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 atrophied1 beyond normal clothing size-you could get two hands around his thighs2 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 Ted3 Koppel that pretty soon someone was gonna have to wipe my ass4?" 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 dwindling5 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 cynical6 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 anguish7 as if it were my own. I don't know any of these people. But-how can I put this?-I'm almost . . . drawn8 to them."
His eyes got moist, and I tried to change the subject, but he dabbed9 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 honked10 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 maple11 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 exhaled12 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 giggles13, but Morrie only shrugs14, and eventually a deep silence falls and we begin to notice the smallest sounds, the radiator15 humming in the corner of the room, the nasal breathing of one of the fat students.
Some of us are agitated16. 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，被枪打死，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。"
收听单词发音 |
1
atrophied
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| adj.萎缩的，衰退的v.（使）萎缩，（使）虚脱，（使）衰退( atrophy的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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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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ted
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| vt.翻晒，撒，撒开 | |
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ass
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| n.驴；傻瓜，蠢笨的人 | |
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dwindling
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| adj.逐渐减少的v.逐渐变少或变小( dwindle的现在分词 ) | |
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cynical
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| adj.(对人性或动机)怀疑的，不信世道向善的 | |
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anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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dabbed
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| （用某物）轻触( dab的过去式和过去分词 )； 轻而快地擦掉（或抹掉）； 快速擦拭； （用某物）轻而快地涂上（或点上）… | |
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10
honked
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| v.（使）发出雁叫似的声音，鸣（喇叭），按（喇叭）( honk的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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maple
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| n.槭树，枫树，槭木 | |
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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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13
giggles
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| n.咯咯的笑( giggle的名词复数 )；傻笑；玩笑；the giggles 止不住的格格笑v.咯咯地笑( giggle的第三人称单数 ) | |
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shrugs
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| n.耸肩（以表示冷淡，怀疑等）( shrug的名词复数 ) | |
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radiator
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| n.暖气片，散热器 | |
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agitated
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| adj.被鼓动的，不安的 | |
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