"Let's begin with this idea," Morrie said. "Everyone knows they're going to die, but nobody believes it." He was in a businesslike mood this Tuesday. The subject was death, the first item on my list. Before I arrived, Morrie had scribbled1 a few notes on small white pieces of paper so that he wouldn't forget. His shaky handwriting was now indecipherable to everyone but him. It was almost Labor2 Day, and through the office window I could see the spinach-colored hedges of the backyard and hear the yells of children playing down the street, their last week of freedom before school began.
Back in Detroit, the newspaper strikers were gearing up for a huge holiday demonstration3, to show the solidarity4 of unions against management. On the plane ride in, I had read about a woman who had shot her husband and two daughters as they lay sleeping, claiming she was protecting them from "the bad people." In California, the lawyers in the O. J. Simpson trial were becoming huge celebrities5.
Here in Morrie's office, life went on one precious day at a time. Now we sat together, a few feet from the newest addition to the house: an oxygen machine. It was small and portable, about knee-high. On some nights, when he couldn't get enough air to swallow, Morrie attached the long plastic tubing to his nose, clamping on his nostrils6 like a leech7. I hated the idea of Morrie connected to a machine of any kind, and I tried not to look at it as Morrie spoke8.
"Everyone knows they're going to die," he said again, "but nobody believes it. If we did, we would do things differently."
So we kid ourselves about death, I said.
"Yes. But there's a better approach. To know you're going to die, and to be prepared for it at any time. That's better. That way you can actually be more involved in your life while you're living."
How can you ever be prepared to die?
"Do what the Buddhists9 do. Every day, have a little bird on your shoulder that asks, `Is today the day? Am I ready? Am I doing all I need to do? Am I being the person I want to be?' "
He turned his head to his shoulder as if the bird were there now.
"Is today the day I die?" he said.
Morrie borrowed freely from all religions. He was born Jewish, but became an agnostic when he was a teenager, partly because of all that had happened to him as a child. He enjoyed some of the philosophies of Buddhism10 and Christianity, and he still felt at home, culturally, in Judaism. He was a religious mutt, which made him even more open to the students he taught over the years. And the things he was saying in his final months on earth seemed to transcend11 all religious differences. Death has a way of doing that.
"The truth is, Mitch," he said, "once you learn how to die, you learn how to live."
I nodded.
"I'm going to say it again," he said. "Once you learn how to die, you learn how to live." He smiled, and I realized what he was doing. He was making sure I absorbed this point, without embarrassing me by asking. It was part of what made him a good teacher.
Did you think much about death before you got sick, I asked.
"No." Morrie smiled. "I was like everyone else. I once told a friend of mine, in a moment of exuberance12, `I'm gonna be the healthiest old man you ever met!' " How old were you?
"In my sixties."
So you were optimistic.
"Why not? Like I said, no one really believes they're going to die."
But everyone knows someone who has died, I said. Why is it so hard to think about dying?
"Because," Morrie continued, "most of us all walk around as if we're sleepwalking. We really don't experience the world fully13, because we're half-asleep, doing things we automatically think we have to do."
And facing death changes all that?
"Oh, yes. You strip away all that stuff and you focus on the essentials. When you realize you are going to die, you see everything much differently.
He sighed. "Learn how to die, and you learn how to live."
I noticed that he quivered now when he moved his hands. His glasses hung around his neck, and when he lifted them to his eyes, they slid around his temples, as if he were trying to put them on someone else in the dark. I reached over to help guide them onto his ears.
"Thank you," Morrie whispered. He smiled when my hand brushed up against his head. The slightest human contact was immediate14 joy.
"Mitch. Can I tell you something?" Of course, I said.
"You might not like it." Why not?
"Well, the truth is, if you really listen to that bird on your shoulder, if you accept that you can die at any timethen you might not be as ambitious as you are."
I forced a small grin.
"The things you spend so much time on-all this work you do-might not seem as important. You might have to make room for some more spiritual things."
Spiritual things?
"You hate that word, don't you? `Spiritual.' You think it's touchy-feely stuff."
Well, I said.
He tried to wink15, a bad try, and I broke down and laughed.
"Mitch," he said, laughing along, "even I don't know what `spiritual development' really means. But I do know we're deficient16 in some way. We are too involved in materialistic17 things, and they don't satisfy us. The loving relationships we have, the universe around us, we take these things for granted."
He nodded toward the window with the sunshine streaming in. "You see that? You can go out there, outside, anytime. You can run up and down the block and go crazy. I can't do that. I can't go out. I can't run. I can't be out there without fear of getting sick. But you know what? I appreciate that window more than you do." Appreciate it?
