Columnists

I’ve stood on a ladder pointing a hose through the window of a house ablaze in the boondocks of Nova Scotia, and you can’t take that away from me.

The classics teacher in “The Holdovers” says it was always thus, that it was no different in ancient times, that there’s always been the horrific and the sublime. Yet thinking about how to get beyond it seems to be the only thing that keeps us sane.

The prevailing narrative on Representative George Santos’s rise and imminent fall has bothered me from the start.

A quite noticeable fashion statement at Saturday’s N.C.A.A. Division III national cross-country championships was worn on the face. The mustache is back.

Money can’t buy you love, no, nor can it buy you peace of mind, engaged as you might well be in the constant pursuit of it.

There are no understory plants any more. No saplings coming up. The Quercus alba acorns I may manage to grow into small trees could help preserve the species.

From the comic stage to the world stage.

Don’t name your business Hampton-whatever. It just sounds generic.

L.A. story: eternal gratitude to that West Hollywood art house cinema for an introduction to Krzysztof Kieslowski’s “Dekalog.”

My children definitely don’t feel the sense of excitement we felt as children at the holidays. They’re quite blasé.

On the Day of the Dead, I think about them, my immediate forebears.

Only about a month remains in the village’s leaf-pickup program, and at this rate there will be nothing much to suck up.

You know you are a child of the 1970s when . . .

It was a homecoming win all the more memorable for the fact that its attainment was the players’ gift to their coach and a gift to themselves.

Sea water temperature is projected to rise by .05 to .5 degrees Celsius per decade, with warming expected to be amplified in shallow coastal waters like ours.

The adventures, follies, and disequilibrium of running on a treadmill.

Cerberus and I had the crossing to Old Saybrook to ourselves. I could stand a year of Octobers, I thought.

I’d been looking forward to Cormaria’s “Sunday supper” takeout offering for weeks.

My friend and I are stuck in something of a creative bind at midcareer, looking around and wondering where the community went.

I am reminded of an exhibition the Israeli Tennis Centers, just about all of which were said to be located in underprivileged Israeli neighborhoods, gave a half-dozen years ago at the East Hampton Indoor Tennis Club that Scott Rubenstein manages.

We are either cynical or naive by nature. I believe this to be true.

Gubbins is back and I have a pair of bright, shiny new Asics sneakers on to celebrate the sports store’s return.

When was the last time you saw the tail of a white-tailed deer? They no longer seem to care about the human presence at all.

If you’re questioning the sanity of spending time in front of a television watching professional football, read on.

It says “Forever” on our stamps, and we say we live in the UNITED States, but I wonder. East Hamptoners, though, give me hope.

The Star last week called it Sammy’s Beach, on Three Mile Harbor, when, in fact, the correct name is Sammis, as in the local family that lived there.

When a campus visit becomes an urban tasting tour that smacks the complacency out of your mouth.

There has been all too much clinging going on in this family.

Netflix’s documentary series “Wrestlers” gets at the real America — you know, the oddball, likable one.

Such is the lot of the personal essayist: Sometimes you have to lead with “I.”