《相约星期二》 Tuesdays with Morrie 中英对照【12.2连载10L】_派派后花园

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[Novel] 《相约星期二》 Tuesdays with Morrie 中英对照【12.2连载10L】

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Acknowledgments

I would like to acknowledge the enormous help given to me in creating this book. For their memories, their patience, and their guidance, I wish to thank Charlotte, Rob, and Jonathan Schwartz, Maurie Stein, Charlie Derber, Gordie Fellman, David Schwartz, Rabbi Al Axelrad, and the multitude of Morrie's friends and colleagues. Also, special thanks to Bill Thomas, my editor, for handling this project with just the right touch. And, as always, my appreciation to David Black, who often believes in me more than I do myself.
Mostly, my thanks to Morrie, for wanting to do this last thesis together. Have you ever had a teacher like this?








1.The Curriculum

The last class of my old professor's life took place once a week in his house, by a window in the study where he could watch a small hibiscus plant shed its pink leaves. The class met on Tuesdays. It began after breakfast. The subject was The Meaning of Life. It was taught from experience.
No grades were given, but there were oral exams each week. You were expected to respond to questions, and you were expected to pose questions of your own. You were also required to perform physical tasks now and then, such as lifting the professor's head to a comfortable spot on the pillow or placing his glasses on the bridge of his nose. Kissing him good-bye earned you extra credit.
No books were required, yet many topics were covered, including love, work, community, family, aging, forgiveness, and, finally, death. The last lecture was brief, only a few words.
A funeral was held in lieu of graduation.
Although no final exam was given, you were expected to produce one long paper on what was learned. That paper is presented here.
The last class of my old professor's life had only one student.
I was the student.

It is the late spring of 1979, a hot, sticky Saturday afternoon. Hundreds of us sit together, side by side, in rows of wooden folding chairs on the main campus lawn. We wear blue nylon robes. We listen impatiently to long speeches. When the ceremony is over, we throw our caps in the air, and we are officially graduated from college, the senior class of Brandeis University in the city of Waltham, Massachusetts. For many of us, the curtain has just come down on childhood.
Afterward, I find Morrie Schwartz, my favorite professor, and introduce him to my parents. He is a small man who takes small steps, as if a strong wind could, at any time, whisk him up into the clouds. In his graduation day robe, he looks like a cross between a biblical prophet and a Christmas elf He has sparkling blue green eyes, thinning silver hair that spills onto his forehead, big ears, a triangular nose, and tufts of graying eyebrows. Although his teeth are crooked and his lower ones are slanted back-as if someone had once punched them in-when he smiles it's as if you'd just told him the first joke on earth.
He tells my parents how I took every class he taught. He tells them, "You have a special boy here. " Embarrassed, I look at my feet. Before we leave, I hand my professor a present, a tan briefcase with his initials on the front. I bought this the day before at a shopping mall. I didn't want to forget him. Maybe I didn't want him to forget me.
"Mitch, you are one of the good ones," he says, admiring the briefcase. Then he hugs me. I feel his thin arms around my back. I am taller than he is, and when he holds me, I feel awkward, older, as if I were the parent and he were the child. He asks if I will stay in touch, and without hesitation I say, "Of course."
When he steps back, I see that he is crying.

我的老教授一生中的最后一门课每星期上一次，授课的地点在他家里，就在书房的窗前，他在那儿可以看到淡红色树叶从一棵小木槿上掉落下来。课在每个星期二上，吃了早餐后就开始。课的内容是讨论生活的意义，是用他的亲身经历来教授的。
    不打分数，也没有成绩，但每星期都有口试。你得准备口答问题，还得准备提出问题。你还要不时干一些体力活，比如把教授的头在枕头上挪动一下，或者把眼镜架到他的鼻梁上。跟他吻别能得到附加的学分。
    课堂上不需要书本，但讨论的题目很多，涉及到爱情，工作，社会，年龄，原谅，以及死亡。最后一节课很简短，只有几句话。
    毕业典礼由葬礼替代了。
    虽然没有课程终结考试，但你必须就所学的内容写出一篇长长的论文。这篇论文就在这里呈交。
    我的老教授一生中的最后一门课只有一个学生。我就是那个学生。
    那是1979年的春末，一个炎热的星期六下午。我们几百个学生并排坐在校园大草坪的木折椅上。我们穿着蓝色的毕业礼服，不耐烦地听着冗长的讲话。当仪式结束时，我们把帽子抛向空中：马萨诸塞州沃尔瑟姆市布兰代斯大学的毕业班终于学成毕业了。对我们大多数人来说，这标志着孩提时代的结束。
    随后，我找到了莫里•施瓦茨，我最喜欢的教授，并把他介绍给了我的父母，他个子矮小，走起路来也弱不禁风似的，好像一阵大风随时都会把他拂入云端。穿着长袍的他看上去像是《圣经》里的先知，又像是圣诞夜的精灵。他有一双炯炯有神的蓝眼睛，日见稀少的白发覆在前额上，大耳朵，鹰勾鼻，还长着两撮灰白的眉毛。尽管他的牙齿长得参差不齐，下面一排还向里凹陷——好像挨过别人的拳头似的——可他笑的时候仍是那么的毫无遮拦，仿佛听到的是世界上最大的笑话。
    他告诉我父母我在他的课上的表现。他对他们说，“你们有一个不同寻常的儿子。”我有些害羞，低下头望着自己的脚。告别时，我递给教授一件礼物：一只正面印有他名字首字母的皮包。那是前一天我在一个购物中心买的，我不想忘了他。也许我是不想让他忘了我。
    "米奇，你是最优秀的，”他欣赏着皮包说。然后他拥抱了我。我感觉到他搂在我背上的细细的臂膀。我个子比他高，当他抱住我时，我感到很不自在，感到自己大了许多，似乎我是家长，他是孩子。
    他问我会不会和他保持联系。我毫不迟疑地回答说，“当然会。”
    他往后退去时，我看见他哭了。


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2.The Syllabus

His death sentence came in the summer of 1994. Looking back, Morrie knew something bad was coming long before that. He knew it the day he gave up dancing.
He had always been a dancer, my old professor. The music didn't matter. Rock and roll, big band, the blues. He loved them all. He would close his eyes and with a blissful smile begin to move to his own sense of rhythm. It wasn't always pretty. But then, he didn't worry about a partner. Morrie danced by himself.
He used to go to this church in Harvard Square every Wednesday night for something called "Dance Free." They had flashing lights and booming speakers and Morrie would wander in among the mostly student crowd, wearing a white T-shirt and black sweatpants and a towel around his neck, and whatever music was playing, that's the music to which he danced. He'd do the lindy to Jimi Hendrix. He twisted and twirled, he waved his arms like a conductor on amphetamines, until sweat was dripping down the middle of his back. No one there knew he was a prominent doctor of sociology, with years of experience as a college professor and several well-respected books. They just thought he was some old nut.
Once, he brought a tango tape and got them to play it over the speakers. Then he commandeered the floor, shooting back and forth like some hot Latin lover. When he finished, everyone applauded. He could have stayed in that moment forever.
But then the dancing stopped.
He developed asthma in his sixties. His breathing became labored. One day he was walking along the Charles River, and a cold burst of wind left him choking for air. He was rushed to the hospital and injected with Adrenalin.
A few years later, he began to have trouble walking. At a birthday party for a friend, he stumbled inexplicably. Another night, he fell down the steps of a theater, startling a small crowd of people.
"Give him air!" someone yelled.
He was in his seventies by this point, so they whispered "old age" and helped him to his feet. But Morrie, who was always more in touch with his insides than the rest of us, knew something else was wrong. This was more than old age. He was weary all the time. He had trouble sleeping. He dreamt he was dying.
He began to see doctors. Lots of them. They tested his blood. They tested his urine. They put a scope up his rear end and looked inside his intestines. Finally, when nothing could be found, one doctor ordered a muscle biopsy, taking a small piece out of Morrie's calf. The lab report came back suggesting a neurological problem, and Morrie was brought in for yet another series of tests. In one of those tests, he sat in a special seat as they zapped him with electrical current-an electric chair, of sortsand studied his neurological responses.
"We need to check this further," the doctors said, looking over his results.
"Why?" Morrie asked. "What is it?"
"We're not sure. Your times are slow." His times were slow? What did that mean?
Finally, on a hot, humid day in August 1994, Morrie and his wife, Charlotte, went to the neurologist's office, and he asked them to sit before he broke the news: Morrie had amyotrophic lateral sclerosis (ALS), Lou Gehrig's disease, a brutal, unforgiving illness of the neurological system.
There was no known cure.
"How did I get it?" Morrie asked. Nobody knew.
"Is it terminal?"
Yes.
"So I'm going to die?"
Yes, you are, the doctor said. I'm very sorry.
He sat with Morrie and Charlotte for nearly two hours, patiently answering their questions. When they left, the doctor gave them some information on ALS, little pamphlets, as if they were opening a bank account. Outside, the sun was shining and people were going about their business. A woman ran to put money in the parking meter. Another carried groceries. Charlotte had a million thoughts running through her mind: How much time do we have left? How will we manage? How will we pay the bills?
My old professor, meanwhile, was stunned by the normalcy of the day around him. Shouldn't the world stop? Don't they know what has happened to me?
But the world did not stop, it took no notice at all, and as Morrie pulled weakly on the car door, he felt as if he were dropping into a hole.
Now what? he thought.

As my old professor searched for answers, the disease took him over, day by day, week by week. He backed the car out of the garage one morning and could barely push the brakes. That was the end of his driving.
He kept tripping, so he purchased a cane. That was the end of his walking free.
He went for his regular swim at the YMCA, but found he could no longer undress himself. So he hired his first home care worker-a theology student named Tony-who helped him in and out of the pool, and in  and out of his bathing suit. In the locker room, the other swimmers pretended not to stare. They stared anyhow. That was the end of his privacy.
In the fall of 1994, Morrie came to the hilly Brandeis campus to teach his final college course. He could have skipped this, of course. The university would have understood. Why suffer in front of so many people? Stay at home. Get your affairs in order. But the idea of quitting did not occur to Morrie.
Instead, he hobbled into the classroom, his home for more than thirty years. Because of the cane, he took a while to reach the chair. Finally, he sat down, dropped his glasses off his nose, and looked out at the young faces who stared back in silence.
"My friends, I assume you are all here for the Social Psychology class. I have been teaching this course for twenty years, and this is the first time I can say there is a risk in taking it, because I have a fatal illness. I may not live to finish the semester.
"If you feel this is a problem, I understand if you wish to drop the course."
He smiled.
And that was the end of his secret.

ALS is like a lit candle: it melts your nerves and leaves your body a pile of wax. Often, it begins with the legs and works its way up. You lose control of your thigh muscles, so that you cannot support yourself standing. You lose control of your trunk muscles, so that you cannot sit up straight. By the end, if you are still alive, you are breathing through a tube in a hole in your throat, while your soul, perfectly awake, is imprisoned inside a limp husk, perhaps able to blink, or cluck a tongue, like something from a science fiction movie, the man frozen inside his own flesh. This takes no more than five years from the day you contract the disease.
Morrie's doctors guessed he had two years left. Morrie knew it was less.
But my old professor had made a profound decision, one he began to construct the day he came out of the doctor's office with a sword hanging over his head. Do I wither up and disappear, or do I make the best of my time left? he had asked himself.
He would not wither. He would not be ashamed of dying.
Instead, he would make death his final project, the center point of his days. Since everyone was going to die, he could be of great value, right? He could be research. A human textbook. Study me in my slow and patient demise. Watch what happens to me. Learn with me.
Morrie would walk that final bridge between life and death, and narrate the trip.

The fall semester passed quickly. The pills increased. Therapy became a regular routine. Nurses came to his house to work with Morrie's withering legs, to keep the muscles active, bending them back and forth as if pumping water from a well. Massage specialists came by once a week to try to soothe the constant, heavy stiffness he felt. He met with meditation teachers, and closed his eyes and narrowed his thoughts until his world shrunk down to a single breath, in and out, in and out.
One day, using his cane, he stepped onto the curb and fell over into the street. The cane was exchanged for a walker. As his body weakened, the back and forth to the bathroom became too exhausting, so Morrie began to urinate into a large beaker. He had to support himself as he did this, meaning someone had to hold the beaker while Morrie filled it.
Most of us would be embarrassed by all this, especially at Morrie's age. But Morrie was not like most of us. When some of his close colleagues would visit, he would say to them, "Listen, I have to pee. Would you mind helping? Are you okay with that?"
Often, to their own surprise, they were.
In fact, he entertained a growing stream of visitors. He had discussion groups about dying, what it really meant, how societies had always been afraid of it without necessarily understanding it. He told his friends that if they really wanted to help him, they would treat him not with sympathy but with visits, phone calls, a sharing of their problems-the way they had always shared their problems, because Morrie had always been a wonderful listener.
For all that was happening to him, his voice was strong and inviting, and his mind was vibrating with a million thoughts. He was intent on proving that the word "dying" was not synonymous with "useless."
The New Year came and went. Although he never said it to anyone, Morrie knew this would be the last year of his life. He was using a wheelchair now, and he was fighting time to say all the things he wanted to say to all the people he loved. When a colleague at Brandeis died suddenly of a heart attack, Morrie went to his funeral. He came home depressed.
"What a waste," he said. "All those people saying all those wonderful things, and Irv never got to hear any of it."
Morrie had a better idea. He made some calls. He chose a date. And on a cold Sunday afternoon, he was joined in his home by a small group of friends and family for a "living funeral." Each of them spoke and paid tribute to my old professor. Some cried. Some laughed. One woman read a poem:
"My dear and loving cousin . . .
Your ageless heart
as you move through time, layer on layer,
tender sequoia . . ."
Morrie cried and laughed with them. And all the heartfelt things we never get to say to those we love, Morrie said that day. His "living funeral" was a rousing success.
Only Morrie wasn't dead yet.
In fact, the most unusual part of his life was about to unfold.

