realized they could no longer maintain it.

    Still, ties were strong, and they and friends decided to spend one last summer there. It was a glorious time, Mr. Mulford recalled, sprucing up the place and inviting friends for visits. Hurricane Belle struck in August, scattering tree limbs, but doing no particular damage to Congress Hall.

    Several experiences that summer, however, Mr. Mulford wrote, suggested that the ancestors might not have approved of the decision to sell. He described a chill wind passing through the dining room on an otherwise close and sultry night. A fruit bowl set on a table cascaded into several pieces on its own. Another time, a glass hurricane lamp cracked, its fragments falling suspiciously neatly. A clock that had not run for years was discovered wound and running one morning; no one of this world claimed responsibility.

    “I couldn’t help but think that perhaps some earlier generations of Mulfords were trying to discourage us from having the house leave the family, or at least get our attention,” he wrote.

    Congress Hall today has new owners once again, who have set about restoring it. Bill Hugo, their contractor, took me around the place the other day, showing me the corner where the building was sliced away to make room for the road.

    We saw no ghosts. But there is no saying whether or not they were there watching  . . . us.

   That some people find the evidence of tradesmen’s lives in the blue-collar section of town offensive is puzzling.

    We’ll never make Springs Saga­ponack no matter how hard we try, nor should we want to. Uniformity, whether in the form of grandiose mansions or too tidy half-acre lots, seems to me to be the real offense.

    Springs used to be celebrated for its diversity (for its admixture of farmers and clammers and artists). Now apparently it is not, conformity being ever on the march.

    There undoubtedly have been — and are — problems, though it seems to me talking with neighbors ought to be the first recourse. Those who are up in arms may well say that it is not my ox that is being gored, which is true, though it was not long ago that the house next door was overflowing with tenants in the embrace of a gouging landlord, hard workers all, trying to make the best of it.

    It being a case of “there but for fortune . . .” we sympathized, and were friendly. I redoubled my efforts to learn Spanish, and it was I who had to be asked once to please turn the music down.

    A foreclosure sale and an ambitious renovation followed, the tenants scattered to the wind, and what was once a nice-looking house on the outside but not inside is home to a nuclear family from the city.

    All by way of saying that the new town administration ought to be diplomatic when it comes to enforcing laws and codes that present-day reality and cultural differences may have to some extent supervened.

    Yes, it would be good if a balance were struck, but I’ll take a little untidiness, as it were, over a too neat porch.

    With zombies in the movies, zombies on television, and zombies in print, I’m starting to think we should cool it.

    “If you build it, he will come‚” a voice told Kevin Costner in the movie “Field of Dreams.” And come they did, strolling out from fields of corn and straw. If we don’t stop being so hospitable toward the zombies, they too might come, and then we’re all goners.

    Zombies, with their filthy hair, bulging eyes, tattered clothes, and bloody scars all over their faces, are very scary. And why do they look so mean all the time? I mean, c’mon, you’re dead, get over it. Go back to where you came from and rest in peace.

    Several weeks ago, right before Montauk’s fall festival, I noticed some of these creeps hanging around street corners in the downtown area. Wondering why, I considered that they might be here to enjoy the autumn festivities. Or could they be casing our little seaside hamlet, where it would be very easy to dump a tattered body under the cover of darkness on a remote beach?

    While using my investigative reporting skills, I found that they were actually invited by Montauk Youth to scare things up out here. What, are they crazy? Don’t they know it’s Halloween and that zombies come to life on that day?

    Now it’s unavoidable; they’re here already and have been eyeing us for weeks, looking for the fat, chubby ones to munch on. They’ve probably already chosen their prey, so lock your doors and windows, folks.

    Zombies are wily creatures and can disguise themselves as princesses, pirates, superheroes, and even Barbie dolls, so some of them might not seem so frightening. But they all have scary faces and bulging eyes, something to look out for.

    I don’t think anyone’s been feeding our visitors, so tonight, when their limbs start moving and they climb down from their posts, anyone who crosses their path could become a meal.

