Columnists

Emily Dickinson said you’ll know it’s poetry if it knocks your socks off, or words to that effect, and that was how Mary and I felt as we were watching the documentary “Viva Maestro” at the Sag Harbor Cinema the other day.

I drove by the Pantigo fields as a group was getting set for a groundbreaking ceremony for a new Southampton Hospital adjunct. It made me sad, and then angry.

At the 2019 Comic Con in New York, before Covid cramped its style, I walked right by a booth set up by a legend among comic-book artists, Neal Adams.

In just one day last week I was inspected and boosted, and soon I’ll be implanted as well.

The East Hampton Town Trustees eventually had to take on the question of a scholarship named for William J. Rysam, an enslaver of other human beings.

John Steinbeck and Cannery Row East.

I never liked the happy-clappy bright yellow of spring’s early buds.

This year the fun was bled right out of TurboTax.

Even when I was a punk-rock teenager of 15 and 16, I kept a carefully curated vanity table, my bottles of drugstore body lotion and mail-order pins and badges displayed like a still life, like a Joseph Cornell assemblage.

Thomas Piketty thinks we’re heading toward more equality should the wealth be spread around a bit more.

I had a realization, of sorts, swimming in the warm water off Puerto Rico last week.

Notes on life in a small plane.