It was the first week in September, back-toschool week, and after thirty-five consecutive1 autumns, my old professor did not have a class waiting for him on a college campus. Boston was teeming2 with students, double-parked on side streets, unloading trunks. And here was Morrie in his study. It seemed wrong, like those football players who finally retire and have to face that first Sunday at home, watching on TV, thinking, I could still do that. I have learned from dealing3 with those players that it is best to leave them alone when their old seasons come around. Don't say anything. But then, I didn't need to remind Morrie of his dwindling4 time.
For our taped conversations, we had switched from handheld microphones-because it was too difficult now for Morrie to hold anything that long-to the lavaliere kind popular with TV newspeople. You can clip these onto a collar or lapel. Of course, since Morrie only wore soft cotton shirts that hung loosely on his ever-shrinking frame, the microphone sagged5 and flopped6, and I had to reach over and adjust it frequently. Morrie seemed to enjoy this because it brought me close to him, in hugging range, and his need for physical affection was stronger than ever. When I leaned in, I heard his wheezing7 breath and his weak coughing, and he smacked8 his lips softly before he swallowed.
"Well, my friend," he said, "what are we talking about today?"
How about family?
"Family." He mulled it over for a moment. "Well, you see mine, all around me."
He nodded to photos on his bookshelves, of Morrie as a child with his grandmother; Morrie as a young man with his brother, David; Morrie with his wife, Charlotte; Morrie with his two sons, Rob, a journalist in Tokyo, and ion, a computer expert in Boston.
"I think, in light of what we've been talking about all these weeks, family becomes even more important," he said.
"The fact is, there is no foundation, no secure ground, upon which people may stand today if it isn't the family. It's become quite clear to me as I've been sick. If you don't have the support and love and caring and concern that you get from a family, you don't have much at all. Love is so supremely9 important. As our great poet Auden said, `Love each other or perish.' "
"Love each other or perish." I wrote it down. Auden said that?
"Love each other or perish," Morrie said. "It's good, no? And it's so true. Without love, we are birds with broken wings.
"Say I was divorced, or living alone, or had no children. This disease-what I'm going through-would be so much harder. I'm not sure I could do it. Sure, people would come visit, friends, associates, but it's not the same as having someone who will not leave. It's not the same as having someone whom you know has an eye on you, is watching you the whole time.
"This is part of what a family is about, not just love, but letting others know there's someone who is watching out for them. It's what I missed so much when my mother died-what I call your `spiritual security'-knowing that your family will be there watching out for you. Nothing else will give you that. Not money. Not fame."
He shot me a look.
"Not work," he added.
Raising a family was one of those issues on my little list-things you want to get right before it's too late. I told Morrie about my generation's dilemma10 with having children, how we often saw them as tying us down, making us into these "parent" things that we did not want to be. I admitted to some of these emotions myself.
Yet when I looked at Morrie, I wondered if I were in his shoes, about to die, and I had no family, no children, would the emptiness be unbearable11? He had raised his two sons to be loving and caring, and like Morrie, they were not shy with their affection. Had he so desired, they would have stopped what they were doing to be with their father every minute of his final months. But that was not what he wanted.
"Do not stop your lives," he told them. "Otherwise, this disease will have ruined three of us instead of one." In this way, even as he was dying, he showed respect for his children's worlds. Little wonder that when they sat with him, there was a waterfall of affection, lots of kisses and jokes and crouching12 by the side of the bed, holding hands.
"Whenever people ask me about having children or not having children, I never tell them what to do," Morrie said now, looking at a photo of his oldest son. "I simply say, `There is no experience like having children.' That's all. There is no substitute for it. You cannot do it with a friend. You cannot do it with a lover. If you want the experience of having complete responsibility for another human being, and to learn how to love and bond in the deepest way, then you should have children."
So you would do it again? I asked.
I glanced at the photo. Rob was kissing Morrie on the forehead, and Morrie was laughing with his eyes closed.
"Would I do it again?" he said to me, looking surprised. "Mitch, I would not have missed that experience for anything. Even though . . . "
He swallowed and put the picture in his lap.
"Even though there is a painful price to pay," he said. Because you'll be leaving them.
