All these months later, it still seems incomprehensible. Philip Seymour Hoffman is no longer with us.
Over the weekend in The Guardian, playwright and very good friend David Bar Katz (he and Hoffman used to have coffee every morning after dropping off their kids to school) shared a prose poem about Hoffman. It is a must-read, spanning Katz’s celebration of the actor’s mastery of the “non-coerced and generous apology,” as well as this foreshadowing:
I saw Phil in his first professional theater role. A production of King Lear at a small theater in the middle of New Jersey.