   他的死亡判决是在1994年的夏天下达的。回想起来，莫里很早就预感到了这一凶兆。他是在终止跳舞的那一天预感到的。
   我的老教授一直是个舞迷。音乐对他来说无关紧要，摇滚乐，爵士乐，布鲁斯。他就是喜欢跳。他会闭上眼睛，悠然自得地按着自己的节奏移动脚步。他的舞姿并非总是那么优美。但他不用担心舞伴。他自己一个人跳。
   他每个星期三的晚上都要去哈佛广场的那个教堂，为的是那场“免费舞会”。那里有闪烁的灯光和大音量的喇叭，莫里挤在大部分是学生的人群中，穿一件白色的Ｔ恤和黑色运动裤，脖子上围一条毛巾，不管奏的是什么乐曲，他都能跟上节拍跳。他能和着吉米•亨德里克斯的歌曲跳林迪舞①。他扭动、旋转着身体，像吃了兴奋剂的指挥那样挥动着手臂，直到背中心留下汗来。那里没人知道他是一个著名的社会学博士，是一位有着多年教学经验、著有多部学术专著的教授。他们都以为他是一个老疯子。
   ①源于哈莱姆区的一种黑人舞蹈，流行于三十和四十年代。
   有一次，他带去一盘探戈的音带让他们在扩音器里放，然后他独占了舞池，像一个狂热的拉丁舞迷扭开了。表演一结束，掌声四起。他似乎能永远这么天真活泼下去。
   但后来跳舞终止了。
   他六十几岁时得了哮喘，呼吸器官出了问题。有一次，当他沿着查尔斯河散步时，一阵凉风使他呛得几乎窒息。人们赶紧把他送进医院，注射了肾上腺素。
   几年后，他走路也变得困难起来。在一次朋友的生日聚会上，他无缘无故地跌倒了。另一个晚上，他从剧院的台阶上摔下来，把周围的人群吓了一跳。
   “别围住他，让他呼吸新鲜空气，”有人喊道。
   他那时已经七十多了，因此人们一边小声议论着“老了”，一边把他扶了起来。但对自己的身体比谁都敏感的莫里知道有地方不对劲。这不仅是年龄的问题。他一直感到乏力。晚上睡眠也成了问题。他梦见自己死了。
   他开始去医院，找了不少大夫。他们检查了他的血液，检查了他的尿液，还给他做了肠镜。最后，当什么都没有检查出来时，有一个医生要他做肌肉活组织检查，从他的腿肚子上割下了一块活组织。反馈回来的实验室的报告怀疑他有神经方面的疾病，于是莫里又进医院作了一系列的检查。其中有一项检查是让他坐在一张特殊的椅子上，医生用电流震击他——类似坐电椅——然后观察他的神经反应。
   “我们需要作进一步的核对，”医生看着他的试验结果说。
   “为什么？”莫里问。“是什么病？”
   “我们还无法肯定。你的节奏很慢。”
   节奏慢？那是什么意思？
   最后，在1994年8月的一个异常闷热的日子，莫里和他妻子夏洛特去了神经科医生的诊所，医生让他们坐下，然后宣布了病情：莫里得了肌萎缩性（脊髓）侧索硬化（ALS），即卢•格里克氏症②。这是一种凶险、无情的神经系统疾病。
   ②卢•格里克是美国棒球运动员，患此症病故。后此疾病以他的名字命名。
   没有治疗的方法。
   “我是怎么得病的？”莫里问。
   没人知道。
   “是不治之症？”
   是的。
   “那么我快死了？”
   是的，你快死了，医生说。非常遗憾。
   他同莫里和夏洛特坐了将近两小时，耐心地回答他们的问题。当他们离去时，他给了他们一些有关ALS的资料：几本小册子，似乎他们是在开银行帐户。外面阳光朗照，人们忙着各自的事情。一位妇女急匆匆地往停车收费机里投钱，另一个拎着食品杂货走过。夏洛特的脑海里翻腾着无数个念头：我们还剩多少时间？我们该如何应付？我们该怎么支付这笔医药费？
   我的老教授则为他周围的正常生活节奏而感到震惊。难道世界仍是那么的无动于衷？难道没人知道我的厄运？
   然而地球并没有停转，它丝毫也没在意。当莫里无力地拉开车门时，他觉得自己好像掉入了一个深穴。
   “现在该怎么办？”他寻思着。
   就在他寻找答案时，疾病却日复一日、周复一周地侵蚀着他。一天早晨，他把车子从车库里倒出来，因踩不住刹车而只好熄掉了引擎。从此他便告别了驾驶。
   他经常绊倒，于是他买了根拐杖。从此他便告别了正常的行走。
   他仍定期去青年会游泳，但发现自己换衣服有了困难，于是他雇了个家庭护理工——一位名叫托尼的神学系学生——他帮莫里进出水池，帮他更换衣服。更衣室里，人们 装着不去注视他。但他们还是看到了。从此他便告别了自己的隐私 。
   1994年的秋天，莫里去坐落在山坡上的布兰代斯校园上他最后的一堂课。当然，他完全可以不去上的。学校方面能够理解。何必要在众人面前受折磨？呆在家里。安排好自己的事情。但莫里没有想到要放弃。
   他步履不稳地走进教室，走进他生活了三十多年的家。由于拿着拐杖，他手脚不利索地来到座位旁。他终于坐了下去，从鼻梁上取下眼镜，望着一张张在一片死寂中注视着他的年轻的脸。
   "我的朋友们，我想你们来这儿是为了上社会心理课的。这门课我已经教了二十年，这是我第一次想说，修这门课有点冒风险，因为我得了绝症。我也许活不到这个学期的结束。
   "如果你们觉得这是个麻烦而想放弃这门课，我完全能够理解，”
   他笑了。
   从此他的病便不再是秘密。
   ALS就如同一支点燃的蜡烛，它不断融化你的神经，使你的躯体变成一堆蜡。通常它从腿部开始，然后慢慢向上发展。等你不能控制大腿肌肉时，你就无法再站立起来。等你控制不了躯干的肌肉时，你便无法坐直。最后，如果你还活着的话，你只能通过插在喉部的一根管子呼吸，而你清醒的神志则被禁锢在一个软壳内。或许你还能眨眨眼睛，动动舌头，就像科幻电影里那个被冰冻在自己肉体内的怪物一样。这段时间不会超过五年。
   医生估计莫里还有两年的时间。
   莫里知道还要短。
   但我的老教授却作出了一个重大的决定，这个决定是在他头顶悬着利剑、走出诊所的那天就想到的。我就这样枯竭下去直到消亡？还是不虚度剩下的时光？他问自己。
   他不甘枯竭而死。他将勇敢地去面对死亡。
   他要把死亡作为他最后的一门课程，作为他生活的主要课题。既然每个人都有一死，他为何不能死有所值呢？他可以让别人去研究。他可以成为一本人的教科书。研究我缓慢而耐心的死亡过程。观察在我身上发生的一切。从我这儿学到点什么。
   莫里将走过最后那座连接生与死的桥梁，并诠释出这段旅程。
   秋季学期过得很快。药的剂量又增加了。理疗已经成了日常的例行公事，护士去他家中帮助他活动日见萎缩的大腿，使它的肌肉能保持活力，他们像从井中抽水那样上下屈展着他的腿。按摩师每星期来一次，舒缓他不时感到的肌肉僵硬。他还请了默念师，在其指导下闭上眼睛，集中意念，直到他的世界渐渐化成一口气，吸进吐出，吸进吐出。
   一天，他拄着拐杖走上了人行道，然后摔倒在马路上。拐杖换成了学步车。他的身体越来越虚弱，来去卫生间也使他不堪重负了。于是，莫里开始用一只大口瓶小便。他小便时还得扶住自己，这就意味着必须有人替他拿瓶子。
   我们大多数人会因此而感到难堪，尤其是到了莫里这样的年龄。但莫里却和我们不同。当熟悉的同事们来看望他时，他会对他们说，“听着，我要尿尿了。你能替我拿着瓶子吗？你行吗？”
   通常他们都能这么做，连他们自己也感到惊讶。
   事实上，他接待了越来越多的来访者。他和一些讨论小组的成员一起讨论死亡，讨论死亡的真正含义，讨论各个社会阶层是怎样由于对它的无知而惧怕它。他对他的朋友们说，如果他们真的想帮助他，那就不要光是同情，而是多来看望他，给他打电话，让他分享他们遇到的难题——就像他一直做的那样，莫里是个出色的听众。
   尽管有那么多那么多的变化，但他的声音仍是那么有力，那么吸引人，他的脑子仍在活跃地思维。他要证明一件事：来日无多和毫无价值不是同义词。
   新年乍来即去。虽然莫里对谁都没说，可他知道1995年将是他生命中的最后一年。他现在已经用上了轮椅，他在争取时间对所有他爱的人说他想说的话。当布兰代斯大学的一位同事因心脏病突然去世时，莫里去参加了他的葬礼。回来后他显得很沮丧。
   "太可惜了，”他说。“他们在葬礼上说得那么好，可艾文再也听不到了。”
   莫里有了个念头。他打了几个电话，选好了日子。在一个寒冷的星期天下午，他的家人和几个好友在家里为他举行了“活人葬礼”。每个人向我的老教授致了悼词。有的哭。有的笑。有位女士念了一首诗：
   ”我亲爱的表哥……
   你那颗永不显老的心
   随着时光的流逝，将变成一棵
   稚嫩的红杉……”
   莫里随着他们又哭又笑。所有情真意切的话语都在那天说了。他这场“活人葬礼”取得了非凡的效果。
   只是莫里并没有死。
   事实上，他生命中最不寻常的一页即将掀开。
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3.The Student

At this point, I should explain what had happened to me since that summer day when I last hugged my dear and wise professor, and promised to keep in touch.
I did not keep in touch.
In fact, I lost contact with most of the people I knew in college, including my, beer-drinking friends and the first woman I ever woke up with in the morning. The years after graduation hardened me into someone quite different from the strutting graduate who left campus that day headed for New York City, ready to offer the world his talent.
The world, I discovered, was not all that interested. I wandered around my early twenties, paying rent and reading classifieds and wondering why the lights were not turning green for me. My dream was to be a famous musician (I played the piano), but after several years of dark, empty nightclubs, broken promises, bands that kept breaking up and producers who seemed excited about everyone but me, the dream soured. I was failing for the first time in my life.
At the same time, I had my first serious encounter with death. My favorite uncle, my mother's brother, the man who had taught me music, taught me to drive, teased me about girls, thrown me a football-that one adult whom I targeted as a child and said, "That's who I want to be when I grow up"-died of pancreatic cancer at the age of forty-four. He was a short, handsome man with a thick mustache, and I was with him for the last year of his life, living in an apartment just below his. I watched his strong body wither, then bloat, saw him suffer, night after night, doubled over at the dinner table, pressing on his stomach, his eyes shut, his mouth contorted in pain. "Ahhhhh, God," he would moan. "Ahhhhhh, Jesus!" The rest of us-my aunt, his two young sons, me-stood there, silently, cleaning the plates, averting our eyes.
It was the most helpless I have ever felt in my life. One night in May, my uncle and I sat on the balcony of his apartment. It was breezy and warm. He looked out toward the horizon and said, through gritted teeth, that he wouldn't be around to see his kids into the next school year. He asked if I would look after them. I told him not to talk that way. He stared at me sadly.
He died a few weeks later.
After the funeral, my life changed. I felt as if time were suddenly precious, water going down an open drain, and I could not move quickly enough. No more playing music at half-empty night clubs. No more writing songs in my apartment, songs that no one would hear. I returned to school. I earned a master's degree in journalism and took the first job offered, as a sports writer. Instead of chasing my own fame, I wrote about famous athletes chasing theirs. I worked for newspapers and freelanced for magazines. I worked at a pace that knew no hours, no limits. I would wake up in the morning, brush my teeth, and sit down at the typewriter in the same clothes I had slept in. My uncle had worked for a corporation and hated it-same thing, every day-and I was determined never to end up like him.
I bounced around from New York to Florida and eventually took a job in Detroit as a columnist for the Detroit Free Press. The sports appetite in that city was insatiable-they had professional teams in football, basketball, baseball, and hockey-and it matched my ambition. In a few years, I was not only penning columns, I was writing sports books, doing radio shows, and appearing regularly on TV, spouting my opinions on rich football players and hypocritical college sports programs. I was part of the media thunderstorm that now soaks our country. I was in demand.
I stopped renting. I started buying. I bought a house on a hill. I bought cars. I invested in stocks and built a portfolio. I was cranked to a fifth gear, and everything I did, I did on a deadline. I exercised like a demon. I drove my car at breakneck speed. I made more money than I had ever figured to see. I met a dark-haired woman named Janine who somehow loved me despite my schedule and the constant absences. We married after a seven year courtship. I was back to work a week after the wedding. I told her-and myself-that we would one day start a family, something she wanted very much. But that day never came.
Instead, I buried myself in accomplishments, because with accomplishments, I believed I could control things, I could squeeze in every last piece of happiness before I got sick and died, like my uncle before me, which I figured was my natural fate.
As for Morrie? Well, I thought about him now and then, the things he had taught me about "being human" and "relating to others," but it was always in the distance, as if from another life. Over the years, I threw away any mail that came from Brandeis University, figuring they were only asking for money. So I did not know of Morrie's illness. The people who might have told me were long forgotten, their phone numbers buried in some packed-away box in the attic.
It might have stayed that way, had I not been flicking through the TV channels late one night, when something caught my ear . . .

   现在，我必须交代一下自从那个夏日我最后一次拥抱了我那位可亲、睿智的教授。并答应和他保持联系后我所发生的变化。
   我没有和他联系。
   事实上，我同学校的大部分人都失去了联系，包括我的酒友和第一个和我早晨一起醒来的女朋友。毕业后的几年把我磨炼成了另一个人，他身上再也没有那个当年离开校园准备去纽约向全世界贡献才智的年轻人的影子了。
   我发现，这个世界并不那么吸引人。我浑浑噩噩地打发着二十刚出头的那几年：付房租，看广告，寻思着生活为何不向我开绿灯。我的梦想是成为一个大音乐家（我那时在弹钢琴），但几年昏暗、空虚的夜总会生活，从不兑现的允诺，不断拆散的乐队以及除了我对谁都感兴趣的制作人，终于使我的梦想变了味。我第一次在生活中成了失败者。
   与此同时，我第一次真正见到了死亡。我最亲近的舅舅，我母亲的弟弟，那个为我取名、教我音乐、教我驾驶，和我开姑娘的玩笑，和我玩足球的人——那个在我眼里仍是个孩子，也是我长大后要学习的楷模——在他四十四岁那年死于了胰腺癌。他是个矮小、漂亮的男人，长着浓浓的胡子。在他生命的最后一年我一直陪伴着他，我住在他楼下的一间公寓里。我看着他强壮的身体一天天瘦削下去，然后又开始浮肿，看着他整夜整夜地受罪：身体趴在餐桌上，手按着肚子、闭着眼睛，嘴巴痛得都变了形。“嗷——上帝，”他常常呻吟不止，“嗷——那稣！”其余的人——我舅妈，他两个年少的儿子，以及我——则站在一旁，默默地收拾着盘子，眼睛躲避着这痛苦的场面。
   这是我一生中感到最无能为力的时刻。
   一天晚上，那是在五月，舅舅和我坐在他寓所的阳台上。天气很暖和，微风习习。他望着远处，从牙缝里硬挤出几句话来，他说他看不到他的儿子读下一个学期了，问我能不能照顾好他们。我让他别这么说。他哀伤地望着我。
   几个星期后他去世了。
   葬礼之后，我的生活改变了。我感觉到时间突然变得宝贵起来，年华似水，而我却追赶不上。我不再去空着一半座位的俱乐部弹琴，不再呆在屋子里写那些没人要听的歌。我又回到了学校，读完了新闻专业的硕士学位，并找到了一份体育记者的工作。我不再追求自己的名望，转而开始写那些渴望成名的运动员。我给报纸和杂志专栏撰稿。我夜以继日、没有节制地工作着。我早上醒来后，刷完牙便穿着睡衣坐到了打字机前。我舅舅过去在一家公司工作，他后来十分怨恨这份工作——天天老一套——于是我发誓不要有他那样的结局。
   我从纽约又跳槽到佛罗里达，最后在底特律找了一份工作，当《底特律自由报》的专栏作家。这个城市对体育有着疯狂的需求——它有职业的橄榄球队。篮球队。棒球队和冰球队——这给我雄心勃勃的理想提供了机会。几年后，我除了撰写体育报道评论外，还开始写体育方面的专著，制作广播节目，经常在电视上抛头露面，对暴富的橄榄球明星和好矫饰的大学体育活动评头论足，我成了淹没这个国家的传媒风暴的一部分。人们需要我。
   我不再租房，开始买房。我买了一幢山间别墅。我买了汽车。我投资股市并建立了有价证券组合。我就像一辆推到最高挡速的车子运行着，任何事情我都规定了最后日期。我玩命似地锻炼身子，发疯似地开着汽车。我赚的钱超过了我的期望值。我遇上了一位名叫詹宁的黑发姑娘，她很爱我，不嫌弃我毫无时间规律的工作。经过七年的恋爱我们结了婚。婚后一个星期我便回到了工作堆里。我对她说——也是对自己说——我们会生儿育女成立一个家庭的，这是她渴望的事情。可那一天却遥遥无期。
   相反，我仍热衷于工作上的成就，因为只有成就感能使我相信我在主宰自己，我可以在末日到来之前享受到每一份最后的快乐。我认为舅舅的厄运也将是我命中注定的结局。
   至于莫里？是的，我时常会想起他，想起他教我如何“做人”，如何“与人相处”。但这一切总显得有些遥远，似乎来自另一种生活。这几年里，凡是从布兰代斯大学寄来的邮件都被我扔进了废纸篓，我认为它们无非是来募捐的。因此我毫不知晓莫里得病的情况。那些能告诉我的人早已被我遗忘了，他们的电话号码早已束之高阁，埋在了顶楼小屋的某个盒子里，
   要不是那天晚上我随手调换电视频道时偶尔听见了那几句话，我的生活仍会这样继续下去。
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举报 只看该作者 地板   发表于: 2013-12-02 0