"Because I'll be leaving them soon."
He pulled his lips together, closed his eyes, and I watched the first teardrop fall down the side of his cheek.
"And now," he whispered, "you talk."
Me?
"Your family. I know about your parents. I met them, years ago, at graduation. You have a sister, too, right?" Yes, I said.
"Older, yes?" Older.
"And one brother, right?" I nodded.
"Younger?"
Younger.
"Like me," Morrie said. "I have a younger brother."
Like you, I said.
"He also came to your graduation, didn't he?"
I blinked, and in my mind I saw us all there, sixteen years earlier, the hot sun, the blue robes, squinting13 as we put our arms around each other and posed for Instamatic photos, someone saying, "One, two, threeee . . . "
"What is it?" Morrie said, noticing my sudden quiet. "What's on your mind?"
Nothing, I said, changing the subject.
The truth is, I do indeed have a brother, a blondhaired, hazel-eyed, two-years-younger brother, who looks so unlike me or my dark-haired sister that we used to tease him by claiming strangers had left him as a baby on our doorstep. "And one day," we'd say, "they're coming back to get you." He cried when we said this, but we said it just the same.
He grew up the way many youngest children grow up, pampered14, adored, and inwardly tortured. He dreamed of being an actor or a singer; he reenacted TV shows at the dinner table, playing every part, his bright smile practically jumping through his lips. I was the good student, he was the bad; I was obedient, he broke the rules; I stayed away from drugs and alcohol, he tried everything you could ingest. He moved to Europe not long after high school, preferring the more casual lifestyle he found there. Yet he remained the family favorite. When he visited home, in his wild and funny presence, I often felt stiff and conservative.
As different as we were, I reasoned that our fates would shoot in opposite directions once we hit adulthood15. I was right in all ways but one. From the day my uncle died, I believed that I would suffer a similar death, an untimely disease that would take me out. So I worked at a feverish16 pace, and I braced17 myself for cancer. I could feel its breath. I knew it was coming. I waited for it the way a condemned18 man waits for the executioner.
And I was right. It came.
But it missed me.
It struck my brother.
The same type of cancer as my uncle. The pancreas. A rare form. And so the youngest of our family, with the blond hair and the hazel eyes, had the chemotherapy and the radiation. His hair fell out, his face went gaunt as a skeleton. It's supposed to be me, I thought. But my brother was not me, and he was not my uncle. He was a fighter, and had been since his youngest days, when we wrestled19 in the basement and he actually bit through my shoe until I screamed in pain and let him go.
And so he fought back. He battled the disease in Spain, where he lived, with the aid of an experimental drug that was not-and still is not-available in the United States. He flew all over Europe for treatments. After five years of treatment, the drug appeared to chase the cancer into remission.
That was the good news. The bad news was, my brother did not want me around-not me, nor anyone in the family. Much as we tried to call and visit, he held us at bay, insisting this fight was something he needed to do by himself. Months would pass without a word from him. Messages on his answering machine would go without reply. I was ripped with guilt20 for what I felt I should be doing for him and fueled with anger for his denying us the right to do it.
So once again, I dove into work. I worked because I could control it. I worked because work was sensible and responsive. And each time I would call my brother's apartment in Spain and get the answering machine-him speaking in Spanish, another sign of how far apart we had drifted-I would hang up and work some more.
Perhaps this is one reason I was drawn21 to Morrie. He let me be where my brother would not.
Looking back, perhaps Morrie knew this all along.
It is a winter in my childhood, on a snow packed hill in our suburban22 neighborhood. My brother and I are on the sled, him on top, me on the bottom. I feel his chin on my shoulder and his feet on the backs of my knees.
The sled rumbles23 on icy patches beneath us. We pick up speed as we descend24 the hill.
"CAR!" someone yells.
We see it coming, down the street to our left. We scream and try to steer25 away, but the runners do not move. The driver slams his horn and hits his brakes, and we do what all kids do: we jump off. In our hooded26 parkas, we roll like logs down the cold, wet snow, thinking the next thing to touch us will be the hard rubber of a car tire. We are yelling "AHHHHHH" and we are tingling27 with fear, turning over and over, the world upside down, right side up, upside down.
