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 warp1 when I visited Morrie, and I liked myself better when I was there. I no longer rented a cellular2 phone for the rides from the airport. Let them wait, I told myself, mimicking3 Morrie.
The newspaper situation in Detroit had not improved. In fact, it had grown increasingly insane, with nasty confrontations4 between picketers and replacement5 workers, people arrested, beaten, lying in the street in front of delivery trucks.
In light of this, my visits with Morrie felt like a cleansing6 rinse7 of human kindness. We talked about life and we talked about love. We talked about one of Morrie's favorite subjects, compassion8, 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.
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 specially10 cut pieces of foam11 rubber that held his feet and gave support to his withered12 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 frustrated13 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, insidious14 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 wilt15 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 corpse16. 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 momentary17 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 underneath18. Then I straightened up, hoisting19 him as I rose. Normally, when you lift someone, you expect their arms to tighten20 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 sag21 against me like a big damp loaf.
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 realization23 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, jealousy24, attention. We are human lab rats. More often than not, someone ends up crying. I refer to it as the "touchy25 -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 embarrassment26. 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 flinch27, like one of those Lipton tea commercials where the model splashes into the pool.
For a moment, I am sure she is going to thump28 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。"
收听单词发音 |
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warp
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| vt.弄歪，使翘曲，使不正常，歪曲，使有偏见 | |
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cellular
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| adj.移动的；细胞的，由细胞组成的 | |
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mimicking
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| v.（尤指为了逗乐而）模仿( mimic的现在分词 )；酷似 | |
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confrontations
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| n.对抗，对抗的事物( confrontation的名词复数 ) | |
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replacement
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| n.取代，替换，交换；替代品，代用品 | |
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cleansing
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| n. 净化(垃圾) adj. 清洁用的 动词cleanse的现在分词 | |
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rinse
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| v.用清水漂洗，用清水冲洗 | |
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compassion
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| n.同情，怜悯 | |
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bellowed
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| v.发出吼叫声，咆哮（尤指因痛苦）( bellow的过去式和过去分词 )；（愤怒地）说出（某事），大叫 | |
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specially
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| adv.特定地；特殊地；明确地 | |
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foam
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| v./n.泡沫，起泡沫 | |
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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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frustrated
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| adj.挫败的，失意的，泄气的v.使不成功( frustrate的过去式和过去分词 )；挫败；使受挫折；令人沮丧 | |
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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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wilt
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| v.(使)植物凋谢或枯萎；(指人)疲倦，衰弱 | |
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corpse
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| n.尸体，死尸 | |
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momentary
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| adj.片刻的，瞬息的；短暂的 | |
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underneath
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| adj.在...下面，在...底下；adv.在下面 | |
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hoisting
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| 起重，提升 | |
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tighten
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| v.(使)变紧；(使)绷紧 | |
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sag
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| v.下垂，下跌，消沉；n.下垂，下跌，凹陷，[航海]随风漂流 | |
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groaned
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| v.呻吟( groan的过去式和过去分词 )；发牢骚；抱怨；受苦 | |
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realization
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| n.实现；认识到，深刻了解 | |
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jealousy
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| n.妒忌，嫉妒，猜忌 | |
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touchy
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| adj.易怒的；棘手的 | |
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embarrassment
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| n.尴尬；使人为难的人(事物)；障碍；窘迫 | |
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flinch
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| v.畏缩，退缩 | |
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thump
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| v.重击，砰然地响；n.重击，重击声 | |
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