Vorspeisenplatte

Es ist eigenartig, wie viele Menschen von Herzen um Robin Williams trauern, weltweit.

Niemand,absolut niemand wollte hier in Israel heute über die Feuerpause reden,oder die Verhandlungen in Kairo.Alle nur über Robin Williams.

— Nicole Diekmann (@nicolediekmann) August 12, 2014

Auch über meine eigene Trauer war ich erstaunt, ich kannte den Mann doch gar nicht. Doch zum einen verbinde ich mit seinem Werk sehr viele wichtige und prägende Phasen und Begleiter meines Lebens. Zum anderen schmerzt mich, dass Depressionen ihn umgebracht haben.

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Hier ein Nachruf, auf den Stephen Fry hinwies, der sich ja viel mit Gemütskrankheiten beschäftigt.
Send not to know macht sich Gedanken über die weltweite Trauer:

We came back to the same line: if Robin Williams could not make it, who could?
(…)
Depression is a bastard, and it is a thief. It is random and it does not discriminate. It takes the brilliant and the beautiful, the kind and the good, the funny and the clever. It does not give a shit how much you are adored or how much joy you give or how many prizes you win. It is no respecter of money or class or fame.

As the affection and grief roll round the internet, my friend and I say, as one: if only he knew how much he was loved. There is the silent, melancholy rider: it would have made no difference. Depression does not count blessings. Blessings, ironically, may make the sufferer feel even worse. How dare I be afflicted when I have all this?

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Die Welt hat Reaktionen von Williams’ Kollegen und Kolleginnen im Web gesammelt.

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In der FAZ: “Der Mann, der zu gut war für Hollywood”.

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In der Welt: “Gooood Niiiiiight, Robiiiiiin!”

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Über Williams’ Tod und Depressionen in The Telegraph:
“Robin Williams dies: depression is a cloak of lead, a toxic second skin“.

Robin Williams was depressed. He was so depressed he killed himself. Fame, adulation, money, love, commercial success meant nothing in the face of it. Like cancer, depression is an equal-opportunity killer. Unlike cancer its sufferers are too often greeted with a creeping sense of blame and suspicion, rather than compassion and horror. Links have been drawn regularly between creativity and depression. But as much as it suits the image of the tortured artist to manufacture such links, it is an erroneous and unhelpful comparison. It implies that there is an upside, that the payoff for wanting to die is being able to produce something immortal and creative. But there is no payoff. You create despite the vice and voices in your head, not because of it. There is no upside. There is, with luck and love and the right support, the chance that you will stay alive. There is the (much smaller) chance that you will stay alive with some degree of contentment. There is, all too often, the chance you won’t do either of these.

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Nachtrag
Robin Williams’ Tochter Zelda dankt für die Anteilnahme.