4.The Audiovisual

In March of 1995, a limousine carrying Ted Koppel, the host of ABC-TV's "Nightline" pulled up to the snow-covered curb outside Morrie's house in West Newton, Massachusetts.
Morrie was in a wheelchair full-time now, getting used to helpers lifting him like a heavy sack from the chair to the bed and the bed to the chair. He had begun to cough while eating, and chewing was a chore. His legs were dead; he would never walk again.
Yet he refused to be depressed. Instead, Morrie had become a lightning rod of ideas. He jotted down his thoughts on yellow pads, envelopes, folders, scrap paper. He wrote bite-sized philosophies about living with death's shadow: "Accept what you are able to do and what you are not able to do"; "Accept the past as past, without denying it or discarding it"; "Learn to forgive yourself and to forgive others"; "Don't assume that it's too late to get involved."
After a while, he had more than fifty of these "aphorisms," which he shared with his friends. One friend, a fellow Brandeis professor named Maurie Stein, was so taken with the words that he sent them to a Boston Globe reporter, who came out and wrote a long feature story on Morrie. The headline read:
A PROFESSOR'S FINAL COURSE: HIS OWN DEATH
The article caught the eye of a producer from the "Nightline" show, who brought it to Koppel in Washington, D. C.
"Take a look at this," the producer said.
Next thing you knew, there were cameramen in Morrie's living room and Koppel's limousine was in front of the house.
Several of Morrie's friends and family members had gathered to meet Koppel, and when the famous man entered the house, they buzzed with excitement-all except Morrie, who wheeled himself forward, raised his eyebrows, and interrupted the clamor with his high, singsong voice.
"Ted, I need to check you out before I agree to do this interview."
There was an awkward moment of silence, then the two men were ushered into the study. The door was shut. "Man," one friend whispered outside the door, "I hope Ted goes easy on Morrie."
"I hope Morrie goes easy on Ted," said the other.
Inside the office, Morrie motioned for Koppel to sit down. He crossed his hands in his lap and smiled.
"Tell me something close to your heart," Morrie began.
"My heart?"
Koppel studied the old man. "All right," he said cautiously, and he spoke about his children. They were close to his heart, weren't they?
"Good," Morrie said. "Now tell me something, about your faith."
Koppel was uncomfortable. "I usually don't talk about such things with people I've only known a few minutes."
"Ted, I'm dying," Morrie said, peering over his glasses. "I don't have a lot of time here."
Koppel laughed. All right. Faith. He quoted a passage from Marcus Aurelius, something he felt strongly about. Morrie nodded.
"Now let me ask you something," Koppel said. "Have you ever seen my program?"
Morrie shrugged. "Twice, I think." "Twice? That's all?"
"Don't feel bad. I've only seen `Oprah' once." "Well, the two times you saw my show, what did you think?"
Morrie paused. "To be honest?"
"Yes?"
"I thought you were a narcissist." Koppel burst into laughter.
"I'm too ugly to be a narcissist," he said.

Soon the cameras were rolling in front of the living room fireplace, with Koppel in his crisp blue suit and Morrie in his shaggy gray sweater. He had refused fancy clothes or makeup for this interview. His philosophy was that death should not be embarrassing; he was not about to powder its nose.
Because Morrie sat in the wheelchair, the camera never caught his withered legs. And because he was still able to move his hands-Morrie always spoke with both hands waving-he showed great passion when explaining how you face the end of life.
"Ted," he said, "when all this started, I asked myself, `Am I going to withdraw from the world, like most people do, or am I going to live?' I decided I'm going to live-or at least try to live-the way I want, with dignity, with courage, with humor, with composure.
"There are some mornings when I cry and cry and mourn for myself. Some mornings, I'm so angry and bitter. But it doesn't last too long. Then I get up and say, `I want to live . . .'
"So far, I've been able to do it. Will I be able to continue? I don't know. But I'm betting on myself that I will."
Koppel seemed extremely taken with Morrie. He asked about the humility that death induced.
"Well, Fred," Morrie said accidentally, then he quickly corrected himself. "I mean Ted . . . "
"Now that's inducing humility," Koppel said, laughing.
The two men spoke about the afterlife. They spoke about Morrie's increasing dependency on other people. He already needed help eating and sitting and moving from place to place. What, Koppel asked, did Morrie dread the most about his slow, insidious decay?
Morrie paused. He asked if he could say this certain thing on television.
Koppel said go ahead.
Morrie looked straight into the eyes of the most famous interviewer in America. "Well, Ted, one day soon, someone's gonna have to wipe my ass."

The program aired on a Friday night. It began with Ted Koppel from behind the desk in Washington, his voice booming with authority.
"Who is Morrie Schwartz," he said, "and why, by the end of the night, are so many of you going to care about him?"
A thousand miles away, in my house on the hill, I was casually flipping channels. I heard these words from the TV set "Who is Morrie Schwartz?"-and went numb.

It is our first class together, in the spring of 1976. I enter Morrie's large office and notice the seemingly countless books that line the wall, shelf after shelf. Books on sociology, philosophy, religion, psychology. There is a large rug on the hardwood floor and a window that looks out on the campus walk. Only a dozen or so students are there, fumbling with notebooks and syllabi. Most of them wear jeans and earth shoes and plaid flannel shirts. I tell myself it will not be easy to cut a class this small. Maybe I shouldn't take it.
"Mitchell?" Morrie says, reading from the attendance list. I raise a hand.
"Do you prefer Mitch? Or is Mitchell better?"
I have never been asked this by a teacher. I do a double take at this guy in his yellow turtleneck and green corduroy pants, the silver hair that falls on his forehead. He is smiling.
Mitch, I say. Mitch is what my friends called me.
"Well, Mitch it is then," Morrie says, as if closing a deal. "And, Mitch?"
Yes?
"I hope that one day you will think of me as your friend."

   1995年的3月，一辆小客车带着美国广播公司“夜线”电视节目的主持人特德•科佩尔驶到了马萨诸塞州西纽顿的莫里家外面覆盖着积雪的路缘上。
   莫里现在整天坐着轮椅，他已经习惯了让助手把他像沙袋一样从轮椅上搬到床上，从床上搬到椅子上。他吃东西的时候也会咳嗽，嚼咽食物成了件困难的事。他的两腿已经死了，再也无法行走。
   然而，他不想因此而沮丧。相反，他的思维比以前更加活跃。他把自己的思想随手写在黄泊纸簿、信封、文件夹或废纸上。他片言只语地写下了自己对在死亡的阴影下对生活的思考：“接受你所能接受和你所不能接受的现实”；“承认过去，不要否认它或抛弃它”；“学会原谅自己和原谅别人”；“生活中永远别说太迟了”。
   没多久，他有了五十多条这样的“格言”。他常常和朋友们谈论起它们。布兰代斯大学一位名叫毛里•斯但因的教授深深地被这些话语所感动，于是就把它们寄给了《波士顿环球》杂志的一名记者，后者写了一篇长长的报道，标题是：
教授的最后一门课：他的死亡
   这篇文章被“夜线”节目的制作人看到了，他把它送到了在华盛顿的科佩尔手里。
   “读读这篇东西，”制作人对他说。
   接下来发生的事情便是：摄制人员来到了莫里的起居室，科佩尔的小客车停在了莫里家的门口。
   莫里的几个朋友和家人一起等着见科佩尔，当这位大名鼎鼎的主持人一走进屋子，他们都兴奋地骚动起来——只有莫里是例外，他坐着轮椅上前，扬起眉毛，用他尖细、富有音调的话语声打断了眼前的喧闹。
   “特德，在我同意进行这次采访之前，我得对你作些考查。”
   一阵令人尴尬的沉寂之后，两个人进了莫里的书房。
   “我说，”门外有一个朋友说，“希望特德不会使莫里太难堪。”
   “我希望莫里别使特德太难堪，”另一个说。
   书房里，莫里示意科佩尔坐下。他两手交叉着搁在腿上，对科佩尔笑笑。
   “你最关心的是什么？”莫里问。
   “最关心的？”
   科佩尔端详着眼前这位老人。“好吧，”他谨慎他说，他谈起了他的孩子，他们是他最关心的，不是吗？
   “很好，”莫里说。“现在谈谈你的信仰。”
   科佩尔觉得有些不自在。“通常我不跟一个只相见了几分钟的人谈论这种话题。”
  “特德，我快要死了，”莫里从眼镜的后面盯着对方说。“我没有多少时间了。”
   科佩尔笑了。好吧，信仰。他引用了一段对他很有影响的马可•奥勒利乌斯的话。
   莫里点点头。
   “现在让我来问你几个问题，”科佩尔说，“你看过我的节目吗？”
   莫里耸耸肩。“大概看过两次。”
  “就两次？”
   “别感到不好受。‘奥普拉’我也只看过一次。”
   “唔，那两次你看了我的节目，有什么感想？”
   莫里有些迟疑。“说真话？”
   “是的。”
   “我觉得你是个自恋狂。”
   科佩尔哈哈大笑。
   “我这么丑还配自恋？”他说。
   不一会，摄像机在客厅的壁炉前转动起来，科佩尔身穿那件挺括的蓝西装，莫里则还是那件皱巴巴的灰毛衣。他不愿为这次采访而特意换上新衣服或打扮一番。他的哲学是，死亡不应该是一件令人难堪的事；他不愿为它涂脂抹粉。
   由于莫里坐在轮椅上，摄像机一直拍不到他那两条萎缩的腿。加上他的手还能动——莫里说话时总喜欢挥动双手——因此他显得非常有激情地在阐述如何面对生命的终结。
   “特德，”他说，“当这一切发生后，我问自己，'我是像大多数人那样退出生活 舞台呢，还是继续生活下去？'我决定活下去--至少尽力去那么做--像我希望的那 样活下去，带着尊严、勇气、幽默和平静。
   “有时早上醒来我会暗自流泪，哀叹自己的不幸。我也有怨天怨地、痛苦不堪的时候。但这种心情不会持续很久。我起床后便对自己说，‘我要活下去……’
   “眼下，我已经能应付了。可我能继续应付下去吗？我不知道。但我愿意为自己押这个宝。”
   科佩尔看来完全被莫里吸引住了。他问及由死亡引起的羞怯感。
   “嗯，弗雷德，”莫里意外地叫错了名字，他很快纠正了自己。“我是说特德……”
   “这句话引出了羞怯感，”科佩尔大笑着说。
   两人还谈到了来世，谈到了莫里对别人越来越多的依赖性。他现在吃、坐、移动都需要有人帮助。科佩尔问莫里，面对这种不知不觉在加剧的衰亡，他最怕的是什么。
   莫里迟疑了片刻。他问能不能在电视上谈论这种事。
   科佩尔说没关系。
   莫里直视着这位美国最著名的采访记者的眼睛。“那好吧，特德，用不了多久，有人就得替我擦屁股。”
   这个节目在星期五的晚上播出了。节目开始时，特德•科佩尔在他华盛顿的工作台后面用他富有魅力的语调说："谁是莫里•施瓦茨？为什么你们这么多人今晚要去关心他？”
   几千英里之外，在我山上的那幢住宅里，我正随意地调换着电视的频道。我听见了那句话——“谁是莫里•施瓦茨？”——我一下子愣住了。
   ※※※
   那是在1976年的春天，我第一次上他的课。我走进莫里那间大办公室，注意到沿墙而立的一排排书架。书架上叠放着有关社会学、哲学，宗教和心理学的书籍，看上去无以计数，硬木地板上铺着一块大地毯，窗户对着校园的林荫道。课堂上只有十来个学生，正忙着翻笔记本和教学提纲。他们中大多数人穿着牛仔裤。大地鞋①和格子衬衫。我暗自说，这么个小班要逃课可没那么容易。也许我不该选这门课。
   ①一种前掌比后掌厚、穿看舒适的方头鞋。
   “米切尔？”莫里看着点名册说。
   我举起了手。
   "喜欢称你米奇？还是米切尔？”
   从来没有一个老师这么问过。我不禁再次打量起了这个穿着黄色高领衫、绿色灯芯绒裤，白发覆盖到前额的老头。他在微笑。
   米奇，我说。朋友们都叫我米奇。
   “那好，就叫你米奇了，”莫里说，像是跟人成交了，“嗯，米奇？”
   什么？
   “我希望有一天你会把我当成你的朋友。”
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5.The Orientation

As I turned the rental car onto Morrie's street in West Newton, a quiet suburb of Boston, I had a cup of coffee in one hand and a cellular phone between my ear and shoulder. I was talking to a TV producer about a piece we were doing. My eyes jumped from the digital clock-my return flight was in a few hours-to the mailbox numbers on the tree-lined suburban street. The car radio was on, the all-news station. This was how I operated, five things at once.
"Roll back the tape," I said to the producer. "Let me hear that part again."
"Okay," he said. "It's gonna take a second." Suddenly, I was upon the house. I pushed the brakes, spilling coffee in my lap. As the car stopped, I caught a glimpse of a large Japanese maple tree and three figures sitting near it in the driveway, a young man and a middleaged woman flanking a small old man in a wheelchair. Morrie.
At the sight of my old professor, I froze.
"Hello?" the producer said in my ear. "Did I lose you?... "
I had not seen him in sixteen years. His hair was thinner, nearly white, and his face was gaunt. I suddenly felt unprepared for this reunion-for one thing, I was stuck on the phone-and I hoped that he hadn't noticed my arrival, so that I could drive around the block a few more times, finish my business, get mentally ready. But Morrie, this new, withered version of a man I had once known so well, was smiling at the car, hands folded in his lap, waiting for me to emerge.
"Hey?" the producer said again. "Are you there?" For all the time we'd spent together, for all the kindness and patience Morrie had shown me when I was young, I should have dropped the phone and jumped from the car, run and held him and kissed him hello. Instead, I killed the engine and sunk down off the seat, as if I were looking for something.
"Yeah, yeah, I'm here," I whispered, and continued my conversation with the TV producer until we were finished.
I did what I had become best at doing: I tended to my work, even while my dying professor waited on his front lawn. I am not proud of this, but that is what I did.

Now, five minutes later, Morrie was hugging me, his thinning hair rubbing against my cheek. I had told him I was searching for my keys, that's what had taken me so long in the car, and I squeezed him tighter, as if I could crush my little lie. Although the spring sunshine was warm, he wore a windbreaker and his legs were covered by a blanket. He smelled faintly sour, the way people on medication sometimes do. With his face pressed close to mine, I could hear his labored breathing in my ear.
"My old friend," he whispered, "you've come back at last."
He rocked against me, not letting go, his hands reaching up for my elbows as I bent over him. I was surprised at such affection after all these years, but then, in the stone walls I had built between my present and my past, I had forgotten how close we once were. I remembered graduation day, the briefcase, his tears at my departure, and I swallowed because I knew, deep down, that I was no longer the good, gift-bearing student he remembered.
I only hoped that, for the next few hours, I could fool him.
Inside the house, we sat at a walnut dining room table, near a window that looked out on the neighbor's house. Morrie fussed with his wheelchair, trying to get comfortable. As was his custom, he wanted to feed me, and I said all right. One of the helpers, a stout Italian woman named Connie, cut up bread and tomatoes and brought containers of chicken salad, hummus, and tabouli.
She also brought some pills. Morrie looked at them and sighed. His eyes were more sunken than I remembered them, and his cheekbones more pronounced. This gave him a harsher, older look-until he smiled, of course, and the sagging cheeks gathered up like curtains.
"Mitch," he said softly, "you know that I'm dying."
I knew.
"All right, then." Morrie swallowed the pills, put down the paper cup, inhaled deeply, then let it out. "Shall I tell you what it's like?"
What it's like? To die?
"Yes," he said.
Although I was unaware of it, our last class had just begun.

