On Robin Williams

Robin Williams was a brilliantly funny and unfortunately tortured soul. He made everyone happy but himself, because of his struggle with severe depression. He possessed a gift to which he was immune himself. The whole world loved him but couldn't save him. I don't think that most, if few, actors could say that the breadth of their work spoke to every single generation. I grew up with “Aladdin.” Mrs. Doubtfire helped kids like me deal with having divorced parents; “Dead Poets Society” became a requisite rental during puberty; we learned about compassion in “Patch Adams,” we learned about the depths of love and forgiveness in “What Dreams May Come.” These are but a few examples. My little ones love his movies, too. Williams is immortal because of his work. It's an immortality that feels unfulfilled because it is unfulfilling. It's hollow. The shell is there but the spark that animates it is not. I hear so often from others that there is a trade-off between bewildering brilliance and mental health. In order to be so phenomenal at something you must be deficient elsewhere, as if the energy it takes to make one so remarkable is siphoned from somewhere else. It's sad that it occurs often enough to seem true. Prayers for Williams's family. It's a time when American can stand the least to lose any humor.