Not long ago I found myself writing about Philip Seymour Hoffman. A life lost to self-destruction.
This morning I got up and made my way to work as usual. On the tube I take out my tablet, check emails, check Twitter for news. That routine was broken when I glimpsed Robin Williams’ name in the same sentence as the word “dead”.
I couldn’t hide my shock. It would’ve been written all over my face, but I didn’t look around. I just read through the news articles and all the tweets of RIP.
This one struck me especially:
I didn’t know that Robin Williams suffered from severe depression. I had heard that he had battled with alcoholism in the past. But then you don’t think about the private lives of actors such as him. He was a man of his craft. Not a celebrity.
One of his first movies that really stayed with me was Dead Poets Society. I wanted to be one of John Keating’s student and stand on the desk to shout out to him. As it was, when I watched the movie, I shouted at the TV for the boys to get up on those desks already. Of course that one meant more to me than most of the others he’s done, but I loved him in all the movies I’ve seen him in (save One Hour Photo, which was so creepy).
He was truly one of a kind. Neither am I the first to say this nor will I be the last. His talent was all-encompassing and he lived all his characters. My second favourite is probably Patch Adams. But really, there are so many wonderful roles he played, how can you possibly choose?
Today we grieve for Robin Williams the actor. Because most of us never met the man, but we invited him into our homes regardless, went out to see him on the big screen. He made us laugh uproariously, or smile quietly. He made us think. He made us sad and even cry.
He seized the day and had an extra-ordinary life that he shared with us. For once words fail me. I am heartbroken.
(Tweeted by Zelda Williams. Nothing left to add.)