It is my freshman year. Morrie is older than most of the teachers, and I am younger than most of the students, having left high school a year early. To compensate for my youth on campus, I wear old gray sweatshirts and box in a local gym and walk around with an unlit cigarette in my mouth, even though I do not smoke. I drive a beat-up Mercury Cougar, with the windows down and the music up. I seek my identity in toughness-but it is Morrie's softness that draws me, and because he does not look at me as a kid trying to be something more than I am, I relax.
I finish that first course with him and enroll for another. He is an easy marker; he does not much care for grades. One year, they say, during the Vietnam War, Morrie gave all his male students A's to help them keep their student deferments.
I begin to call Morrie "Coach," the way I used to address my high school track coach. Morrie likes the nickname.
"Coach, " he says. "All right, I'll be your coach. And you can be my player. You can play all the lovely parts of life that I'm too old for now."
Sometimes we eat together in the cafeteria. Morrie, to my delight, is even more of a slob than I am. He talks instead of chewing, laughs with his mouth open, delivers a passionate thought through a mouthful of egg salad, the little yellow pieces spewing from his teeth.
It cracks me up. The whole time I know him, I have two overwhelming desires: to hug him and to give him a napkin.

   当我那辆租来的车子拐上莫里在波士顿一个僻静的郊区西纽顿的那条街时，我手里握着一杯咖啡，肩膀和耳朵间夹着一只手机。我正在跟一个电视制片人谈一个节目。我的眼睛在数字钟一离我返回的班机时间还有几个小时——和树木成行的街道上那些邮箱号码之间跳来跳去。车上的收音机打开着，那是新闻台。这就是我的生活节奏，一心可以五用。
   “把带子倒回去，”我对制片人说，“让我把那部分再听一遍。”
   “好的，”他说，“稍等片刻。”
   突然，那幢房子跃入了我的眼帘。我踩下刹车，咖啡晃出了杯子。车停下后，我瞥见了车道上的那棵日本大槭树和它旁边坐着的三个人。坐在两边的是一个年轻人和一个中年妇女，中间是一个坐在轮椅上的老人。
   莫里-----看见我的老教授，我惊呆了。
   "喂"广制片人的声音在我耳边响了起来。“你还在听吗？……”
   我有十六年没有见到他。他的头发更稀了，几近花白，形容枯槁。我突然感到我还没有准备好重逢——至少，我眼下还得先应付完这个电话——我希望他并没有注意到我的到来，这样，我就可以再驶过几个街区，办完我的公事，做好心理准备。但莫里，这位我曾经是那么熟悉但现在又是那么陌生、那么憔悴的老人，此时正对着车子在微笑。他两手交叉着放在腿上，等待着我从车子里出现。
   “喂，”制片人又在喊。“你在听吗？”
   为了我们多年的相处，为了莫里曾经给予我的那份体贴和耐心，我应该丢掉电话，跳出车子去拥抱他，去吻他。
   但我没那么做。我关掉了引擎，蹲伏下身子似乎在找东西。
   “是的，我在听，”我压低嗓门继续同制片人在交谈，直到把事情谈妥。
   我做了我最擅长的事情。我仍在关心我的工作，尽管来日无多的老教授在他门前草坪等着我。我并不引以为自豪，但这正是我所做的。
   五分钟后，莫里拥抱了我，他稀松的头发擦过我的脸颊。我告诉他刚才我在找钥匙，所以在车里呆了那么久。我更用力地抱住他，似乎想挤碎我的小谎言。虽然春天的阳光暖融融的，他却穿着一件风衣，腿上还盖着毯子。他嘴里发出一股淡淡的酸味，那是正在服药的人常有的一种气味。由于他的脸凑得离我很近，我能听见他吃力的呼吸声。
  “我的老朋友，”他轻声说，“你终于回来了。”
   他倚着我摇晃着身子，始终没和我分开。当我俯下身去时，他的手抓住了我的肘部。相隔了这么多年他居然能保持着这份感情，我感到十分惊讶。但再一想。正由于我在我的过去和现在之间建立起了一堵石墙，所以我会忘记我们曾有过的亲密，我记起了毕业的那天，记起了那只皮包和我离开时他的泪花。但我没有流露出来，因为我在内心深处已经意识到，我不再是那个他记忆中的赠送他礼物的好学生了。
   我所希望的是，我能在接下来的几个小时里蒙住他的眼睛。
   进屋后，我们坐在一张胡桃木的餐桌旁，靠近一扇能望见邻居宅院的窗户。莫里在轮椅上不停地动，想使自己坐舒服些。他想请我吃点什么，这是他的习惯，我说好的。助手中有一位名叫康尼、长得很结实的意大利女人端上了切好的面包。土豆，以及放有鸡肉色拉。鹰嘴豆泥和小麦色拉的盘子。
   她还拿来了药片。莫里朝它们看看，叹了口气。他的眼睛凹陷得比我想象中的还要深，颧骨也突得更出了。这使他显得更苍老——只有他笑的时候，那松垂的脸颊才像帷幕一样收拢起来。
   “米奇，”他轻声说，“你知道我离死期不远了。”
   “我知道。"
   “那好，”莫里吞下了药片，放下纸杯，深深地吸了口气，再慢慢地呼出来。“要我告诉你是怎么回事吗？”
   “怎么回事？死亡是怎么回事？"
   “是的，”他说。
   虽然我还没有意识到，但我们的最后一堂课开始了。
   那是我大学的第一年。莫里的年龄比大部分教师大，而我却比大多数学生小，因为我提前一年就高中毕业了。为了在校园里不显得稚嫩，我身着旧的灰色无领长袖衫，常去当地的体育馆打拳，走路时还叼上一支没有点燃的烟，尽管我不会吸烟。我开的是一辆水星牌的破车，震耳的音乐声从没有摇上的车窗里传出来。我竭力表现出粗野的个性——然而，莫里的和蔼吸引了我，而且，也正因为他没有把我看成是一个未经世故的孩子，于是我释然了。
   我上完了他的第一门课，又选了他的另一门课程。他是个打分很宽松的教授，不太注重分数。据说有一年，那是在越战期间，莫里给所有的男学生都打了A，使他们能获得缓役的机会。
   我开始称呼他“教练”，就像我称呼高中的田径教练那样。莫里很喜欢这个绰号。
   “教练，”他说。“好吧，我会成为你的教练，你可以做我的上场队员。凡是生活中美好但我又老得无法享受的东西，你都可以替我上场。”
   有时我们一起在餐厅用餐。令我高兴的是，他比我还要不修边幅。他吃东西时爱说话，还张大嘴笑，从他满嘴的鸡蛋色拉和沾着蛋黄的牙缝里传出富有激情的思想。
   他让我捧腹大笑。在我认识他的那段时间里，我最强烈的两个愿望是：拥抱他和给他一张餐巾纸。
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6.The Classroom

The sun beamed in through the dining room window, lighting up the hardwood floor. We had been talking there for nearly two hours. The phone rang yet again and Morrie asked his helper, Connie, to get it. She had been jotting the callers' names in Morrie's small black appointment book. Friends. Meditation teachers. A discussion group. Someone who wanted to photograph him for a magazine. It was clear I was not the only one interested in visiting my old professor-the "Nightline" appearance had made him something of a celebrity-but I was impressed with, perhaps even a bit envious of, all the friends that Morrie seemed to have. I thought about the "buddies" that circled my orbit back in college. Where had they gone?
"You know, Mitch, now that I'm dying, I've become much more interesting to people."
You were always interesting.
"Ho." Morrie smiled. "You're kind." No, I'm not, I thought.
"Here's the thing," he said. "People see me as a bridge. I'm not as alive as I used to be, but I'm not yet dead. I'm sort of . . . in-between."
He coughed, then regained his smile. "I'm on the last great journey here-and people want me to tell them what to pack."
The phone rang again.
"Morrie, can you talk?" Connie asked.
"I'm visiting with my old pal now," he announced. "Let them call back."
I cannot tell you why he received me so warmly. I was hardly the promising student who had left him sixteen years earlier. Had it not been for "Nightline," Morrie might have died without ever seeing me again. I had no good excuse for this, except the one that everyone these days seems to have. I had become too wrapped up in the siren song of my own life. I was busy.
What happened to me? I asked myself. Morrie's high, smoky voice took me back to my university years, when I thought rich people were evil, a shirt and tie were prison clothes, and life without freedom to get up and go motorcycle beneath you, breeze in your face, down the streets of Paris, into the mountains of Tibet-was not a good life at all. What happened to me?
The eighties happened. The nineties happened. Death and sickness and getting fat and going bald happened. I traded lots of dreams for a bigger paycheck, and I never even realized I was doing it.
Yet here was Morrie talking with the wonder of our college years, as if I'd simply been on a long vacation.
"Have you found someone to share your heart with?" he asked.
"Are you giving to your community? "Are you at peace with yourself?
"Are you trying to be as human as you can be?"
I squirmed, wanting to show I had been grappling deeply with such questions. What happened to me? I once promised myself I would never work for money, that I would join the Peace Corps, that I would live in beautiful, inspirational places.
Instead, I had been in Detroit for ten years now, at the same workplace, using the same bank, visiting the same barber. I was thirty-seven, more efficient than in college, tied to computers and modems and cell phones. I wrote articles about rich athletes who, for the most part, could not care less about people like me. I was no longer young for my peer group, nor did I walk around in gray sweatshirts with unlit cigarettes in my mouth. I did not have long discussions over egg salad sandwiches about the meaning of life.
My days were full, yet I remained, much of the time, unsatisfied.
What happened to me?
"Coach," I said suddenly, remembering the nickname.
Morrie beamed. "That's me. I'm still your coach." He laughed and resumed his eating, a meal he had started forty minutes earlier. I watched him now, his hands working gingerly, as if he were learning to use them for the very first time. He could not press down hard with a knife. His fingers shook. Each bite was a struggle; he chewed the food finely before swallowing, and sometimes it slid out the sides of his lips, so that he had to put down what he was holding to dab his face with a napkin. The skin from his wrist to his knuckles was dotted with age spots, and it was loose, like skin hanging from a chicken soup bone.
For a while, we just ate like that, a sick old man, a healthy, younger man, both absorbing the quiet of the room. I would say it was an embarrassed silence, but I seemed to be the only one embarrassed.
"Dying," Morrie suddenly said, "is only one thing to be sad over, Mitch. Living unhappily is something else. So many of the people who come to visit me are unhappy." Why?
"Well, for one thing, the culture we have does not make people feel good about themselves. We're teaching the wrong things. And you have to be strong enough to say if the culture doesn't work, don't buy it. Create your own. Most people can't do it. They're more unhappy than me-even in my current condition.
"I may be dying, but I am surrounded by loving, caring souls. How many people can say that?"
I was astonished by his complete lack of self-pity. Morrie, who could no longer dance, swim, bathe, or walk; Morrie, who could no longer answer his own door, dry himself after a shower, or even roll over in bed. How could he be so accepting? I watched him struggle with his fork, picking at a piece of tomato, missing it the first two times-a pathetic scene, and yet I could not deny that sitting in his presence was almost magically serene, the same calm breeze that soothed me back in college.
I shot a glance at my watch-force of habit-it was getting late, and I thought about changing my plane reservation home. Then Morrie did something that haunts me to this day.
"You know how I'm going to die?" he said.
I raised my eyebrows.
"I'm going to suffocate. Yes. My lungs, because of my asthma, can't handle the disease. It's moving up my body, this ALS. It's already got my legs. Pretty soon it'll get my arms and hands. And when it hits my lungs . . .
He shrugged his shoulders.
". . . I'm sunk."
I had no idea what to say, so I said, "Well, you know, I mean . . . you never know."
Morrie closed his eyes. "I know, Mitch. You mustn't be afraid of my dying. I've had a good life, and we all know it's going to happen. I maybe have four or five months."
Come on, I said nervously. Nobody can say
"I can," he said softly. "There's even a little test. A doctor showed me."
A test?
"Inhale a few times." I did as he said.
"Now, once more, but this time, when you exhale, count as many numbers as you can before you take another breath."
I quickly exhaled the numbers. "One-two-three-four-five-six-seven-eight . . ." I reached seventy before my breath was gone.
"Good," Morrie said. "You have healthy lungs. Now. Watch what I do."
He inhaled, then began his number count in a soft, wobbly voice. "One-two-three-four-five-six-seven-eight-nine-ten-eleven-twelve-thirteen-fourteen-fifteensixteen-seventeen-eighteen-"
He stopped, gasping for air.
"When the doctor first asked me to do this, I could reach twenty-three. Now it's eighteen."
He closed his eyes, shook his head. "My tank is almost empty."
I tapped my thighs nervously. That was enough for one afternoon.
"Come back and see your old professor," Morrie said when I hugged him good-bye.
I promised I would, and I tried not to think about the last time I promised this.

In the campus bookstore, I shop for the items on Morrie's reading list. I purchase books that I never knew existed, titles such as Youth: Identity and Crisis, I and Thou, The Divided Self.
Before college I did not know the study of human relations could be considered scholarly. Until I met Morrie, I did not believe it.
But his passion for books is real and contagious. We begin to talk seriously sometimes, after class, when the room has emptied. He asks me questions about my life, then quotes lines from Erich Fromm, Martin Buber, Erik Erikson. Often he defers to their words, footnoting his own advice, even though he obviously thought the same things himself. It is at these times that I realize he is indeed a professor, not an uncle. One afternoon, I am complaining about the confusion of my age, what is expected of me versus what I want for myself.
"Have I told you about the tension of opposites?" he says. The tension of opposites?
"Life is a series of pulls back and forth. You want to do one thing, but you are bound to do something else. Something hurts you, yet you know it shouldn't. You take certain things for granted, even when you know you should never take anything for granted.
"A tension of opposites, like a pull on a rubber band. And most of us live somewhere in the middle. "
Sounds like a wrestling match, I say.
"A wrestling match." He laughs. "Yes, you could describe life that way."
So which side wins, I ask? " Which side wins?"
He smiles at me, the crinkled eyes, the crooked teeth.
"Love wins. Love always wins."