"Yes. I look out that window every day. I notice the change in the trees, how strong the wind is blowing. It's as if I can see time actually passing through that windowpane. Because I know my time is almost done, I am drawn18 to nature like I'm seeing it for the first time."
He stopped, and for a moment we both just looked out the window. I tried to see what he saw. I tried to see time and seasons, my life passing in slow motion. Morrie dropped his head slightly and curled it toward his shoulder.
"Is it today, little bird?" he asked. "Is it today?"
Letters from around the world kept coming to Morrie, thanks to the "Nightline" appearances. He would sit, when he was up to it, and dictate19 the responses to friends and family who gathered for their letter-writing sessions.
One Sunday when his sons, Rob and Jon, were home, they all gathered in the living room. Morrie sat in his wheelchair, his skinny legs under a blanket. When he got cold, one of his helpers draped a nylon jacket over his shoulders.
"What's the first letter?" Morrie said.
A colleague read a note from a woman named Nancy, who had lost her mother to ALS. She wrote to say how much she had suffered through the loss and how she knew that Morrie must be suffering, too.
"All right," Morrie said when the reading was complete. He shut his eyes. "Let's start by saying, `Dear Nancy, you touched me very much with your story about your mother. And I understand what you went through. There is sadness and suffering on both parts. DRAWDEGrieving has been good for me, and I hope it has been good for you also.' "
"You might want to change that last line," Rob said.
Morrie thought for a second, then said, "You're right. How about `I hope you can find the healing power in grieving.' Is that better?"
Rob nodded.
"Add `thank you, Morrie,' " Morrie said.
Another letter was read from a woman named Jane, who was thanking him for his inspiration on the "Nightline" program. She referred to him as a prophet.
"That's a very high compliment," said a colleague. "A prophet."
Morrie made a face. He obviously didn't agree with the assessment20. "Let's thank her for her high praise. And tell her I'm glad my words meant something to her.
"And don't forget to sign `Thank you, Morrie.' "
There was a letter from a man in England who had lost his mother and asked Morrie to help him contact her through the spiritual world. There was a letter from a couple who wanted to drive to Boston to meet him. There was a long letter from a former graduate student who wrote about her life after the university. It told of a murder-suicide and three stillborn births. It told of a mother who died from ALS. It expressed fear that she, the daughter, would also contract the disease. It went on and on. Two pages. Three pages. Four pages.
Morrie sat through the long, grim tale. When it was finally finished, he said softly, "Well, what do we answer?"
The group was quiet. Finally, Rob said, "How about, `Thanks for your long letter?' "
Everyone laughed. Morrie looked at his son and beamed.
The newspaper near his chair has a photo of a Boston baseball player who is smiling after pitching a shutout. Of all the diseases, I think to myself, Morrie gets one named after an athlete.
You remember Lou Gehrig, I ask?
"I remember him in the stadium, saying good-bye." So you remember the famous line.
"Which one?"
Come on. Lou Gehrig. "Pride of the Yankees"? The speech that echoes over the loudspeakers?
"Remind me," Morrie says. "Do the speech."
Through the open window I hear the sound of a garbage truck. Although it is hot, Morrie is wearing long sleeves, with a blanket over his legs, his skin pale. The disease owns him.
I raise my voice and do the Gehrig imitation, where the words bounce off the stadium walls: "Too-dayyy . . . I feeel like . . . the luckiest maaaan . . . on the face of the earth . . . "
Morrie closes his eyes and nods slowly.
"Yeah. Well. I didn't say that."