    I happen to be a scaredy-cat. I can’t watch scary movies or read scary books. I like life to be about puppies, kittens, babies, and flowers. When I was a very impressionable teenager I saw “The Exorcist” and I’ve not been the same since. When my son was christened he wore a little red jumpsuit under his white lacy christening gown. While performing the ceremony, the priest happened to point out that he was wearing red, the color of the devil. I almost ran out of the church, leaving my little baby boy to fend for himself over the christening font.

    Today it’s going to be tough for us to decipher neighborhood children dressed in costume from the real zombies. I suggest giving the good stuff to anyone who remotely resembles a zombie. So as not to piss them off. Because you never know what trick might be up their tattered sleeves. And make sure someone is with you at all times when that knock comes to your door. Be afraid, be very afraid!

    Janis Hewitt is a senior writer for The Star.

    This time, despite not one but two unscheduled stops on the Expressway, the Jitney arrives right on time. I alight and walk in the sunshine toward the meeting place, just as on the previous Saturday.

    The November afternoon is surprisingly, wonderfully warm, and at Park Avenue I turn south. It was a good idea to leave the jacket behind, unburdened by the unnecessary, the better to roam freely.

    Back on my feet again / I’m back on the street again / I’m back on the top again.

    As often happens, I’ve become obsessed with a particular recording, at present Van Morrison’s 1999 album, “Back on Top.” With titles like “Golden Autumn Day” and “When the Leaves Come Falling Down,” the at-turns swinging and meditative collection is the perfect autumn soundtrack, and in my not-so-humble opinion his finest since the 1970s.

    And I’m taking in the Indian Summer / And I’m soaking it up in my mind / And I’m pretending that it’s paradise / On a golden autumn day.

    Just before 34th Street, the sun disappears behind No. 3 Park Avenue, a huge and hideously ugly structure that obliterated the river view when I lived, for a year, across the street. In its absence, the temperature perceptibly falls and a brisk wind blows across the deep canyon of Park Avenue.

    A few minutes after 2, Lucy appears, radiant in the autumn sunshine, distant across Herald Square as all of humanity seems to charge in every direction, all colors shapes heights, faces exuberant and weary and confident and anguished and the thought returns that we are all born to die and that the time will surely come sooner than we wish and knowing this how can you be cold or disrespectful toward any person? Can you not have an open heart again? Did you ever?

    This, our third meeting in a week, is the least awkward as we grow familiar. Like my former wife, Lucy (not her real name) is foreign. Like mine before it, her marriage lies in smoldering ruin. It’s all over but the paperwork.

    Yet she is still married, and that mildly reckless feature of the budding relationship lends a trace of danger, a thrilling tension. It is foolish, or I am.

    We sit on the trodden brown-green grass in Central Park, couples and families and groups camped around us on this golden autumn day.

    “I have to tell you something.”

    “Mm-hmm.”

    “This is the last time I can see you.”

    (Silence)

    “Until this is finished. I have to get a divorce, have to move on. I want to be happy again.”

    I saw you standing with the wind and the rain in your face / And you were thinking ’bout the wisdom of the leaves and their grace / When the leaves come falling down.

    We meander through the park and, with the first drops of rain falling from the fast-graying sky, escape to wander the Time Warner Center. Later, the packed 1 train spits us out in the Village and as night falls we are dining at the bar of a noisy Japanese restaurant, the mostly college-age patrons abuzz in anticipation of Saturday night’s carouse.

    And then we are at another crowded bar, and then another, and then it is too late to make the journey to our respective joyless homes.

    Up in the morning, out on the road / And my head is aching and my hands are cold.

    Daylight saving time has concluded and a shaft of egregiously early-morning sunlight, between the curtain and the window frame in an otherwise unlit room along the Expressway, shines upon us.

    We had dressed only for that golden autumn day, and now it is so very cold, and we huddle in the lobby until a car arrives to deliver us back to Manhattan and a breakfast, in Chinatown, of scalding tea and noodle soup. A furtive hug and I step into the chilly autumn sunshine, blinking and bleary-eyed, and fade into the crowd.

    Christopher Walsh is a reporter at The Star.