And then, nothing. We stop rolling and catch our breath and wipe the dripping snow from our faces. The driver turns down the street, wagging his finger. We are safe. Our sled has thudded quietly into a snowbank, and ourfriends are slapping us now, saying "Cool" and "You could have died."
I grin at my brother, and we are united by childish pride. That wasn't so hard, we think, and we are ready to take on death again.
九月的第一个星期，返校开学周。连续三十五个暑期后的今天，布兰代斯大学第一次没有等我的老教授去上课。波士顿的街上到处是学生，小街上出现了双行停①的现象，到处在搬行李。而莫里这会却在他的书房里。这显得有悖情理，就像那些橄榄球队员离开后第一个星期天不得不呆在家里望着电视，心里想，我还能上场。我常跟他们打交道，已经学会了该怎么做。当赛季到来时，你最好别去招惹他们，什么也不用说。对莫里，我更不用去提醒他时间的弥足珍贵了。
①指两辆车并排停靠在人行道的一边，常属违章停车。
我们录音谈话的工具已经由手提话筒--现在要莫里长时间地握一件东西是很困难的--换成了在电视记者中很流行的颈挂式话筒。你可以把这种话筒别在衣领或西服的翻领上。当然，由于莫里只穿柔软的全棉衬衫，而且衣服总是无棱无角地垂挂在他日趋萎谢的身体上，所以话筒会不时地滑落下来，我只得探过身去重新把它别住。莫里似乎很希望我这么做，因为我可以凑近他，和他保持在能互相拥抱的距离内。他现在对身体接触的需求比以往任何时候都强烈，当我凑近他时，我能听见他呼哧呼哧的喘气声和不易察觉的咳嗽声，他吞咽口水前先要轻轻地咂一下嘴。
"好吧，我的朋友，"他说，"今天我们谈什么？"
谈家庭怎么样？
"家庭，"他思考了一会儿。"嗯，你已经看见了我的家庭，都在我的周围。"
他点头示意我看书架上的那些照片，有莫里小时候同他祖母的合影，有莫里年轻时同他弟弟大卫的合影，还有他和妻子夏洛特以及两个儿子的合影。大儿子罗布在东京当记者，小儿子乔恩是波士顿的电脑专家。
"我觉得，鉴于我们在这几个星期里所谈的内容，家庭问题变得尤为重要了，"他说。
"事实上，如果没有家庭，人们便失去了可以支撑的根基。我得病后对这一点更有体会。如果你得不到来自家庭的支持。爱抚。照顾和关心，你拥有的东西便少得可怜，爱是至高无上的，正如我们的大诗人奥登说的那样，'相爱或者死亡。'"
"相爱或者死亡，"我把它写了下来。奥登说过这话？
"相爱或者死亡，"莫里说，"说得真好，说得太对了。没有了爱，我们便成了折断翅膀的小鸟。
"假设我离了婚，或一个人生活，或没有孩子。这疾病--我所经受的这种疾病--就会更加难以忍受。我不敢肯定我是否应付得了它。当然，会有人来探望的，朋友，同事。但他们和不会离去的家人是不一样的。这跟有一个始终关心着你、和你形影不离的人不是一回事。
"这就是家庭的部分涵义，不仅仅是爱，而且还告诉别人有人守护着你。这是我母亲去世时我最想得到的--我称它为'心理安全'--知道有一个家在守护着你。只有。家庭能给予你这种感觉。金钱办不到。名望办不到。"
他看了我一眼。
"工作也办不到，"他又加了一句。
生育后代是列在我目录上的问题之一--一个在生活中必须尽早予以考虑的问题。我对莫里谈了我们这一代人在生育孩子上的矛盾心理，我们视孩子为自己事业上的绊脚石，觉得他们在迫使我们干那些本不愿干的"家长"活儿，我承认我也有这样的情绪。
然而，当我望着莫里时，我不禁在想，如果我处于他的境遇，将不久于人世，但我没有家庭，没有孩子，我能承受得了那种空虚感吗？莫里培养了两个富有爱心的儿子。他们像父亲一样勇于表露感情。要是莫里有这个愿望的话，他们会放下工作，分分秒秒地陪在父亲的身边，伴他走完最后几个月的旅程。但这不是莫里的意愿。
"别停止你们的生活，"他对他们说。"不然的话，被病魔毁掉的不是我一个，而是三个。"
因此，尽管他将不久于人世，他对孩子们的世界仍表示出极大的尊敬和自豪。当他们父子三个坐在一起时，常常会有瀑布般的感情宣泄，亲吻，打趣，相拥在床边，几只手握在一块。
"每当有人问我要不要生孩子时，我从不告诉他们该怎么做，"莫里望着大儿子的照片说。"我只说，'在生孩子这件事上是没有经验可循的。'就是这么回事。也没有任何东西能替代它。你和朋友无法做这事，你和情人也无法做这事。如果你想体验怎样对另一个人承担责任，想学会如何全身心地去爱的话，那么你就应该有孩子。"
那么你想不想再有孩子？我问。
我扫了一眼那张照片。罗布亲吻着莫里的前额，莫里闭着眼睛在笑。
"想不想再有孩子？"他显得有些惊讶他说。"米奇，我是决不会错过这份经历的，即使……"
他喉咙哽咽了一下，他把照片放在大腿上。
"即使要付出沉痛的代价，"他说。
因为你将要离开他们。
"因为我不久就要离他们而去了。"
他合上嘴，闭上了眼睛，我看见他的第一颗泪珠顺着脸颊淌了下来。
"现在，"他低声说，"听你说了。"