"我们就从这儿开始吧，"莫里说。"每个人都知道自己要死，可没人愿意相信这一事实。"
这个星期二，莫里完全处于工作的精神状态。讨论的课题是死亡，是我目录上的第一项内容。在我到来之前，莫里在小纸条上已经作了一些笔记，以备遗忘。他颤抖的字体现在除他自己外谁都看不懂。快要到劳工节①了，通过书房的窗口，我可以看见后院里深绿色的树篱，听见孩子们在街上的嬉闹声，这是他们开学前的最后一个星期的假日。
①九月的第一个星期一。
底特律那边，报业的罢工者正准备组织一次大规模的节日游行，向资方显示工会的团结。在飞机上，我读到一则报道：一个女子开枪打死了正在熟睡的丈夫和两个女儿，声称她这么做是为了保护他们不受"坏人"的影响。在加州，O•J•辛普森案子中的律师们正成为新闻热点。
在莫里的书房里，宝贵的生命仍在一天天流逝。此刻我们坐在一起，面前放着一件新增添的设备：一台制氧机。机器不大，只到膝盖的高度，是便携式的。有些晚上，当他呼吸感到困难时，他就把长长的塑料管插进自己的鼻子，像是鼻孔被抽血的器械夹住了一样。我讨厌把莫里和任何器械联系在一起，所以当莫里说话时，我尽量不去看那玩艺。
"每个人都知道自己要死，"莫里重复道，"可没人愿意相信。如果我们相信这一事实的话，我们就会作出不同的反应。"
我们就会用戏谐的态度去对待死亡，我说。
"是的，但还有一个更好的方法。意识到自己会死，并时刻作好准备。这样做会更有帮助。你活着的时候就会更珍惜生活。"
怎么能够去准备死呢？
"像佛教徒那样。每天，放一只小鸟在你的肩膀上问，'是今天吗？我准备好了吗？能生而无悔，死而元憾了？'"
他转过头去，似乎肩膀上这会就停着一只小鸟。
"今天是我的大限吗？"他问。
莫里接纳了各种各样的宗教思想。他出生在犹太教家庭，上学后变成了一个不可知论者，那是因为孩提时经历了大多的变故。他对佛教和基督教的一些哲学思想也很感兴趣。但他最接近的文化还是犹太教。他在宗教上是个杂家，这就使他更加为学生们所接受。他最后几个月里所说的话语似乎超越了一切宗教的特征。死亡能使人做到这一点。
"事实是，米奇，"他说，"一旦你学会了怎样去死，你也就学会了怎样去活。"
我点点头。
"我还要再说一遍，"他说。"一旦你学会了怎样去死，你也就学会了怎样去活。"他笑了。我明白了他的用意。他想知道我是否真正理解了这个观点，但他没有直截了当地问，免得使我窘迫。这就是他当老师与众不同的地方。
你患病前对死亡想得多吗？我问。
"不，"莫里笑笑。"我和别人一样，我曾经对一个朋友说过，'我将成为你所见到的最最健康的老人！'"
你那时多大？
"六十几岁。"
你挺乐观的。
"为什么不？正像我说的，没人真的相信自己会死。"
可每个人都知道有人在死去，我说。为什么思考死亡这个问题就这么难呢？
"这是因为，"莫里说，"我们大多数人都生活在梦里。我们并没有真正地在体验世界，我们处于一种浑浑噩噩的状态，做着自以为该做的事。"
去面对死亡就能改变这种状况？
"哦，是的。拂去外表的尘埃，你便看到了生活的真谛。当你意识到自己快要死去时，你看问题的眼光也就大不一样了。"
他叹了口气。"学会了死，就学会了活。"
我注意到他的手抖得很厉害。当他把挂在胸前的眼镜戴上时，眼镜滑落在太阳穴处，仿佛他是在黑暗中替别人戴眼镜。我伸手帮他移正了位置。
"谢谢，"莫里低声说。当我的手碰触到他的头时，他笑了。人类最细小的接触也能给他带来欢乐。
"米奇，我能告诉你一些事情吗？"
当然行，我说。
"你也许不爱听。"
为什么？
"嗯，事实上，如果你真的在听小鸟的说话，如果你能接受随时都会死去的事实--你就不会像现在这样耽于抱负了。"
我挤出了一丝笑容。
"你为此而付出时间和精力的事--你所做的工作--也许就不再显得那么重要了。你也许会让出空间来满足精神上的需求。"
精神上？
"你不喜欢这个词，是吗？'精神上'。你认为那是多愁善感的玩艺。"
这个么，我无言以对。
他装作没看见我的窘态，但没装成功，我笑出声来。
"米奇，"他也笑了。"尽管我说不上来'精神产物'到底为何物，但我知道我们在有些方面确实是有缺陷的。我们过多地追求物质需要，可它们并不能使我们满足。我们忽视了人与人之间互相爱护的关系，我们忽视了周围的世界。"
他把头扭向透进阳光的窗户。"你看见了？你可以去外面，任何时候。你可以在大街上发疯似地跑。可我不能。我不能外出。我不能跑。我一出大门就得担心生病。但你知道吗？我比你更能体味那扇窗户。"
体味那扇窗？
"是的。我每天都从窗口看外面的世界。我注意到了树上的变化，风的大小。我似乎能看见时间在窗台上流逝。这是因为我的时间已经到头了，自然界对我的吸引力就像我第一次看见它时那样强烈。"
他停住了。我们俩一齐望着窗外。我想看见他看得见的东西。我想看见时间和季节，看见我的人生慢慢地在流逝。莫里微微低下头，扭向肩膀。
"是今天吗，小鸟？"他问。"是今天吗？"
由于"夜线"节目的播出，莫里不断收到来自世界各地的信件。只要有精神，他就会坐起来，对替他代笔的朋友和家人口述他的回复。
有一个星期天，回家来探望他的两个儿子罗布和乔恩都来到了起居室。莫里坐在轮椅上，两条瘦骨嶙峋的腿上盖着毯子。他感到冷的时候，他的助手们会来给他披上尼龙外套。
"第一封信是什么？"莫里问。
他的同事给他念了一封来自一个名叫南希的妇女的信，她的母亲也死于ALS。她在信中写了失去母亲的悲伤，并说她知道莫里也一定很痛苦。
"好吧，"信念完后莫里说。他闭上了眼睛。"开头这么写，'亲爱的南希，你母亲的不幸令我很难过。我完全能理解你所经历的一切。这种悲伤和痛苦是双方的。伤心对我是一件好事，希望对你也同样是件好事。'"
"最后一句想不想改动一下？"罗布说。
莫里想了想，然后说，"你说得对。这么写吧，'希望你会发现伤心是一帖治愈创伤的良药。'这样写好些吗？"
罗布点点头。
"加上'谢谢，莫里'，"他说。
另一封信是一个名叫简的妇女写来的，感谢他在"夜线"节目中给予她的启示和鼓励，她称他是神的代言者。
"这是极高的赞誉，"他的同事说。"神的代言者。"
莫里做了个鬼脸，他显然并不同意这个评价。"感谢她的溢美之词。告诉她我很高兴我的话能对她有所启示。
"别忘了最后写上'谢谢，莫里'。"
还有一封信来自英国的一个男子，他失去了母亲，要莫里帮他在冥界见到母亲。有一对夫妇来信说他们想开车去波士顿见他。一个以前的研究生写了一封长信，讲述了她离开大学后的生活。信中还讲到了一宗谋杀--自杀案和三个死产儿，讲到了一个死于ALS的母亲，还说那个女儿害怕她也会感染上这种疾病，信唠唠叨叨没完没了。两页，三页，四页。
莫里坐着听完了那些既长又可怕的故事。然后他轻声说，"啊，我们该怎么回复？"
没人吭声。最后罗布说，"这样写行不行，'谢谢你的长信'？"
