Toward the end of Dead Poets' Society, as John Keating is being ushered out of the school following the suicide of one of his pupils, his disciples make a defiant statement of allegiance and respect, of honour and recognition, by standing on their desks and shouting, Oh Captain, My Captain. They do this one by one, hesitantly, nervously, and in that moment they enact the poetic passion, the courageous individuality, that he had worked so hard to awaken in them.
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He looks back at them admiringly, appreciatively, but there is a tinge of sadness in his face. He has been rocked by the death of his pupil, he has been reminded that the embrace of passion will sometimes lead to destruction. The light may burn brightly, but it may also be prematurely extinguished.
I want to stand on my desk and shout, Oh Captain My Captain. Through this role and his therapist role in Good Will Hunting, Robin Williams conveyed to many in my generation a profound sense of the possibilities in being human, of overcoming fears, of the need for Carpe Diem, seizing the day. And he always did it without coming across as trite or shallow, it was spoken from the depths of strength, from an awareness of the obstacles that would get in one's way.
He gave flesh and spirit to a character who had battled demons, who had held his friend's corpse in Vietnam, who had watched his wife slowly die of cancer, and who was still willing to play a hand, to give life a go.
Robin Williams could seamlessly merge the comic with the tragic, finding the light amidst the darkness, the redemptive laugh in the face of despair.
And yet, it seems, in the end his own darkness was too much to bear, the pain could not be evaded, the abyss pulled him in with a force he could not counter.
I've heard people being surprised by this – but he knew so much, why did he not seek help?, but he seemed so jovial - and my feeling is that people misunderstand what it means to suffer in this way. Perhaps this misunderstanding is deliberate, and rational, for to contemplate the abyss too deeply is to start to feel its grip, to awaken oneself to its horror.
It would be trite and disingenuous to suggest that Judaism has solutions or answers to such problems. My own work as a therapist - perhaps part inspired by Good Will Hunting - has taught me that the paralysing blackness of depression needs to be respected, that it can't be argued with or cajoled into relenting.
It is a space in which words and sense lose all meaning, wherein connections to the future feel frail, like a bridge that cannot be crossed. Sitting with the pain and trauma can help, but there are no guarantees or formulaic fixes.
Severe depression ravages our most basic levels of motivation, decoupling us from the engine that unconsciously propels us through life. And sometimes, when the engine can't be restarted, even the will to live cannot be found.
What the Talmud may offer us is a sense that we're not alone in our suffering; that the dead poets of previous generations have been there too.
I am not speaking of finding comfort in God, for as Julia Kristeva notes in Black Sun, to be depressed is to be a most proper atheist, to find salvation utterly blocked, to be wholly enclosed within one's suffering.
The Talmudic sages lived amidst loss, and their approaches carry the weight of that experience.
A particularly thoughtful approach is offered by Rava (Berakhot 5b). He suggested that in the face of tragedy we might use our acute vulnerability as a source of soul searching, as a call to improve ourselves. This wouldn't alter our external circumstances, but it might enrich our internal circumstances, and be of tremendous benefit in the long run. It would also keep the aggressive energies from turning depressive, sublimating them into more constructive pursuits.
It is Rava's position that we adopt at this time in the Jewish year, as we transition from the depressive mourning of Tisha B'Av to the creative self-regeneration of Elul and the High Holy Days.
Rava's emotional flexibility was in part shaped by his own master Rabbah.
Rabbah was famous for opening his discourses with a joke, with a touch of comic lightness. Once his audience had been opened up by this, once their defences were down and their emotions were receptive, he shifted into a mood of awe and reverence, and then began to teach.
Occupying different emotional registers, transitioning from tragedy to construction, these are Jewish values we are much in need of, this Av more than most.
As we remember Robin Williams, a contemporary master of this dynamic, may we find the strength in ourselves to remain fluid rather than rigid, open rather than closed, and instead of fear may we find the courage required for peace.
Elie Jesner is a psychoanalytic psychotherapist in London, and an educator at a variety of communal institutions. He has a background in philosophy and Jewish thought, having studied at Cambridge University, The University of Warwick and Yeshivat Har Etzion. He blogs at thinkingdafyomi.com.