我？
"你的家庭。我认识你的父母。几年前在毕业典礼上我见过他们。你还有个姐妹，是吗？"
是的，我说。
"比你大？"
比我大。
"还有个兄弟，是吗？"
我点点头。
"比你小？"
比我小。
"和我一样，"莫里说，"我也有个弟弟。"
和你一样，我说。
"他也来参加了你的毕业典礼，不是吗？"
我眨了眨眼睛，想象着十六年前我们聚在一起的情形：火辣辣的太阳，蓝色的毕业礼服，互相搂着对着傻瓜机镜头，有人在喊，"一、二、三--"
"怎么啦？"莫里注意到我突然不作声了。"心里在想什么？"
没什么，我说。我把话题扯开了。
我确实有个弟弟，一个金发褐眼，小我两岁的弟弟。他长得既不像我，也不像我那个一头黑发的姐姐。所以我常常取笑他，说他是陌生人放在我们家门口的。"总有一天，"我们说，"他们会来抱你回去的。"他听了就哭，但我们还是这么取笑他。
他像许多家庭里最小的孩子一样，受到宠爱，受到照顾，但内心却受着折磨。他想成为一个演员，或一个歌手；他在餐桌前表演电视里的人物，扮演各种角色，整天笑声朗朗。我在学校是个好学生，他是调皮捣蛋鬼；我唯命是从，他常常违犯校规；我远离毒品和酒精，他却样样染指，高中毕业后不久他就去了欧洲，他向往那里更加放荡不羁的生活方式。但他仍是家里最受宠爱的。当他一身玩世不恭，怪诞不经的打扮回到家里时，我总觉得自己太土，太保守。
由于有如此大的差异，我相信我们一到成年就会有不同的命运安排。我一切都很顺当，只有一件事是个心病。自从舅舅死后，我相信我也会像他一样死去，会有一种突如其来的凶疾把我带离这个世界。于是我发疯似地工作，我作好了患癌症的心理准备。我能闻到它的气息。我知道它正悄然而至。我像死囚等待刽子手那样等待着它的到来。
我是对的。它果然来了。
但它没有找我。
它找上了我的弟弟。
和我舅舅相同类型的癌：胰腺癌，很罕见的种类。于是，我们家里这位金发褐眼。最小的男孩不得不接受化疗和放疗。他的头发脱落了，脸瘦削得像具骷髅，原本该是我，我心里想。但我弟弟并不是我，也不是舅舅。他是个斗士。孩提时候的他就从不服输，我们在地下室里扭打时，他会隔着鞋子咬我的脚，直到我痛得哇哇直叫。
于是他反击了。他在西班牙--他生活的地方--同疾病作斗争，那儿有一种还处于试验阶段的药，这种药当时在美国买不到--现在也没有。他为治疗飞遍了整个欧洲。经过五年的治疗，他的病情得到了很大的缓解。
这是好的消息。坏的消息是，我弟弟不让我接近他--不光是我，他不要任何家庭成员呆在他的身边。我们想方设法和他通电话，准备去看望他，可他却拒我们于千里之外。他坚持说这种与疾病的抗争只能由他独自去进行。他会好几个月不递信息。我们给录音电话留的言常常是没有回复的。我既为没能帮他而感到内疚，又对他剥夺了我们这一权力而感到怨恨。
于是，我重又沉溺到工作中去。我工作是因为我能支配自己；我工作是因为它是理智的，是有回报的。每次在我给弟弟西班牙的公寓打去电话，听到请留言的录音时--他说的是西班牙语，另一个表明我们相距遥远的显证--我便挂上电话，更长时间地埋头于工作。
也许这是莫里为何能吸引我的一个原因。他能给予我弟弟所不愿给予的东西。
现在回想起来，莫里好像早就知道了这一切。
那是我小时候的一个冬天，在郊外一个覆盖着积雪的山坡上。我弟弟和我坐着雪橇。他在上面，我在下面。他的下巴抵着我的肩膀，他的脚搁在我的腿上。
雪橇在冰块上滑动。下山时我们加快了速度。
"汽车！"有人喊了一声。
我们看见了那辆从左边驶来的车。我们尖叫着想转个方向，但滑板却不听使唤。司机按响了喇叭并踩了刹车。我们作出了孩子才有的举动：从雪橇上跳了下来。穿着连帽滑雪衫的我们像两根圆木一样从冰冷、潮湿的雪地里滚下去，心想我们就要撞上轮胎了。我们尖叫着"啊--"不停地翻滚，只觉得天地都在旋转，脸吓得通红通红。
接着，什么也没发生。我们停止了滚落，换了口气，从脸上抹去湿漉漉的雪泥。车子已经驶远了，司机对着我们在摇手指。我们平安了。雪橇一头扎进了雪堆。伙伴们跑过来拍打着我们说，"直够玄的，""你们差点就没命了。"
我对弟弟咧嘴笑了，那份幼稚的自豪感使我们格外地亲热起来，这并不可怕，我们想，我们准备再次接受死亡的挑战。
收听单词发音 |
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consecutive
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| adj.连续的，联贯的，始终一贯的 | |
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teeming
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| adj.丰富的v.充满( teem的现在分词 )；到处都是；（指水、雨等）暴降；倾注 | |
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dealing
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| n.经商方法，待人态度 | |