大家都笑了。莫里望着儿子，面露喜色。
椅子旁边的报纸上有一张波士顿棒球队员的照片，我暗自想，在所有的疾病中，莫里得的是一种以运动员的名字命名的病。
你还记得卢•格里克吗？我问。
"我记得他在体育馆里向观众道别。"
那么你还记得他那句有名的话。
"哪一句？"
真的不记得了？卢•格里克，"扬基队的骄傲"？他回荡在扩音器里的那段演讲？
"提醒我，"莫里说。"你来演讲一遍。"
从打开的窗户传来垃圾车的声音。虽然天很热，但莫里仍穿着长袖，腿上还盖着毯子。他的肤色非常苍白，病魔在折磨着他。
我提了提嗓门，模仿格里克的语调，使声音仿佛回荡在体育馆的墙壁上："今、今、天、天……我感到……自己是……最最幸运的人、人……"
莫里闭上了眼睛，缓缓地点点头。
"是啊。嗯，我没有这么说过。"
收听单词发音 |
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scribbled
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| v.潦草的书写( scribble的过去式和过去分词 )；乱画；草草地写；匆匆记下 | |
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labor
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| n.劳动，努力，工作，劳工；分娩；vi.劳动，努力，苦干；vt.详细分析；麻烦 | |
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demonstration
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| n.表明，示范，论证，示威 | |
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solidarity
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| n.团结；休戚相关 | |
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celebrities
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| n.（尤指娱乐界的）名人( celebrity的名词复数 )；名流；名声；名誉 | |
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nostrils
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leech
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| n.水蛭，吸血鬼，榨取他人利益的人；vt.以水蛭吸血；vi.依附于别人 | |
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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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Buddhists
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Buddhism
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| n.佛教（教义） | |
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transcend
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| vt.超出，超越(理性等)的范围 | |
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exuberance
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fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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wink
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| n.眨眼，使眼色，瞬间；v.眨眼，使眼色，闪烁 | |
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deficient
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| adj.不足的，不充份的，有缺陷的 | |
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materialistic
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| a.唯物主义的，物质享乐主义的 | |
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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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dictate
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| v.口授；(使)听写；指令，指示，命令 | |
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assessment
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| n.评价；评估；对财产的估价，被估定的金额 | |
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