   阳光从餐厅的窗户射进来，照亮了房间里的硬木地板。我们在那儿已经谈了近两个小时了。常有电话打来，莫里让他的助手康尼去接。她把所有打电话来的人的名字记录在莫里那本黑封面的小登记簿上：朋友，默念师，讨论小组，想为某本杂志给他拍照的摄影师。显然，我不是唯一有兴趣访问他的人——“夜线”节目使他成了名人——但我还是对他有那么多的朋友而感到惊讶，甚至还有些忌妒。我回想起大学时那些围着我转的“哥们”，他们如今在哪里呢？
   “你知道，米奇，因为我是个快死的人，所以人们才对我感兴趣。”
   你一直是个有趣的人。
   "啊，”莫里笑了。“你真好。”
   不，我并不好，我心里在想。
   "原因在于，”他说，“人们把我视为一座桥梁。我不像以前那样活着，但我又没有死……我类似于……介于两者之间。”
   他咳嗽起来，随后又恢复了笑容，“我已经踏上了最后的旅程——人们要我告诉他们该怎样打点行装。”
   电话铃又响了。
   "莫里，你能接吗？”康尼问。
   "我正在接待我的老朋友，”他说，“请他们待会儿再打来。”
   我不知道他为什么待我这么热情。我几乎已经与十六年前离开了他的那个有出息的学生判若两人。如果没有“夜线”节目，莫里也许到死也不会再见到我。对此我没有任何正儿八经的理由，除了人人现在都会找的借口。我一心一意关心着自己的生活。我很忙。
   我怎么啦？我问自己。莫里尖细、嘶哑的嗓音又把我带回到了大学时代。我那时视有钱为罪恶，衬衫加领带在我眼里简直如同枷锁，没有自由、貌似充实的生活——骑着摩托。沐着清风，游逛巴黎的街市或西藏的山峦——并不是有意义的生活。可我现在怎么啦？
   八十年代开始了。九十年代开始了。死亡、疾病、肥胖、秃顶接踵而来。我是用许多梦想在换取数额更大的支票，只是我没有意识到而已。
   莫里却又在谈美妙的大学生活了，仿佛我只是过了一个长长的假期。
   "你有没有知心的朋友？”
   "你为社区贡献过什么吗？”
   "你对自己心安理得吗？”
   "你想不想做一个富有人情味的人？”
   我坐立不安起来，我的心绪被这些问题彻底搅乱了。我怎么会变得这样？我曾经发过誓，永远不为钱而工作，我会参加和平队①，去美丽的理想乐园生活。
   ①由志愿人员组成的美国政府代表机构，成立于1961年，去发展中国家提供技术服务。
   然而，我在底特律一呆就是十年，受雇同一个报社，进出同一家银行，光顾同一家理发店。我已经三十有七，比做学生那会更有能耐，整天泡在电脑，调制解调器和手机里。我专门写有关富有的运动员的文章，他们一般对我这样的人也是很在意的。我在同龄人中已不再显得稚嫩，不用再穿灰色的无领长袖衫或叼着没有点燃的烟来作修饰。但我也不再有边吃鸡蛋色拉边长谈人生的机会。
   我的每一天都很充实，然而，我在大部分时间里仍感到不满足。
   我怎么啦？
   "教练，”我突然记起了这个绰号。
   莫里面露喜色，“是我。我还是你的教练。”
   他大笑着继续吃他的东西，这顿饭他已经吃了四十分钟。我在观察他，他手的动作显得有点笨拙，好像刚刚在开始学用手。他不能用力地使用刀。他的手指在颤抖。每咬一口食物都得费很大的劲，然后再咀嚼好一阵子才咽下去，有时食物还会从嘴角漏出来，于是他得放下手里的东西，用餐巾纸擦一擦。他手腕到肘部的皮肤上布满了老人斑，而且松弛得像一根熬汤的鸡骨头上悬着的鸡皮。
   有一阵子，我们俩就这么吃着东西。一个是患病的老者，一个是健康的年轻人，两人一起承受着房间里的寂静。我觉得这是一种令人难堪的寂静，然而感到难堪的似乎只有我。
   "死亡，”莫里突然开口说，“是一件令人悲哀的事，米奇。可不幸地活着也同样令人悲哀。所以许多来探访我的人并不幸福。”
   为什么？
   "唔，首先，我们的文化并不让人觉得心安理得。我们在教授一些错误的东西。你需要十分的坚强才能说，如果这种文化没有用，就别去接受它。建立你自己的文化。但大多数人都做不到。他们要比我——即使在这样的处境里——更不幸。
   "我也许就要死去，但我周围有爱我，关心我的人们。有多少人能有这个福份？”
   他毫不自怜自哀的态度使我感到惊讶。莫里，一个不能再跳舞。游泳。洗澡和行走的人，一个再也不能去开门，不会自己擦干身子，甚至不能在床上翻身的人，怎么会对命运表现出如此的乐于接受？我望着他费劲地使用着叉子，好几次都没能叉起一块番茄——那情景真令人悲哀。然而我无法否认，坐在他面前能感受到一种神奇的宁静，就像当年校园里的清风拂去我心中的浮躁一般。
   我瞄了一眼手表——习惯的驱使——时间已经不早了，我在想换一班飞机回去。这时莫里做了一件至今都令我挥之不去的事情。
   "你知道我会怎么死吗？”他问。
   我扬起了眉毛。
   "我会窒息而死。是的，由于我有哮喘，我的肺将无法抵御疾病的侵入。它慢慢地往上跑。现在它已经侵蚀了我的腿。用不了多久它会侵蚀到我的手臂和手。当它侵蚀到我的肺部时………
   他耸了耸肩膀。
   "厖我就完蛋了。”
   我不知道该说些什么，于是嗫嚅道，“嗯，你知道，我是说……你不会知道……”
   莫里闭上了眼睛。“我知道，米奇。你不必害怕我的死。我有过美好的生活。我们都知道这只是迟早的事。我或许还有四五个月的时间。”
   别这么说，我紧张地打断了他。没人能预料——
   "我能预料，”他轻声说。“甚至还有一种测试的方法。是一位医生教我的。”
   测试方法？
   "吸几口气。”
   我照他说的做了。
   "现在再吸一次，但这次当你呼气时，看看你能数到几。”
   我快速地边呼气边数数。“一、二、三、四、五、六、七、八……”吐完这口气时我数到了七十。
   "很好，”莫里说，“你有一个健康的肺。现在看我做。”
   他吸了口气，然后轻声、颤抖地开始数数。“一、二、三、四、五、六、七、八、九、十、十一、十二、十三、十四、十五、十六、十七、十八——”
   他停住了，气喘吁吁。
   "当医生第一次让我这么做的时候，我能数到二十三。现在是十八。”
   他闭上了眼睛，摇摇头。“我的油箱已经空了。”
   我有些紧张地做了个拍大腿的动作。该结束这个下午了。
   "再回来看看你的老教授，”当我拥抱着和他道别时莫里说。我答应我会来的，这时我尽量不去想上一次我作一允诺的时刻。
   我在学校的书店买了莫里为我们开出的书，比如《青春》、《个性和危机》、《我与你》、《分离的自我》等。这些书我以前从未听说过。
   进大学前我不知道人际关系的学习也可以成为一门学术性课程。在我遇到莫里之前，我不相信这是真的。
   他对书本的感情是那么真实且富有感染力。有时放学后，当教室里空无一人时，我们开始作认真的交谈。他问及我的生活，然后引用艾里奇•弗罗姆、马丁•布贝尔和埃立克•埃里克森的一些论述。他经常照搬他们的语录，然后再用自己的见解作注脚。只有在这种时候，我才意识到他是个真正的教授，而不是长辈。有一天下午，我在抱怨我这一代人的困惑：我分不清什么是我自己想做的，什么是别人期望你做的。
   "我有没有对你说起过反向力？”他问。
   反向力？
   "生活是持续不断的前进和后退。你想做某一件事，可你叉注定要去做另一件事。你受到了伤害，可你知道你不该受伤害。你把某些事情视作理所当然，尽管你知道不该这么做。
   "反向力，就像是橡皮筋上的移动。我们大多数人生活在它的中间。”
   听上去像是摔跤比赛，我说。
   "摔跤比赛。”莫里大芙起来。“是的，你可以对生活作类似的诠释。”
   那么哪一方会赢？我问。
   "哪一方会赢？”
   他对我笑笑：眯缝的眼睛，不平整的牙齿。
   "爱会赢。爱永远是胜者。”
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7.Taking Attendance

I flew to London a few weeks later. I was covering Wimbledon, the world's premier tennis competition and one of the few events I go to where the crowd never boos and no one is drunk in the parking lot. England was warm and cloudy, and each morning I walked the treelined streets near the tennis courts, passing teenagers cued up for leftover tickets and vendors selling strawberries and cream. Outside the gate was a newsstand that sold a halfdozen colorful British tabloids, featuring photos of topless women, paparazzi pictures of the royal family, horoscopes, sports, lottery contests, and a wee bit of actual news. Their top headline of the day was written on a small chalkboard that leaned against the latest stack of papers, and usually read something like DIANA IN ROW WITH CHARLES! or GAZZA TO TEAM: GIVE ME MILLIONS!
People scooped up these tabloids, devoured their gossip, and on previous trips to England, I had always done the same. But now, for some reason, I found myself thinking about Morrie whenever I read anything silly or mindless. I kept picturing him there, in the house with the Japanese maple and the hardwood floors, counting his breath, squeezing out every moment with his loved ones, while I spent so many hours on things that meant absolutely nothing to me personally: movie stars, supermodels, the latest noise out of Princess Di or Madonna or John F. Kennedy, Jr. In a strange way, I envied the quality of Morrie's time even as I lamented its diminishing supply. Why did we, bother with all the distractions we did? Back home, the O. J. Simpson trial was in full swing, and there were people who surrendered their entire lunch hours watching it, then taped the rest so they could watch more at night. They didn't know O. J. Simpson. They didn't know anyone involved in the case. Yet they gave up days and weeks of their lives, addicted to someone else's drama.
I remembered what Morrie said during our visit: "The culture we have does not make people feel good about themselves. And you have to be strong enough to say if the culture doesn't work, don't buy it."
Morrie, true to these words, had developed his own culture-long before he got sick. Discussion groups, walks with friends, dancing to his music in the Harvard Square church. He started a project called Greenhouse, where poor people could receive mental health services. He read books to find new ideas for his classes, visited with colleagues, kept up with old students, wrote letters to distant friends. He took more time eating and looking at nature and wasted no time in front of TV sitcoms or "Movies of the Week." He had created a cocoon of human activities-conversation, interaction, affection-and it filled his life like an overflowing soup bowl.
I had also developed my own culture. Work. I did four or five media jobs in England, juggling them like a clown. I spent eight hours a day on a computer, feeding my stories back to the States. Then I did TV pieces, traveling with a crew throughout parts of London. I also phoned in radio reports every morning and afternoon. This was not an abnormal load. Over the years, I had taken labor as my companion and had moved everything else to the side.
In Wimbledon; I ate meals at my little wooden work cubicle and thought nothing of it. On one particularly crazy day, a crush of reporters had tried to chase down Andre Agassi and his famous girlfriend, Brooke Shields, and I had gotten knocked over by a British photographer who barely muttered "Sorry" before sweeping past, his huge metal lenses strapped around his neck. I thought of something else Morrie had told me: "So many people walk around with a meaningless life. They seem half-asleep, even when they're busy doing things they think are important. This is because they're chasing the wrong things. The way you get meaning into your life is to devote yourself to loving others, devote yourself to your community around you, and devote yourself to creating something that gives you purpose and meaning."
I knew he was right.
Not that I did anything about it.
At the end of the tournament-and the countless cups of coffee I drank to get through it-I closed my computer, cleaned out my cubicle, and went back to the apartment to pack. It was late. The TV was nothing but fuzz.
I flew to Detroit, arrived late in the afternoon, dragged myself home and went to sleep. I awoke to a jolting piece of news: the unions at my newspaper had gone on strike. The place was shut down. There were picketers at the front entrance and marchers chanting up and down the street. As a member of the union, I had no choice: I was suddenly, and for the first time in my life, out of a job, out of a paycheck, and pitted against my employers. Union leaders called my home and warned me against any contact with my former editors, many of whom were my friends, telling me to hang up if they tried to call and plead their case.
"We're going to fight until we win!" the union leaders swore, sounding like soldiers.
I felt confused and depressed. Although the TV and radio work were nice supplements, the newspaper had been my lifeline, my oxygen; when I saw my stories in print in each morning, I knew that, in at least one way, I was alive.
Now it was gone. And as the strike continued-the first day, the second day, the third day-there were worried phone calls and rumors that this could go on for months. Everything I had known was upside down. There were sporting events each night that I would have gone to cover. Instead, I stayed home, watched them on TV. I had grown used to thinking readers somehow needed my column. I was stunned at how easily things went on without me.
After a week of this, I picked up the phone and dialed Morrie's number. Connie brought him to the phone. "You're coming to visit me," he said, less a question than a statement.
Well. Could I?
"How about Tuesday?"
Tuesday would be good, I said. Tuesday would be fine.

In my sophomore year, I take two more of his courses. We go beyond the classroom, meeting now and then just to talk. I have never done this before with an adult who was not a relative, yet I feel comfortable doing it with Morrie, and he seems comfortable making the time.
"Where shall we visit today?" he asks cheerily when I enter his office.
In the spring, we sit under a tree outside the sociology building, and in the winter, we sit by his desk, me in my gray sweatshirts and Adidas sneakers, Morrie in Rockport shoes and corduroy pants. Each time we talk, lie listens to me ramble, then he tries to pass on some sort of life lesson. He warns me that money is not the most important thing, contrary to the popular view on campus. He tells me I need to be "fully human." He speaks of the alienation of youth and the need for "connectedness" with the society around me. Some of these things I understand, some I do not. It makes no difference. The discussions give me an excuse to talk to him, fatherly conversations I cannot have with my own father, who would like me to be a lawyer.
Morrie hates lawyers.
"What do you want to do when you get out of college?" he asks.
I want to be a musician, I say. Piano player. "Wonderful," he says. "But that's a hard life." Yeah.
"A lot of sharks." That's what I hear.
"Still," he says, "if you really want it, then you'll make your dream happen. "
I want to hug him, to thank him for saying that, but I am not that open. I only nod instead.
"I'll bet you play piano with a lot of pep," he says. I laugh. Pep?
He laughs back. "Pep. What's the matter? They don't say that anymore?"