    Let’s hear it for longevity. I’ve been at The Star for more than 50 years. Yikes. At least I haven’t been at the same desk or even in the same room in the building all these years. And, of course, we work differently now.

    In the old days stories were typed on yellow paper rolled into manual typewriters, and we edited with pencils, although they weren’t necessarily blue. We cut and pasted, and it meant exactly that. Blades were involved. I probably cut and pasted more than others, because I’ve always been the sort of editor that juggles thoughts — paragraphs, quotes.

    (Although they aren’t needed any longer during the paste-up process, I still keep handy the Hoffritz scissors I bought in the 1960s at White’s Pharmacy in East Hampton, and worry when they go missing. No one misses rubber cement, which we all gave up a long time ago.)

    Longevity was in the air when Larry Cantwell, who will be elected supervisor of East Hampton Town on Tuesday, dropped in last week —  even though he is running unopposed — to talk about his vision for the town. A handful of staff members were sitting in an informal semicircle when he looked in my direction and laughed softly, almost to himself.

    “It’s a Yogi Berra thing,” he said.

    I didn’t know what he was referring to, exactly, but I knew just what he meant: We have both been there and done that before. What came to Larry’s mind, he told me later, was one of Yogi’s tortured statements that has become part of the American lexicon: “It’s deju vu all over again.”

    Although Larry’s career and mine have followed different paths, parallel rather than intersecting, we both could certainly be considered veterans. I’m still toiling away in the name of independent journalism while Larry, who was elected an East Hampton bay constable in 1975 (at the age of 25), has never stopped being a public servant: He was a town councilman from 1976 to 1982, and the East Hampton Village administrator from 1982 until recently; he also has served on the town’s housing authority and planning board.

    One of the attributes that Larry will bring to his new office in January is his knowledge of what went before. I am confident that having been witness to past controversies, and knowing whether and how they were resolved, will serve him well. He will have archival, and institutional, memories to call upon.

    “Those who cannot remember the past are condemned to repeat it” is an aphorism often heard when government officials are criticized. It wasn’t Yogi Berra, to be sure, who said it, but George Santayana, an American philosopher who lived for almost 100 years from the mid-19th to the mid-20th centuries — gathering wisdom along the way, no doubt.

    That Larry remembers the history of this place will be an asset for all of us. He is not likely to make the rookie mistake of replicating the actions of previous administrations, if those actions didn’t work out the last time around, for one thing. However, taking a cue again from Yogi Berra, he might — like many of us who have observed the overwhelming changes of the past few decades —  come up hard against the reality that  “the future ain’t what it used to be.”

    From where I sit, something interesting is happening here in terms of political involvement. This week, The Star ran some 74 letters to the editor — plenty but not quite the record. This is astonishing when you consider that there is no contest at the top of the ballot to gin up excitement and that one party’s majority is already assured.

    It would be wrong to ascribe the heavy interest to the ease of submitting e-mails. That’s been true for years now. More, to my mind, the onslaught has its roots in a reaction to East Hampton’s struggles with uncontrolled tourism, weekenders, and the escalation of nightlife — a sense that the town is at an existential crossroads between those who live here and those who hope to cash in.

    Fascinating, too, has been the outpouring of smart and heartfelt support for Kathee Burke-Gonazalez. It was as if Springs rose up in her defense after a spate of caustic letters of opposition. Though she was not unknown to Springs School parents and district taxpayers, thanks to her nine years on the board of education, her emergence on the townwide scene has been quite something. 

    Notable, too, is a repeated sense that during the last four years the town has begun to turn rapidly into a place many residents do not like. In letter after letter, this community has spoken out about loud events, beaches overrun by share house renters, laws ignored and those deemed inadequate, and an airport for the very few that annoys the hell out of the very many. The fight is on, if these missives are any indication.

    Letters to the editor of any publication cannot not be seen as a representative poll. However, the preponderance of different points of view cannot be overlooked. A sizable and vocal proportion of residents think the town has been on the wrong track. Those who stand as winners in Tuesday’s election will do well to keep a close eye on these pages to see just how they are faring. I am sure there will continue to be plenty of voices ready to let them know.