The sun beamed in through the dining room window, lighting1 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 jotting2 the callers' names in Morrie's small black appointment book. Friends. Meditation3 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 envious4 of, all the friends that Morrie seemed to have. I thought about the "buddies5" 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 regained6 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 pal7 now," he announced. "Let them call back."
I cannot tell you why he received me so warmly. I was hardly the promising8 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 Corps9, 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 modems10 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 dab11 his face with a napkin. The skin from his wrist to his knuckles12 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 serene13, the same calm breeze that soothed14 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'm going to suffocate16. Yes. My lungs, because of my asthma17, 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 . . .
". . . 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 nervously19. Nobody can say
"I can," he said softly. "There's even a little test. A doctor showed me."
A test?
"Inhale20 a few times." I did as he said.
"Now, once more, but this time, when you exhale21, count as many numbers as you can before you take another breath."
I quickly exhaled22 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 inhaled23, 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, gasping24 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 thighs25 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 contagious26. 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 defers27 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 versus28 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 forth29. 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 crooked30 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。”
收听单词发音 |
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lighting
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| n.照明，光线的明暗，舞台灯光 | |
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jotting
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| n.简短的笔记，略记v.匆忙记下( jot的现在分词 )；草草记下，匆匆记下 | |
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meditation
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| n.熟虑，（尤指宗教的）默想，沉思，（pl.）冥想录 | |
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envious
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| adj.嫉妒的，羡慕的 | |
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buddies
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| n.密友( buddy的名词复数 )；同伴；弟兄；（用于称呼男子，常带怒气）家伙v.（如密友、战友、伙伴、弟兄般）交往( buddy的第三人称单数 )；做朋友；亲近（…）；伴护艾滋病人 | |
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regained
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| 复得( regain的过去式和过去分词 )； 赢回； 重回； 复至某地 | |
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pal
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| n.朋友，伙伴，同志；vi.结为友 | |
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promising
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| adj.有希望的，有前途的 | |
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corps
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| n.(通信等兵种的)部队；(同类作的)一组 | |
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modems
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| n.调制解调器( modem的名词复数 ) | |
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dab
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| v.轻触，轻拍，轻涂；n.(颜料等的)轻涂 | |
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knuckles
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| n.（指人）指关节( knuckle的名词复数 )；（指动物）膝关节，踝v.（指人）指关节( knuckle的第三人称单数 )；（指动物）膝关节，踝 | |
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serene
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| adj. 安详的，宁静的，平静的 | |
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soothed
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| v.安慰( soothe的过去式和过去分词 )；抚慰；使舒服；减轻痛苦 | |
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eyebrows
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| 眉毛( eyebrow的名词复数 ) | |
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suffocate
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| vt.使窒息，使缺氧，阻碍；vi.窒息，窒息而亡，阻碍发展 | |
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asthma
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| n.气喘病，哮喘病 | |
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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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nervously
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| adv.神情激动地，不安地 | |
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inhale
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| v.吸入(气体等)，吸(烟) | |
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exhale
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| v.呼气，散出，吐出，蒸发 | |
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exhaled
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| v.呼出，发散出( exhale的过去式和过去分词 )；吐出（肺中的空气、烟等），呼气 | |
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inhaled
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| v.吸入( inhale的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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gasping
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| adj. 气喘的, 痉挛的 动词gasp的现在分词 | |
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thighs
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| n.股，大腿( thigh的名词复数 )；食用的鸡（等的）腿 | |
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contagious
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| adj.传染性的，有感染力的 | |
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defers
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| v.拖延，延缓，推迟( defer的第三人称单数 )；服从某人的意愿，遵从 | |
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versus
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| prep.以…为对手，对；与…相比之下 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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30
crooked
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| adj.弯曲的；不诚实的，狡猾的，不正当的 | |
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