   几个星期后我飞往伦敦。我是去报道温布尔顿网球公开赛的，那是世界顶级的网球比赛，也是少数几个没有观众喝倒彩，没人在停车场上喝得酪叮大醉的体育场合之一。英国很暖和，多云的天气，每天早上我在网球场附近的林荫道散步，不时碰见排着长队等退票的孩子以及叫卖草毒和冰淇淋的摊贩。网球场的大门外有一个报刊亭，卖五六种套色的英国通俗小报。裸体女郎的特写照片、“拍拍垃圾”的皇家新闻照片。星象算命书。体育杂志。抽奖比赛以及少量的时事新闻。他们把当天的热门报道写在一块倚靠着报纸堆的黑板上，它们通常是：黛安娜与查尔斯不和或加扎向球队要几百万！
   人们很欢迎这些通俗小报，津津有味地读着那些小道新闻。前几次来英国时我也这么做，可这次，不知什么原因，每当我读到那些元聊的东西，我就会想起莫里。我脑子里老是出现他在那幢长着日本槭树且铺着硬木地板的房子里数着他的呼吸次数。挤出每一分钟时间去陪伴他所爱之人的情形。而我却把大量的时间花在那些对我毫无意义的事情上：什么电影明星啦，超级模特啦，有关迪公主，玛多娜或小肯尼迪的传闻啦。说来也怪，虽然我悲叹莫里来日无多的生命，但我又忌妒它的充实。我们为何要把大量的时间花在无谓的琐事上：什么电影明星啦，超级模特啦，有关迪公主，玛多娜或小肯尼迪的传闻啦。说来也怪，虽然我悲叹莫里来日无多的生命，但我又忌妒它的充实。我们为何要把大量的时间花在无谓的琐事上？O•J•辛普森的案子在美国闹得沸沸扬扬，人们为了收看这一报道而情愿放弃整个午饭的时间，还要再预录下来不及看完的部分到晚上补看。他们并不认识辛普森，他们也不认识和这件案子有关的其他人。然而他们却甘愿为此浪费掉时间，整日、整个星期地沉溺在他人的闹剧里。
   我记起了上次见面时莫里说过的话：“我们的文化并不让我们感到心安理得。你需要十分的坚强才能说，如果这种文化没有用，就别去接受它。”
   莫里，就像他说的那样，建立了他自己的文化——早在他患病之前就这么做了。小组讨论，和朋友散步，去华盛顿广场的教堂跳舞自娱。他还制定了一个名叫绿屋的计划，为贫困的人提供心理治疗。他博览群书为他的课寻找新的思想内容，他走访同事们，与毕业的学生保持联系，给远方的朋友写信。他情愿花时间去享享口福和赏玩自然，而从不浪费在电视喜剧或周末电影上。他建立了一种人类活动的模式——相互交流，相互影响，相互爱护——这一模式充实着他的生活。
   我也建立了我自己的文化：工作。我在英国干四到五份新闻媒体的工作，像小丑一样地跳来跳去。我一天在电脑上要花八个小时，把报道传送回美国；此外我还要制作电视节目，跟着摄制组走遍伦敦的每一个地方。我还要在每天的上午和下午主持听众来电直播节月。这份负担确实够重的。几年来，我一直将工作视为我的伴侣，把其它一切都抛在了脑后。
   在温布尔顿，我就在小小方方的工作台上用餐，权当完成任务。有一天，一群发了疯似的记者拼命追踪阿加西和他那位有名的女友波姬•小丝，我被一个英国摄影师撞倒了，他只咕哝了一声“对不起”便跑得没了人影，他的脖子上辇着巨大的金属镜头。我不由地想起了莫里曾对我说过的另一番话：“许多人过着没有意义的生活。即使当他们在忙于一些自以为重要的事情时，他们也显得昏昏慵慵的。这是因为他们在追求一种错误的东西。你要使生活有意义，你就得献身于爱，献身于你周围的群体，去创造一种能给你目标和意义的价值观。”
   我想他是对的。
   尽管我在反其道而行之。
   公开赛结束了——我是靠无数咖啡才摔过来的——我关掉电脑，清理完工作台，回到了住处打点行装。已经是深夜了，电视里早已没有了画面。
   我飞回底特律，傍晚时才到达。我拖着疲惫的身子回到家，一头倒在了床上。醒来后看到的是一则爆炸性的新闻：我那家报纸的工会举行了罢工。报社关闭了。大门口站着纠察队员，请愿者在街上游行示威。作为工会的会员，我没有选择。我突然之间、也是我生活中第一次失去了工作，失去了支票，和老板处于对立面。工会的头给我打来电话，警告我别同任何我以前的老总们接触，如果他们打电话来解释，就挂断电话。他们中有许多人是我的朋友。
   "我们要战斗到胜利！”工会的头像士兵一样发誓说。
   我感到既困惑又沮丧。虽然我在电视台和电台的打工是一份不错的副业，但报纸始终是我的生命线，是我生命中的氧气。当我每天早上看见我写的报道见诸报端时，我便知道，至少从某个意义上说我还活着。
   现在它消失了。随着罢工的继续——一天，两天，三天——不断有令人焦虑的电话和谣言传来，说这次罢工有可能持续几个月。我所熟悉的生活方式被打乱了。原来每天晚上都有体育比赛需要我去采访，现在我只能呆在家里，坐在电视机前看。我已经理所当然地认为读者是非常需要我的专栏文章的，可我吃惊地发现缺了我一切照样进行得十分顺利。
   这样过了一个星期，我拿起电话拨了莫里的号码，康尼让他接了电话。
   "你来看我，”他的语调不像是询问而像是命令。
   我能来吗？
   "星期二怎么样？”
   星期二很合适，我说。就星期二。
   在大学的第二年，我选了他的另外两门课，我们跨出了教室，经常见面交谈。我以前从来没有和一个亲属以外的成年人这么相处过，但我觉得和莫里极容易相处，他也显得很快活。
   "今天我们该去哪儿？”我一走进他的办公室，他兴奋地问。
   春天，我们就坐在社会学系大楼外的一棵大树下；冬天，我们坐在他的办公桌前。我穿无领的灰色长袖衫和阿迪达斯运动鞋，莫里则穿洛克波特鞋和灯芯绒裤子。我们每次交谈时，他先听我漫无边际的聊天，然后将话题移到人生经验上，他提醒我说，金钱不是最重要的，这和校园里盛行的观点截然相反。他对我说应该做一个“完整的人”。他谈到了青春的异化问题，谈到了同周围的社会建立某种联系的必要性。有些事情我能理解，有些则不能，但这无关紧要。讨论问题向我提供了一个同他交谈的机会，我和我父亲从未有过这样的交谈，我父亲希望我将来当律师。
   莫里讨厌律师。
   "你毕业后想做什么？”他问。
   我想成为音乐家，我说。弹钢琴。
   "太好了，”他说，“但这是条很艰难的道路。”
   是的。
   "有许多行家高手。”
   我早已听说了。
   "但是，”他说，“如果你真的这么想，那就应该让你的梦想成真。”我真想拥抱他，感谢他这么说，可我不是很外向，我只是，点了点头。
   "我相信你弹钢琴时一定很有活力，”他说。
   我笑了。活力？
   他也笑了。“活力。怎么啦，这个说法已经过时了？”
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8.The First Tuesday We Talk About the World

Connie opened the door and let me in. Morrie was in his wheelchair by the kitchen table, wearing a loose cotton shirt and even looser black sweatpants. They were loose because his legs had atrophied beyond normal clothing size-you could get two hands around his thighs and have your fingers touch. Had he been able to stand, he'd have been no more than five feet tall, and he'd probably have fit into a sixth grader's jeans.
"I got you something," I announced, holding up a brown paper bag. I had stopped on my way from the airport at a nearby supermarket and purchased some turkey, potato salad, macaroni salad, and bagels. I knew there was plenty of food at the house, but I wanted to contribute something. I was so powerless to help Morrie otherwise. And I remembered his fondness for eating.
"Ah, so much food!" he sang. "Well. Now you have to eat it with me."
We sat at the kitchen table, surrounded by wicker chairs. This time, without the need to make up sixteen years of information, we slid quickly into the familiar waters of our old college dialogue, Morrie asking questions, listening to my replies, stopping like a chef to sprinkle in something I'd forgotten or hadn't realized. He asked about the newspaper strike, and true to form, he couldn't understand why both sides didn't simply communicate with each other and solve their problems. I told him not everyone was as smart as he was.
Occasionally, he had to stop to use the bathroom, a process that took some time. Connie would wheel him to the toilet, then lift him from the chair and support him as he urinated into the beaker. Each time he came back, he looked tired.
"Do you remember when I told Ted Koppel that pretty soon someone was gonna have to wipe my ass?" he said.
I laughed. You don't forget a moment like that. "Well, I think that day is coming. That one bothers me."
Why?
"Because it's the ultimate sign of dependency. Someone wiping your bottom. But I'm working on it. I'm trying to enjoy the process."
Enjoy it?
"Yes. After all, I get to be a baby one more time." That's a unique way of looking at it.
"Well, I have to look at life uniquely now. Let's face it. I can't go shopping, I can't take care of the bank accounts, I can't take out the garbage. But I can sit here with my dwindling days and look at what I think is important in life. I have both the time-and the reason-to do that."
So, I said, in a reflexively cynical response, I guess the key to finding the meaning of life is to stop taking out the garbage?
He laughed, and I was relieved that he did.

As Connie took the plates away, I noticed a stack of newspapers that had obviously been read before I got there.
You bother keeping up with the news, I asked? "Yes," Morrie said. "Do you think that's strange? Do you think because I'm dying, I shouldn't care what happens in this world?"
Maybe.
He sighed. "Maybe you're right. Maybe I shouldn't care. After all, I won't be around to see how it all turns out.
"But it's hard to explain, Mitch. Now that I'm suffering, I feel closer to people who suffer than I ever did before. The other night, on TV, I saw people in Bosnia running across the street, getting fired upon, killed, innocent victims . . . and I just started to cry. I feel their anguish as if it were my own. I don't know any of these people. But-how can I put this?-I'm almost . . . drawn to them."
His eyes got moist, and I tried to change the subject, but he dabbed his face and waved me off.
"I cry all the time now," he said. "Never mind."
Amazing, I thought. I worked in the news business. I covered stories where people died. I interviewed grieving family members. I even attended the funerals. I never cried. Morrie, for the suffering of people half a world away, was weeping. Is this what comes at the end, I wondered? Maybe death is the great equalizer, the one big thing that can finally make strangers shed a tear for one another.
Morrie honked loudly into the tissue. "This is okay with you, isn't it? Men crying?"
Sure, I said, too quickly.
He grinned. "Ah, Mitch, I'm gonna loosen you up. One day, I'm gonna show you it's okay to cry."
Yeah, yeah, I said. "Yeah, yeah," he said.
We laughed because he used to say the same thing nearly twenty years earlier. Mostly on Tuesdays. In fact, Tuesday had always been our day together. Most of my courses with Morrie were on Tuesdays, he had office hours on Tuesdays, and when I wrote my senior thesiswhich was pretty much Morrie's suggestion, right from the start-it was on Tuesdays that we sat together, by his desk, or in the cafeteria, or on the steps of Pearlman Hall, going over the work.
So it seemed only fitting that we were back together on a Tuesday, here in the house with the Japanese maple out front. As I readied to go, I mentioned this to Morrie.
"We're Tuesday people," he said. Tuesday people, I repeated.
Morrie smiled.
"Mitch, you asked about caring for people I don't even know. But can I tell you the thing I'm learning most with this disease?"
What's that?
"The most important thing in life is to learn how to give out love, and to let it come in."
His voice dropped to a whisper. "Let it come in. We think we don't deserve love, we think if we let it in we'll become too soft. But a wise man named Levine said it right. He said, `Love is the only rational act.' "
He repeated it carefully, pausing for effect. " `Love is the only rational act.' "
I nodded, like a good student, and he exhaled weakly. I leaned over to give him a hug. And then, although it is not really like me, I kissed him on the cheek. I felt his weakened hands on my arms, the thin stubble of his whiskers brushing my face.
"So you'll come back next Tuesday?" he whispered.

He enters the classroom, sits down, doesn't say anything. He looks at its, we look at him. At first, there are a few giggles, but Morrie only shrugs, and eventually a deep silence falls and we begin to notice the smallest sounds, the radiator humming in the corner of the room, the nasal breathing of one of the fat students.
Some of us are agitated. When is lie going to say something? We squirm, check our watches. A few students look out the window, trying to be above it all. This goes on a good fifteen minutes, before Morrie finally breaks in with a whisper.
"What's happening here?" he asks.
And slowly a discussion begins as Morrie has wanted all along-about the effect of silence on human relations. My are we embarrassed by silence? What comfort do we find in all the noise?
I am not bothered by the silence. For all the noise I make with my friends, I am still not comfortable talking about my feelings in front of others-especially not classmates. I could sit in the quiet for hours if that is what the class demanded.
On my way out, Morrie stops me. "You didn't say much today," he remarks.
I don't know. I just didn't have anything to add.
"I think you have a lot to add. In fact, Mitch, you remind me of someone I knew who also liked to keep things to himself when he was younger."
Who?
"Me."

   康尼替我开了门。坐着轮椅的莫里正在厨房的餐桌旁，他穿一件宽松的全棉衬衣和一条更为肥大的黑色运动裤。衣服显得宽松是因为他的腿已经萎缩得脱了形--用两只手围住他的大腿部分已经绰绰有余。他站立起来的话，身高不会超过五英尺，也许六年级学生的牛仔裤他都能穿。
   "我给你带来一些东西，"我说着递给他一只包装纸袋，我从机场来这儿的路上去附近的一家超市买了火鸡、土豆色拉、通心面色拉和硬面包圈。我知道他家里有许多食品，我只是想有所表示。我在其它方面一点也帮不了他。我还记得他对吃的爱好。
   "哈，这么多吃的！"他高兴地叫道。"行，现在你得和我一起吃。"
   我们坐在厨房餐桌旁，桌子四周放着柳条编制的椅子。这一次，我们不再需要弥补中断了十六年的信息，很快就转入了彼此都熟悉的大学时的谈话轨道。莫里提问题，然后听我回答。有时他会打断我，像厨师一样撒上一点我忘记了的或还没有领悟的佐料。他问起了报业的罢工，他始终无法理解双方为什么就不能靠开诚布公的对话来解决问题。我告诉他说，不是每个人都像他那么明智的。
   他有时要停下来上厕所，这得花上些时间。康尼把他推到卫生间，然后抱他离开轮椅并在他小便时扶住他。他每次回来都显得非常疲乏。
   "还记得我对特德•科佩尔说过的话吗，用不了多久就得有人替我擦屁股了？"他说。
   我笑了。那样的时刻你是不会忘记的。
   "唔，我想这一天就快来了。它令我很烦恼。"
   为什么？
   "因为这是失去自理能力的最后界限：得有人替我擦屁股，但我在努力适应它。我会尽力去享受这个过程。"
   享受？
   "是的。不管怎么说，我又要当一回婴儿了。"
   这想法真与众不同。
   "是啊，我现在必须与众不同地去看待人生。要能面对它。我不能去购物，不能料理银行的帐户，不能倒垃圾。但我仍可以坐在这儿注视那些我认为是人生重大的事情。我有时间--也有理由--去那么做。"
   这么说来，我既带着幽默又有些尖刻他说，我想，要找到人生意义的关键就在于不倒垃圾。
   他大笑起来，于是我也释然了。
   等康尼把盘子端走后，我注意到了一叠报纸，显然他在我到来之前读过它们。
   你还在关心时事？我问。
   "是的，"莫里说。"你觉得奇怪吗？你认为一个快要死的人就不必再去关心发生在这个世界上的事了？"
   也许。
   他叹了口气，"也许你是对的。也许我是不该去关心它们了。毕竟我活不到那个时候了。
   "但这又很难解释得清，米奇。正因为我在遭受痛苦，我就更容易想到那些比我还要痛苦的人。那天晚上，我在电视上看见波斯尼亚那儿的人在大街上奔逃，被熗打死，都是些无辜的受害者……我不禁哭了。我感受到了他们的痛苦，就像感受自己的一样。我并不认识他们当中的任何人，可是--该怎么说呢？--我非常……同情他们。"
   他的眼睛湿润了。我想换一个话题，但他轻轻地拭了一下眼睛，挥手阻止了我的念头。
   "我现在老是哭，"他说。"没事的。"
   真不可思议，我暗自在想。我在新闻媒体工作。我报道过死人的消息。我也采访过那些不幸的家庭。我甚至还参加过葬礼。我从没哭过。可莫里却会为半个地球之外的人流泪。是不是人之将死都会这样，我问自己。也许死亡是一种强大的催化剂，它令互不相识的人也会彼此报以同情的泪水。
   莫里对着手纸大声干咳起来。"你不会觉得奇怪吧，男人也流泪？"
   当然，我脱口而出。
   他咧嘴笑了。"嘿，米奇，说话别有顾忌，有那么一天，我会让你感到流泪并不是一件难堪的事。"
   是啊，是啊，我说。
   "是啊，是啊，"他说。
   我们都笑了，因为他二十年前就这么说过。大都在星期二说。实际上，星期二一直是我们的聚会日。莫里的课大部分在星期二上，我写毕业论文时他把辅导时间也定在星期二--从一开始这就是莫里的主意--我们总是在星期二坐到一块，或在办公桌前，或在餐厅里，或在皮尔曼楼的台阶上，讨论论文的进展。
   所以，重新相约在星期二看来是最合适的，就约在这幢外面栽有日本槭树的房子里。我准备走的时候跟莫里提了这个想法。
   "我们是星期二人，"他说。
   星期二人。我重复着他的话。
   莫里笑了。
   "米奇，你问及了关心别人的问题。我可以把患病以后最大的体会告诉你吗？"
   是什么？
   "人生最重要的是学会如何施爱于人，并去接受爱。"
   他压低了嗓音说，"去接受爱。我们一直认为我们不应该去接受它，如果我们接受了它，我们就不够坚强了。但有一位名叫莱文的智者却不这么看。他说"爱是唯一的理性行为"。
   他一字一句地又重复了一遍，"'爱是唯一的理性行为'。"
   我像个好学生那样点了点头，他很虚弱地喘着气。我探过身去拥抱了他。接着，我吻了他的脸颊。我感觉到了他无力的手按着我的臂膀，细细的胡子茬儿碰触在我的脸上。
   "那你下个星期二来？"他低声问。
   他走进教室，坐了下来，没说一句话，他望着我们，我们也望着他。起初还有笑声，可莫里只是耸耸肩。最后教室里死寂一片，我们开始注意到一些细微的声响：屋子中央的热水汀发着咝咝声，一个胖家伙呼哧呼哧喘着气。
   有人狂躁不安起来：他准备等到什么时候才开口，我们在椅子上坐不住了，不时地看手表。有几个学生转向窗外，显得毫不在意。就这么整整过了十五分钟，莫里才低声地打破了沉寂。
   "这里发生了什么？"他问。
   大家渐渐地讨论起来--正如莫里所期望的--讨论了沉寂对人与人的关系的影响。沉寂为什么会使我们感到局促不安；而各种各样的响声又能得到什么有益的效果？
   沉寂并没有让我感到不安。尽管我也会和朋友们嘻嘻哈哈互相嬉闹，可我不习惯在别人面前谈论自己的感情--尤其在同学面前。我可以静静地坐上几个小时，如果课堂是这么要求的话。
   离开教室时，莫里喊住了我。"你今天没有发言，"他说。
   我不知道。我没有什么可说的。
   "我觉得你有许多想法。米奇，你使我想起了另一个人，他年轻时也喜欢把什么都藏在肚子里。"
   谁？
   "我。"
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9.The Second Tuesday We Talk About Feeling Sorry for Yourself

