Time Stops for Only the Greats: the Loss of Robin Williams

“No man is an island.”

— John Donne, 1572-1631

Donne, an English poet and cleric in the Church of England, wrote that famous line in “Meditation XVII,” a work whose name seems poignantly appropriate as the world grieves the loss of actor Robin Williams.

That Williams chose to exit stage right two days ago on his own terms shocked hundreds of millions. How could a man who made the whole world laugh so much for so long become so sad he chose not to continue?

Robin took the answer with him, leaving it for the rest of us to guess.

Since Robin’s Monday passing many have tried to put the comedic titan’s motivation in a box of simple explanation. But Robin Williams never fit in box. He struggled with fame, addiction, depression, and juggling the downside of notoriety that only a few can hope to imagine.

He went everywhere, did everything, met everyone, and left behind a body of work rivaled by a few but surpassed perhaps only by Chaplin. He was a giver, not a taker, and gave us all he had. His mind worked at warp speed, its multidimensional velocity blurring past the processing speed of mere mortals.

At 63, Williams leaves behind a devastated circle of family and friends trying to reconcile the unreconcilable. Williams lived and died on his terms. We are lucky to have seen his work and applauded his genius.

It is easy to blame his death on the demons — that they yet again sacked another legend — that Robin scrambled around until the pocket of life finally collapsed and the darkness took him down and piled on. I have seen this before — the demons got my late mother too. She was a great mom but fell too early in life to the unbeatable force of an overpowering foe.

There is a saying in the screenwriter’s world that “If it’s not on the page, it’s not on the stage,” which is why I love watching great actors at work. Williams transcended the page. He didn’t just make a writer’s words come alive, he exploded past the the writer’s hopes. His performance were so rich, so permeating and convincing with dimension, that we somehow came to believe that Robin truly was all these people — even though he was none of them at all.

Early in Johnny Depp’s acting career he was befriended by another since departed genius, the reclusive Marlon Brando. During their discussions on the craft of acting Brando asked Depp a very direct question: “How many faces you got?” Brando believed that a truly great actor has a finite amount of roles he or she could truly inhabit. His message to Depp was to pick those faces carefully. You will run out of faces.

Robin was near in age to me, so I understand life’s evolution from bulletproof young man to a vulnerable older one. I wrote and performed standup for several years but stopped when I realized I would always be good but never great. From behind the spotlight and microphone you hear but do not internalize the laughter. You are there because you have something to say; and when the timing light goes on and your minutes are done, you walk off — hopefully to the applause of a grateful audience. It is the need to perform, to be heard, that drives the comedian. The laughter fuels the performance. It does not fuel the life.

When you finish and walk offstage, adrenaline dissipates and life returns. You are back to you — the real you — and with that returns everything in life you were dealing with before you parked it to the side to walk out and speak. Life’s realities go nowhere, they simply wait. Whether you make them laugh for seven minutes, twenty, or even an hour, there is no escaping the real you. It patiently waits in the wings.

The best standup comedian I ever opened for, Richard Jeni, was a very unhappy man who in 2007 took his own life in a violent way. Richard was 50. He was the guy no one — and I mean no one — wanted to follow. He was brilliant at the delivery of his craft in a nightclub setting but never happy. He was jealous that others less talented became far more famous. There was an unjustness to it Richard could not accept. But they did something he refused to do, which was play the corporate game — a requirement for a comic hoping to transcend. Richard wouldn’t play that game but others did. Because they did their careers leapfrogged his.

Williams, of course, would have had no fear following Jeni because genius does what it takes at a given time and place to prove it. His talent transcended brilliance.

In “Farewell to Arms” Ernest Hemingway wrote, “The world breaks everyone and afterward many are strong at the broken places. But those that will not break it kills. It kills the very good and the very gentle and the very brave impartially. If you are none of these you can be sure it will kill you too but there will be no special hurry.”

Hemingway, of course, ended his life in Ketchum, Idaho with a shotgun three weeks short of his 62nd birthday. His typewriter was out of words, his body was failing, the booze took a toll, and he had no more faces. His body of work was complete.

The loss of Robin Williams reminds us — yet again — that even the strong are broken in places. Those seven words — “Even the strong are broken in places” — have been taped to my writing station for years. They are words to live by, a gentle reminder that John Donne was right. No man (or woman) is an island. We all will struggle.

It seems the best way to honor Robin’s passing may be by reaching out to those we care about. Facades and bravado are stage props that surround us everywhere. We are life’s actors. We play our roles the best we can but in the shadows of loneliness mortality whispers of pain.

Tell others you care. Let us leave no words unspoken for those who have touched us in positive, supportive ways.

We cannot bring Robin back, but certainly can make him smile.