Death and the Cult of Celebrity

Years ago, when I was in high school, I had a friend over at my house and we were watching television. As I flipped around the channels (I think I actually had to go up to the cable box and turn the dial), there was a news report about the death of former New York Yankees and Kansas City Royals manager Dick Howser from a brain tumor. I commented that it was sad. "Why is it sad?" my friend asked me. "Did you know him?"

Of course I didn't know Dick Howser personally. But his death, after a very public battle with cancer, struck me as sad. He wasn't that old, he had put on a very brave face despite knowing his fate, and he seemed like a nice guy. I had no better answer than that. And I've thought about that conversation since the news broke last night that Robin Williams had been found dead, of an apparent suicide. I think of it every time someone in the public eye dies before their time.

Many articles have appeared today extolling the talents of the hyper-kinetic Williams, while others have explored his battles with addiction and the connection between creativity and mental illness. All I can add is that Robin Williams made me laugh, and that it's clear that many artists have demons that they cannot keep at bay. If there is anything good to come of Williams's death, it is that it will remind people of how crippling a disease depression can be, how relentless it is.

But what I'm interested in is how we react to these deaths. The death of Robin Williams comes in the midst of a summer of carnage and mayhem around the world. Just within the past few weeks we've seen war in Gaza, violence and brutality in Iraq, an outbreak of Ebola in West Africa, and the senseless shooting down of a commercial airliner. Yes, we notice these things, we express our outrage and our fear, but we keep them at bay. But if you spent any time on social media last night, you saw an outpouring of grief and shock and sadness over the death of a single, albeit very talented, individual. And there was a palpable sense that everyone needed to stop what they were doing and acknowledge what a loss this is.

And so again I come back to that question my friend asked me years ago. Why is the death of Robin Williams so sad to so many people? Why is it sadder than the unnecessary deaths of people in Gaza, Iraq, and Sierra Leone? Or, for that matter, the thousands of people who take their lives each year? It isn't. But I think it's hard for many of us to wrap our heads around the violence and death and poverty that exists in many parts of the world. Many of the problems in the world are complex and deep-rooted, and to dwell on the dark side of humanity for too long would make many of us want to curl up in the fetal position.

I don't necessarily think this is all about our obsession with celebrity, although in some cases that may play a role. We do, in some sense, live vicariously through famous people. But ultimately, it seems we come together to mourn for actors and writers and musicians and athletes because they've brought us joy, they've touched us with their art, they've shown us the better side of humanity. And losing that source of joy, that connection to something larger, can be incredibly sad. I have no better answer than that.