I came back the next Tuesday. And for many Tuesdays that followed. I looked forward to these visits more than one would think, considering I was flying seven hundred miles to sit alongside a dying man. But I seemed to slip into a time warp when I visited Morrie, and I liked myself better when I was there. I no longer rented a cellular phone for the rides from the airport. Let them wait, I told myself, mimicking Morrie.
The newspaper situation in Detroit had not improved. In fact, it had grown increasingly insane, with nasty confrontations between picketers and replacement workers, people arrested, beaten, lying in the street in front of delivery trucks.
In light of this, my visits with Morrie felt like a cleansing rinse of human kindness. We talked about life and we talked about love. We talked about one of Morrie's favorite subjects, compassion, and why our society had such a shortage of it. Before my third visit, I stopped at a market called Bread and Circus-I had seen their bags in Morrie's house and figured he must like the food there-and I loaded up with plastic containers from their fresh food take-away, things like vermicelli with vegetables and carrot soup and baklava.
When I entered Morrie's study, I lifted the bags as if I'd just robbed a bank.
"Food man!" I bellowed.
Morrie rolled his eyes and smiled.
Meanwhile, I looked for signs of the disease's progression. His fingers worked well enough to write with a pencil, or hold up his glasses, but he could not lift his arms much higher than his chest. He was spending less and less time in the kitchen or living room and more in his study, where he had a large reclining chair set up with pillows, blankets, and specially cut pieces of foam rubber that held his feet and gave support to his withered legs. He kept a bell near his side, and when his head needed adjusting or he had to "go on the commode," as he referred to it, he would shake the bell and Connie, Tony, Bertha, or Amy-his small army of home care workerswould come in. It wasn't always easy for him to lift the bell, and he got frustrated when he couldn't make it work.
I asked Morrie if he felt sorry for himself.
"Sometimes, in the mornings," he said. "That's when I mourn. I feel around my body, I move my fingers and my hands-whatever I can still move-and I mourn what I've lost. I mourn the slow, insidious way in which I'm dying. But then I stop mourning."
Just like that?
"I give myself a good cry if I need it. But then I concentrate on all the good things still in my life. On the people who are coming to see me. On the stories I'm going to hear. On you-if it's Tuesday. Because we're Tuesday people."
I grinned. Tuesday people.
"Mitch, I don't allow myself any more self-pity than that. A little each morning, a few tears, and that's all."
I thought about all the people I knew who spent many of their waking hours feeling sorry for themselves. How useful it would be to put a daily limit on self-pity. just a few tearful minutes, then on with the day. And if Morrie could do it, with such a horrible disease . . .
"It's only horrible if you see it that way," Morrie said. "It's horrible to watch my body slowly wilt away to nothing. But it's also wonderful because of all the time I get to say good-bye."
He smiled. "Not everyone is so lucky."
I studied him in his chair, unable to stand, to wash, to pull on his pants. Lucky? Did he really say lucky?

During a break, when Morrie had to use the bathroom, I leafed through the Boston newspaper that sat near his chair. There was a story about a small timber town where two teenage girls tortured and killed a seventy-three-year-old man who had befriended them, then threw a party in his trailer home and showed off the corpse. There was another story, about the upcoming trial of a straight man who killed a gay man after the latter had gone on a TV talk show and said he had a crush on him.
I put the paper away. Morrie was rolled back insmiling, as always-and Connie went to lift him from the wheelchair to the recliner.
You want me to do that? I asked.
There was a momentary silence, and I'm not even sure why I offered, but Morrie looked at Connie and said, "Can you show him how to do it?"
"Sure," Connie said.
Following her instructions, I leaned over, locked my forearms under Morrie's armpits, and hooked him toward me, as if lifting a large log from underneath. Then I straightened up, hoisting him as I rose. Normally, when you lift someone, you expect their arms to tighten around your grip, but Morrie could not do this. He was mostly dead weight, and I felt his head bounce softly on my shoulder and his body sag against me like a big damp loaf.
"Ahhhn," he softly groaned.
I gotcha, I gotcha, I said.
Holding him like that moved me in a way I cannot describe, except to say I felt the seeds of death inside his shriveling frame, and as I laid him in his chair, adjusting his head on the pillows, I had the coldest realization that our time was running out.
And I had to do something.

It is my junior year, 1978, when disco and Rocky movies are the cultural rage. We are in an unusual sociology class at Brandeis, something Morrie calls "Group Process." Each week we study the ways in which the students in the group interact with one another, how they respond to anger, jealousy, attention. We are human lab rats. More often than not, someone ends up crying. I refer to it as the "touchy -feely" course. Morrie says I should be more open-minded.
On this day, Morrie says he has an exercise for us to try. We are to stand, facing away from our classmates, and fall backward, relying on another student to catch us. Most of us are uncomfortable with this, and we cannot let go for more than a few inches before stopping ourselves. We laugh in embarrassment. Finally, one student, a thin, quiet, dark-haired girl whom I notice almost always wears bulky white fisherman sweaters, crosses her arms over her chest, closes her eyes, leans back, and does not flinch, like one of those Lipton tea commercials where the model splashes into the pool.
For a moment, I am sure she is going to thump on the floor. At the last instant, her assigned partner grabs her head and shoulders and yanks her up harshly.
"Whoa!" several students yell. Some clap. Morrie _finally smiles.
"You see," he says to the girl, "you closed your eyes. That was the difference. Sometimes you cannot believe what you see, you have to believe what you feel. And if you are ever going to have other people trust you, you must feel that you can trust them, too-even when you're in the dark. Even when you're falling. "

   我下个星期二又去了莫里家。以后几个星期都是如此。我盼着去看他，这种欲望已经超过了一般的程度，因为我坐飞机跨越七百英里去看望的是一个垂死的人。可每当我与莫里在一起的时候，我就似乎处在一种时间的异常状态，我的心情会格外的舒畅。从机场到他家的路上我不再租打手机。让他们去等，我仿效莫里的话对自己说。
   底特律的报业形势仍不见好转。事实上，由于发生了纠察队员和替补员工的激烈冲突，发生人们遭到逮捕、遭到殴打、躺在街上阻拦运报车的事件，整个事件正变得越来越疯狂。
   在这种情形下，我和莫里的会面就像是一帖还人类之善良的清洁剂。我们谈人生，谈爱，谈莫里最喜欢的一个话题--同情，为什么我们这个社会如此缺乏同情心。前几次来的路上，我在一个叫"面包马戏团"的市场停了下来--他们那儿的食品袋我在莫里家也曾看到过，我猜想他一定喜欢这里的食品--我在熟食外卖处买了好几袋的东西，有蔬菜面条，胡萝卜汤和蜜糖果仁千层酥。
   一走进莫里的书房，我提起袋子好像刚抢了银行似地大叫道。
   "美食家！"
   莫里转动着眼睛笑了。
   我同时在观察他的病情有没有加重的症状。他的手指还能使用铅笔或拿起眼镜，但手已经抬不过胸口了。他呆在厨房和客厅的时间越来越少，更多的是呆在书房，那里有一张很大的躺椅，上面堆放着枕头。毯子以及一些用来固定他日见萎缩的腿和脚的海绵橡胶。他身边还放了一个铃，当他的头需要挪动或要"上马桶"（这是他的提法）时，他会摇一下铃，然后康尼，托尼。伯莎或艾美--他的家庭助手服务队--就会进来。摇铃也不是一件轻而易举的事，当他没能把铃摇响的时候他会感到沮丧。
   我问莫里他是否自哀自怜。
   "有时候会的，在早上，"他说。"那是我悲哀的时刻。我触摸自己的身体，移动手和手指--一切还能动弹的部位--然后为自己失去的感到悲哀。我悲哀这种缓慢、不知不觉的死法，但随后我便停止了哀叹，"
   这么快？
   "需要的时候我就大哭一场。但随后我就去想生活中仍很美好的东西，想那些要来看我的人，想就要听到的趣事，还想你--如果是星期二的话。因为我们是星期二人。"
   我笑了。星期二人。
   "米奇，我不让自己有更多的自哀自怜。每天早上就一小会儿，掉几滴眼泪，就完了。"
   我想到有许多人早上醒来后会花上很多的时间自怨自艾。要是稍加限制的话会有好处的。就几分钟的伤心，然后开始一天的生活。如果莫里这种身患绝症的人能够做到的话，那么……
   "只有当你觉得它可怕时，它才可怕，"莫里说。"看着自己的躯体慢慢地萎谢的确很可怕，但它也有幸运的一面，因为我可以有时间跟人说再见。"
   他笑笑说，"不是每个人都这么幸运的。"
   我审视着轮椅上的莫里：不能站立，不能洗澡，不能穿裤。幸运？他真是在说幸运？
   趁莫里上厕所的空档，我随手翻开了放在轮椅旁边的《波士顿时报》。有一则报道说，在一个森林小镇，两个十几岁的女孩折磨死了一个把她们当作朋友的七十三岁的男子，然后在他的活动房里举行了聚会并向众人展示了尸体，另一条新闻是关于即将要开庭审理的一个案子：一个演员杀死了一个同性恋者，原因是后者在电视上说他非常喜欢他。
   我放下了报纸。莫里被推了回来--脸上仍堆着笑容--康尼准备把他从轮椅扶到躺椅上去。
   要我来吗？我问。
   一时谁都没言语，我也不知道自己怎么会自告奋勇的。莫里看了看康尼说，"你能教他怎么做吗？"
   "行，"康尼说。
   照着她的话，我探过身去将前臂插进莫里的腋下，用力往自己这边拖，就像拖一根圆木那样。然后我站直身子，把他也提了起来。通常，当你把一个人提起来时，对方会紧紧抓住你，但莫里却做不到。他几乎是死沉死沉的。我感觉到他的头耷在我的肩膀上一颠一颠的，他的身体犹如一个湿面团紧贴在我的身上。
   "哼--"他轻轻地呻吟起来。
   我抱着你，我抱着你，我说。
   就这么托着他的时候，我产生了一种无法描述的感情，我感觉到了他日趋枯竭的躯体内的死亡种子，在我把他抱上躺椅。把头放上枕头的一瞬间，我十分清醒地意识到我们的时间不多了。
   我必须做些什么。
   1978年我在上大学三年级，那时迪斯科舞和洛奇系列电影成了风靡一时的文化时尚。我们在布兰代斯开设了一门很特别的社会问题研究课，莫里称它为"小组疗程"。我们每星期都要讨论小组成员互相接触的方式，观察他们对愤怒、妒忌或关心等心理行为的反应。我们都成了人类实验鼠。常常有人在最后流下了泪。我把它称作是"多愁善感"课。莫里说我的感情应该更开放些。
   那天，莫里让我们作了一次实验。我们站成前后两排，前排的人背对着后排的人。随后，他让前排的人向后倒去，由后排的同学将他们扶住。许多人都觉得不自在，稍稍往后倒几英寸便收住了身子。大家都窘迫地笑了。
   最后，有一个同学，一个老是穿一件宽大的白色运动衫。长得瘦小文静的女孩把双手合在胸前，闭上眼睛，直挺挺地向后倒去，那架势真像立顿红茶广告里的那位掉进水池的模特。
   那一瞬间，我肯定她会重重地摔倒在地。但情急之中，和她搭档的那位同学一把抓住了她的头和肩膀，毛手毛脚地把她扶了起来。
   "哇！"好几个同学喊道，有的还鼓了掌。
   莫里笑了。
   "你瞧，"他对那个女孩说，"你闭上了眼睛，那就是区别。有时候你不能只相信你所看见的，你还得相信你所感觉的。如果你想让别人信任你，你首先应该感到你也能信任他--即使你是在黑暗中，即使你是在向后倒去。"
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10.The Third Tuesday We Talk About Regrets

The next Tuesday, I arrived with the normal bags of food-pasta with corn, potato salad, apple cobbler--and something else: a Sony tape recorder.
I want to remember what we talk about, I told Morrie. I want to have your voice so I can listen to it . . . later.
"When I'm dead." Don't say that.
He laughed. "Mitch, I'm going to die. And sooner, not later."
He regarded the new machine. "So big," he said. I felt intrusive, as reporters often do, and I began to think that a tape machine between two people who were supposedly friends was a foreign object, an artificial ear. With all the people clamoring for his time, perhaps I was trying to take too much away from these Tuesdays.
Listen, I said, picking up the recorder. We don't have to use this. If it makes you uncomfortable
He stopped me, wagged a finger, then hooked his glasses off his nose, letting them dangle on the string around his neck. He looked me square in the eye. "Put it down," he said.
I put it down.
"Mitch," he continued, softly now, "you don't understand. I want to tell you about my life. I want to tell you before I can't tell you anymore."
His voice dropped to a whisper. "I want someone to hear my story. Will you?"
I nodded.
We sat quietly for a moment.
"So," he said, "is it turned on?"

Now, the truth is, that tape recorder was more than nostalgia. I was losing Morrie, we were all losing Morrie--his family, his friends, his ex-students, his fellow professors, his pals from the political discussion groups that he loved so much, his former dance partners, all of us. And I suppose tapes, like photographs and videos, are a desperate attempt to steal something from death's suitcase.
But it was also becoming clear to me -through his courage, his humor, his patience, and his openness-that Morrie was looking at life from some very different place than anyone else I knew. A healthier place. A more sensible place. And he was about to die.
If some mystical clarity of thought came when you looked death in the eye, then I knew Morrie wanted to share it. And I wanted to remember it for as long as I could.

