Unfinished

Actor Philip Seymour Hoffman died Feb. 2, found in his New York apartment with, we’re told, a heroin syringe sticking out of his arm. He was 46 years old—just two years older than me.

Much has been said already of how he died. But I seem to be thinking more about when—not when as in the hour or the day, but when, as in the middle of a life of promise and duty and, one would hope, joy.

Hoffman had already accomplished a great deal in his life, of course. He won a Best Actor Oscar for his work in 2005’s Capote, and he was nominated another three times. He was an accomplished stage actor as well, and was widely considered one of the greatest thespians of his generation.

As such, he was in great demand. He was head gamemaker Plutarch Heavensbee in The Hunger Games series, the last two installments of which are now being filmed. He was slated to star in Showtime’s new series Happyish—a program built around Hoffman’s talents.

More critically, he leaves behind three children: 10-year-old son Cooper and two daughters, 7-year-old Tallulah and 5-year-old Willa. In fact, it was only when Hoffman failed to pick up his children as planned that anyone knew something was amiss.

For my entire adult life, my daily schedule has revolved around two things: deadlines and kids. I’ve never known a time when I wasn’t beholden to someone for something: Pick up the children at 3, file a story by 4, drive to a meeting by 7. People trust me to show up. To complete stuff. To do my job—whether that job is being a writer or reviewer, father or husband. I don’t want to betray that trust. I don’t want to let anybody down, or leave a hole on the page where my copy should’ve been.

When I think of Hoffman, I think of the hole he’s left behind. The body of work left undone. The children in need of a father.

Death leaves so much unfinished.

I believe in the power of story, but sometimes our stories lie. We’ve been conditioned by our books and plays and movies to look for tidy endings. Often they’re happy. Occasionally they’re sad. But there always is, without question, an end—something that completes the narrative we’ve witnessed. Something that shuts the book or brings down the curtain.

But in real life, sometimes the story just … ends. In the middle of a chapter or the beginning of a scene. The actor walks off the stage and is gone, and the players around him are left adrift, not knowing what to say or where to turn or how to go forward. How to complete the play.

The show must go on, actors say. But sometimes it doesn’t.

There are times when I wish God would tell us how much time we had on this earth: We could better plan our stories then, better plot out our own ending. But He doesn’t work that way. None of us can know. And so we must somehow live with the knowledge that our lives might feel—at least to us—unfinished.