"...until the day when he himself closed his Macintosh."
Dear reader, I give you what might be the worst poem ever written by a theorist. Yes, I'm speaking of Michael Fried's poem titled "Macintosh," published by the venerable journal Critical Inquiry in 2007 in a special issue on the death of Jacques Derrida. Very difficult to top this...
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Macintosh
It all hangs by a hair:
one day everything is going well
and the next some test result comes back just slightly awry
and you are embarked.
When a visitor let drop the news
that Jacques was seriously ill
I interjected, "Vous êtes sûr?" What I meant was: How can that be--
as if the rate at which he produced his books
not to mention the avidity with which each was devoured
would keep him safe from harm
until the day when he himself closed his Macintosh.