The first time I saw Morrie on "Nightline," 1 wondered what regrets he had once he knew his death was imminent. Did he lament lost friends? Would he have done much differently? Selfishly, I wondered if I were in his shoes, would I be consumed with sad thoughts of all that I had missed? Would I regret the secrets I had kept hidden?
When I mentioned this to Morrie, he nodded. "It's what everyone worries about, isn't it? What if today were my last day on earth?" He studied my face, and perhaps he saw an ambivalence about my own choices. I had this vision of me keeling over at my desk one day, halfway through a story, my editors snatching the copy even as the medics carried my body away.
"Mitch?" Morrie said.
I shook my head and said nothing. But Morrie picked up on my hesitation.
"Mitch," he said, "the culture doesn't encourage you to think about such things until you're about to die. We're so wrapped up with egotistical things, career, family, having enough money, meeting the mortgage, getting a new car, fixing the radiator when it breaks-we're involved in trillions of little acts just to keep going. So we don't get into the habit of standing back and looking at our lives and saying, Is this all? Is this all I want? Is something missing?"
He paused.
"You need someone to probe you in that direction. It won't just happen automatically."
I knew what he was saying. We all need teachers in our lives.
And mine was sitting in front of me.

Fine, I figured. If I was to be the student, then I would be as good a student as I could be.
On the plane ride home that day, I made a small list on a yellow legal pad, issues and questions that we all grapple with, from happiness to aging to having children to death. Of course, there were a million self-help books on these subjects, and plenty of cable TV shows, and $9oper-hour consultation sessions. America had become a Persian bazaar of self-help.
But there still seemed to be no clear answers. Do you take care of others or take care of your "inner child"? Return to traditional values or reject tradition as useless? Seek success or seek simplicity? Just Say No or just Do It? All I knew was this: Morrie, my old professor, wasn't in the self-help business. He was standing on the tracks, listening to death's locomotive whistle, and he was very clear about the important things in life.
I wanted that clarity. Every confused and tortured soul I knew wanted that clarity.
"Ask me anything," Morrie always said.
So I wrote this list:
Death
Fear
Aging
Greed
Marriage
Family
Society
Forgiveness
A meaningful life
The list was in my bag when I returned to West Newton for the fourth time, a Tuesday in late August when the air-conditioning at the Logan Airport terminal was not working, and people fanned themselves and wiped sweat angrily from their foreheads, and every face I saw looked ready to kill somebody.

By the start of my senior year, I have taken so many sociology classes, I am only a few credits shy of a degree. Morrie suggests I try an honors thesis.
Me? I ask. What would I write about?
"What interests you?" he says.
We bat it back and forth, until we finally settle on, of all things, sports. I begin a year-long project on how football in America has become ritualistic, almost a religion, an opiate for the masses. I have no idea that this is training for my future career. I only know it gives me another once-a-week session with Morrie.
And, with his help, by spring I have a 112 page thesis, researched, footnoted, documented, and neatly bound in black leather. I show it to Morrie with the pride of a Little Leaguer rounding the bases on his first home run.
"Congratulations," Morrie says.
I grin as he leafs through it, and I glance around his office. The shelves of books, the hardwood floor, the throw rug, the couch. I think to myself that I have sat just about everywhere there is to sit in this room.
"I don't know, Mitch," Morrie muses, adjusting his glasses as he reads, "with work like this, we may have to get you back here for grad school."
Yeah, right, I say.
I snicker, but the idea is momentarily appealing. Part of me is scared of leaving school. Part of me wants to go desperately. Tension of opposites. I watch Morrie as he reads my thesis, and wonder what the big world will be like out there.

   接下来的一个星期二，我同往常一样带了几袋食品--意大利玉米面食，土豆色拉，苹果馅饼--来到了莫里家。我还带了一样东西：一只索尼录音机。
   我想记住我们的谈话，我对莫里说。我想录下你的声音，等……以后再听。
   "等我死后。"
   别说死。
   他笑了。"米奇，我会死的，而且很快。"
   他打量着这台新机器。"这么大，"他说。我顿时有一种冒犯的感觉，这是记者们常有的，我开始意识到，朋友之间放上一台录音机确实会令人觉得异样和不自然，现在有那么多人想分享莫里的时间，我这么做是不是索取得太多了？
   听着，我拿回录音机说，我们不一定要使用这玩艺。如果它让你感到不自在--
   他拦住我，摇摇手指，又从鼻梁上取下眼镜，眼镜由一根绳子系着挂在脖子上。他正视着我说，"把它放下。"
   我放下了机器。
   "米奇，"他接着说，语气柔和了些，"你不明白。我想告诉你我的生活。我要趁我还能讲的时候把一切都告诉你。"
   他的声音变得更弱了。"我想有人来听我的故事。你愿意吗？"
   我点点头。
   我们静静地坐了片刻。
   "好吧，"他说，"按下录音了？"
   实情是，这台录音机不仅仅起着怀旧的作用，我即将失去莫里，所有的人都即将失去他--他的家庭，他的朋友，他以前的学生，他的同事，和他十分有感情的时事讨论小组的伙伴，他从前的舞友，所有的人。我想这些磁带或许能像照片或影带那样，不失时机地再从死亡箱里窃取到一些东西。
   但我也越来越清楚地意识到一他的勇气。他的幽默。他的耐心和他的坦然告诉了我--莫里看待人生的态度是和别人不一样的。那是一种更为健康的态度，更为明智的态度。而且他即将离我们而去。
   第一次在"夜线"节目中见到莫里时，我不禁在想，当他知道死亡已经临近时他会有什么样的遗憾。他悲叹逝去的友人？他会重新改变生活方式？暗地里我在想，要是我处在他的位置，我会不会满脑子都是苦涩的念头，抱憾即将失去的一切？抱憾没有吐露过的秘密？
   当我把这些想法告诉莫里时，他点点头。"这是每个人都要担心的，不是吗？如果今天是我的死期，我会怎么样？"他审视着我的脸，也许他看出了我难以作出选择的心理。我想到有那么一天，我在写新闻稿时突然倒在了工作台上，当救护人员把我抬走时，主编们却急着拿我的稿子。
   "米奇？"莫里问。
   我摇摇头，没吱声。莫里看出了我的矛盾心理。
   "米奇，"他说，"我们的文化不鼓励你去思考这类问题，所以你只有在临死前才会去想它。我们所关注的是一些很自私的事情：事业，家庭，赚钱，偿还抵押贷款，买新车，修取暖器--陷在永无止境的琐事里，就为了活下去。因此，我们不习惯退后一步，审视一下自己的生活问，就这些？这就是我需要的一切？是不是还缺点什么？"
   他停顿了一下。
   "你需要有人为你指点一下。生活不会一蹴而就的。"
   我知道他在说什么。我们在生活中都需要有导师的指引。
   而我的导师就坐在我的对面。
   好的，我暗想。如果我准备当那个学生，那我就尽力当个好学生。
   那天坐飞机回底特律时，我在黄拍纸簿上列出了一份目录，都是我们要涉及到的话题，从幸福到衰老，从生育到死亡，当然，这类题材的自助书有成千上万种，还不包括有线电视里的节目和九十美元一小时的咨询课。美国早已成了兜售自助玩艺的波斯集市了。
   但好像还是没有一个明确的答案，该去关心他人还是关心自己的心灵世界？该恢复传统的价值观还是摈弃传统？该追求成功还是追求淡泊？该说不还是该去做？
   我所知道的是：我的老教授莫里并没有去赶自助的时髦。他站在铁轨上，听着死亡列车的汽笛，心中十分清楚生活中最重要的是什么。
   我需要这份醒豁。每个感到困惑和迷惘的人都需要这份醒豁。
   "向我提问题，"莫里一直这么说。
   于是我列出了这份目录：
   死亡
   恐惧
   衰老
   欲望
   婚姻
   家庭
   社会
   原谅
   有意义的人生
   当我第四次回到西纽顿时，这份目录就在我的包里。那是八月下旬的一个星期二，洛根机场的中央空调出了故障，人们打着扇子。忿忿地从额头上擦去汗水，我看见的每一张脸都像吃人一般的可怕。
   大学的最后一年刚刚开始时，我已经修完了好几门社会学课程，离拿学位只差几个学分了。莫里建议我写一篇优等生毕业论文①。
   ①论文通过后可获得荣誉学位。
   我？我问道。写什么？
   "你对什么感兴趣？"
   我们讨论来讨论去，最后决定写体育。我开始了为期一年的论文课程，写美国的橄榄球如何成为了一种仪式、成了大众宗教和麻醉剂。我没想到这是对我今后事业的一次实习和锻炼。我当时只知道它为我提供了与莫里一星期见一次面的机会。
   在他的帮助下，我到了春天便写出了一份长这一百十二页的论文，论文有资料，有注释，有引证，还用黑皮子作封面，装订得十分漂亮。我带着一个少年棒球手跑出他第一个本垒打后的那份自豪和得意，把它交到了莫里的手里。
   "祝贺你，"莫里说。   他在翻看我的论文时我好不得意。我打量着他的办公室：书橱、硬木地板、地毯、沙发。我心里在想，这屋里凡是能坐的地方我都坐过了。
   "米奇，"莫里扶正了一下眼镜，若有所思地说。"能写出这样的论文，也许我们该叫你回来读研究生。"
   好啊，我说。
   我暗暗在发笑，但这个建议一时倒也挺有诱惑力的。我既怕离开学校，又急着想离开它。反向力。我望着在看论文的莫里，心里忖度着外面的大千世界。
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11.The Audiovisual, Part Two

The "Nightline" show had done a follow-up story on Morrie partly becau癳 the reception for the first show had been so strong. This time, when the cameramen and producers came through the door, they already felt like family. And Koppel himself was noticeably warmer. There was no feeling-out process, no interview before the interview. As warm-up, Koppel and Morrie exchanged stories about their childhood backgrounds: Koppel spoke of growing up in England, and Morrie spoke of growing up in the Bronx. Morrie wore a longsleeved blue shirt-he was almost always chilly, even when it was ninety degrees outside-but Koppel removed his jacket and did the interview in shirt and tie. It was as if Morrie were breaking him down, one layer at a time.
"You look fine," Koppel said when the tape began to roll.
"That's what everybody tells me," Morrie said. "You sound fine."
"That's what everybody tells me."
"So how do you know things are going downhill?"
Morrie sighed.. "Nobody can know it but me, Ted. But I know it."
And as he spoke, it became obvious. He was not waving his hands to make a point as freely as he had in their first conversation. He had trouble pronouncing certain words-the l sound seemed to get caught in his throat. In a few more months, he might no longer speak at all.
"Here's how my emotions go," Morrie told Koppel. "When I have people and friends here, I'm very up. The loving relationships maintain me.
"But there are days when I am depressed. Let me not deceive you. I see certain things going and I feel a sense of dread. What am I going to do without my hands? What happens when I can't speak? Swallowing, I don't care so much about-so they feed me through a tube, so what? But my voice? My hands? They're such an essential part of me. I talk with my voice. I gesture with my hands. This is how I give to people."
"How will you give when you can no longer speak?" Koppel asked.
Morrie shrugged. "Maybe I'll have everyone ask me yes or no questions."
It was such a simple answer that Koppel had to smile. He asked Morrie about silence. He mentioned a dear friend Morrie had, Maurie Stein, who had first sent Morrie's aphorisms to the Boston Globe. They had been together at Brandeis since the early sixties. Now Stein was going deaf. Koppel imagined the two men together one day, one unable to speak, the other unable to hear. What would that be like?
"We will hold hands," Morrie said. "And there'll be a lot of love passing between us. Ted, we've had thirty-five years of friendship. You don't need speech or hearing to feel that."
Before the show ended, Morrie read Koppel one of the letters he'd received. Since the first "Nightline" program, there had been a great deal of mail. One particular letter came from a schoolteacher in Pennsylvania who taught a special class of nine children; every child in the class had suffered the death of a parent.
"Here's what I sent her back," Morrie told Koppel, perching his glasses gingerly on his nose and ears. " `Dear Barbara . . . I was very moved by your letter. I feel the work you have done with the children who have lost a parent is very important. I also lost a parent at an early age . . .' "
Suddenly, with the cameras still humming, Morrie adjusted the glasses. He stopped, bit his lip, and began to choke up. Tears fell down his nose. " `I lost my mother when I was a child . . . and it was quite a blow to me . . . I wish I'd had a group like yours where I would have been able to talk about my sorrows. I would have joined your group because . . . "
His voice cracked.
" `. . . because I was so lonely . . . "
"Morrie," Koppel said, "that was seventy years ago your mother died. The pain still goes on?"
"You bet," Morrie whispered.

   "夜线"节目对莫里又作了一次跟踪报道--部分的原因是第一次节目的收视率非常的高。这次，当摄影师和制片人走进莫里的家时，他们早有了宾至如归的感觉。科佩尔更是显得热情友好。不再需要有试探的过程，不再需要有采访前的"采访"。为了创造一点气氛，科佩尔和莫里聊了一会儿各自的童年生活。科佩尔谈到了他在英国的成长经历。莫里则叙述了他在布朗克斯区①的童年生活。莫里穿了一件蓝色的长袖衬衫--他几乎一直感到冷，即使外面的气温高达华氏九十度--科佩尔也脱去了外衣，穿着衬衫和领带进行采访。看来莫里正潜移默化地在影响科佩尔。
   ①纽约市的一个行政区。
   "你气色不错，"带子开始转动时科佩尔说。
   "每个人都这么对我说，"莫里回答道。
   "你说话的声音也不错。"
   "每个人也都这么对我说。"
   "那么你怎么知道你在走下坡路呢？"
   莫里叹了口气。"别人是不会知道的，特德，可我知道。"
   随着采访的继续，种种迹象便开始显露出来。他不再像第一次那样毫无困难地用手势来阐明一个观点；某些词语的发音也成了问题--L音似乎老卡在喉咙里。再过几个月，他也许再也不能说话了。
   "你可以看到我的情绪变化，"莫里对科佩尔说。"当有朋友和客人在身边时，我的情绪就很高。爱的感情维持着我的生命。
   "但我也有感到沮丧的时刻。我不想欺骗你们。我看见某些东西正在离我而去，便有一种恐惧感。我失去双手后将怎么办，我不能说话后又将怎么办，还有吞咽食物，对此我倒并不怎么在乎--他们可以用管子喂我。可我的声音？我的手？它们是我不可或缺的部分。我用声音说话，用手打手势。这是我与别人沟通的途径。"
   "当你无法再说话时，你将怎样与人沟通？"科佩尔问。
   莫里耸了耸肩。"也许我只好让他们提用是或不是来回答的问题了？"
   回答得如此简单，科佩尔不禁笑了。他向莫里提出了有关无声的问题。他提到了莫里的好友毛里•斯但因，他是第一个把莫里的格言寄到《波士顿环球》杂志的。他们从六十年代早期就一直在布兰代斯大学共事。现在斯但因快要失聪了。科佩尔想象有一天让他们俩在一起，一个不能说话，一个没有听觉，那会是怎样的情形？
   "我们会握住彼此的手，"莫里说。"我们之间会传递许多爱的感情，特德，我们有三十五年的友谊。你不需要语言或听觉去感受这种关系的。"
   采访快要结束时，莫里给科佩尔念了一封他收到的信。自从"夜线"节目播出后，莫里每天都收到大量的来信。其中有一封是宾夕法尼亚的一个教师寄来的，她在教一个只有九个学生的特殊班级，每个学生都经历了失去父亲或母亲的痛苦。
   "这是我给她的回信，"莫里的手哆嗦着把眼镜架到鼻梁和耳朵上。"亲爱的芭芭拉……你的来信使我深受感动。我觉得你为那些失去了父亲或母亲的孩子所做的工作十分重要。我早年也失去了双亲中的一个……"
   突然，就在转动着的摄像机前，莫里在挪动眼镜。他止住了话语，咬着嘴唇，开始哽咽起来。泪水顺着鼻子流淌下来。"我还是个孩子时就失去了母亲……它对我的打击太大了……我真希望能像现在这样，对着你们倾诉出我的悲痛，我一定会加入到你们中间来，因为……"
   他泣不成声了。
   "……因为我那时是那样的孤独……"
   "莫里。"科佩尔问，"那是七十年前的事了，这种痛楚还在继续？"
   "是的，"莫里低声说。
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