In March of 1995, a limousine1 carrying Ted2 Koppel, the host of ABC-TV's "Nightline" pulled up to the snow-covered curb3 outside Morrie's house in West Newton, Massachusetts.
Morrie was in a wheelchair full-time5 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 depressed6. Instead, Morrie had become a lightning rod of ideas. He jotted7 down his thoughts on yellow pads, envelopes, folders8, scrap9 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 eyebrows10, 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 ushered11 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 spoke12 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 shrugged13. "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 narcissist14." 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 makeup15 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 withered16 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 decided17 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 humility18 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 dread19 the most about his slow, insidious20 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 ass4."
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 casually21 flipping22 channels. I heard these words from the TV set "Who is Morrie Schwartz?"-and went numb23.
It is our first class together, in the spring of 1976. I enter Morrie's large office and notice the seemingly countless24 books that line the wall, shelf after shelf. Books on sociology, philosophy, religion, psychology25. 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, fumbling26 with notebooks and syllabi27. Most of them wear jeans and earth shoes and plaid flannel28 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。”
收听单词发音 |
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limousine
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| n.豪华轿车 | |
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ted
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| vt.翻晒，撒，撒开 | |
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curb
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| n.场外证券市场，场外交易；vt.制止，抑制 | |
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ass
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| n.驴；傻瓜，蠢笨的人 | |
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full-time
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| adj.满工作日的或工作周的，全时间的 | |
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depressed
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| adj.沮丧的，抑郁的，不景气的，萧条的 | |
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jotted
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| v.匆忙记下( jot的过去式和过去分词 )；草草记下，匆匆记下 | |
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folders
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| n.文件夹( folder的名词复数 )；纸夹；（某些计算机系统中的）文件夹；页面叠 | |
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scrap
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| n.碎片；废料；v.废弃，报废 | |
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eyebrows
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| 眉毛( eyebrow的名词复数 ) | |
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ushered
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| v.引，领，陪同( usher的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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shrugged
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| vt.耸肩（shrug的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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narcissist
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| n.自我陶醉者 | |
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makeup
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| n.组织；性格；化装品 | |
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withered
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| adj. 枯萎的，干瘪的，（人身体的部分器官）因病萎缩的或未发育良好的 动词wither的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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humility
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| n.谦逊，谦恭 | |
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dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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insidious
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| adj.阴险的，隐匿的，暗中为害的，（疾病）不知不觉之间加剧 | |
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casually
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| adv.漠不关心地，无动于衷地，不负责任地 | |
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flipping
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| 讨厌之极的 | |
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numb
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| adj.麻木的，失去感觉的；v.使麻木 | |
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countless
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| adj.无数的，多得不计其数的 | |
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psychology
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| n.心理，心理学，心理状态 | |
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fumbling
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| n. 摸索,漏接 v. 摸索,摸弄,笨拙的处理 | |
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syllabi
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| 判决理由书的要旨 | |
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flannel
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| n.法兰绒；法兰绒衣服 | |
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