Paul Newman is still not dead. And I’m genuinely happy to know that. Newman is one of the all-time great actors and movie stars (yes, there’s a difference), a man without scandal for decades, a famously faithful husband and friend, and an incredible philanthropist.

I hope he lives comfortably for many more years. When you’re 83, that isn’t guaranteed. Apparently living out your time as privately and personally as you wish isn’t, either.

Let me get this straight: The National Enquirer supposedly heard from an unnamed source who may or may not know Newman that the actor was at death’s door due to cancer. That was enough for even reputable news organizations to spread the hearsay in an escalating schadenfreude race in which tragedy is entertainment.

Newman’s longtime neighbor and business partner A.E. Hotchner confirmed Wednesday that his friend does, indeed, have an unspecified form of cancer and is receiving treatment. Finally some credible news to report. But did it need to be pried from someone who would prefer to face mortality with the same polite privacy that has defined his life?

Not even a statement from Newman that he’s “doing nicely” is enough to call off the unseemly deathwatch. Newman has always been a man of few words that meant plenty.

“Doing nicely” sounds like he’d like to be left alone to live, as he was doing nicely before.

I have written several obituaries on Hollywood legends who died after long ailments: Katharine Hepburn, Bob Hope, Jack Lemmon, Jimmy Stewart, Gregory Peck among them. I prefer that the subject is dead before starting to write. Preparing celebrity obits in advance gets the timeline data right but doesn’t capture the loss when it occurs. I’m grateful each day writing Newman’s is delayed.

Give Newman some peace now, before he rests in it forever.