New Orts #69

May 11 MMXXV

It is after noon. This is the third time William comes out of his study and goes around the back. Daily he takes in meat and drink, uses part, and gives the rest back. His elbow bends his arm at an efficient angle so that his thumb and forefinger can close on the tab of his zipper. Who says life isn’t sweet with the sun still high for hours to come?

The poet goes to heaven. For three
weeks the choir of angels sings
his praises, then they take
a coffee break. The poet cries,
"Nobody loves me!”                                       
                          Robert Pack

— both, from Lucinella, by Lore Segal (1928-2024)

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Occam’s razor, the venerable philosophical principle that the truest explanation is likely to be the simplest, has been thrown away. We’re living in the age of Occam’s chain saw, when the preferred answer is the one that makes the loudest noise and generates the most debris.
— A. O. Scott, in the NYT book review, March 18 2025