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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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sagged
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flopped
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| v.（指书、戏剧等）彻底失败( flop的过去式和过去分词 )；（因疲惫而）猛然坐下；（笨拙地、不由自主地或松弛地）移动或落下；砸锅 | |
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wheezing
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| v.喘息，发出呼哧呼哧的喘息声( wheeze的现在分词 )；哮鸣 | |
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smacked
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| 拍，打，掴( smack的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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supremely
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dilemma
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| n.困境，进退两难的局面 | |
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unbearable
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crouching
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| v.屈膝，蹲伏( crouch的现在分词 ) | |
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squinting
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| 斜视( squint的现在分词 )； 眯着眼睛； 瞟； 从小孔或缝隙里看 | |
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pampered
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| adj.饮食过量的，饮食奢侈的v.纵容，宠，娇养( pamper的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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adulthood
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| n.成年，成人期 | |
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feverish
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| adj.发烧的，狂热的，兴奋的 | |
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braced
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| adj.拉牢的v.支住( brace的过去式和过去分词 )；撑牢；使自己站稳；振作起来 | |
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condemned
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| adj. 被责难的, 被宣告有罪的 动词condemn的过去式和过去分词 | |
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wrestled
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| v.（与某人）搏斗( wrestle的过去式和过去分词 )；扭成一团；扭打；（与…）摔跤 | |
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guilt
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| n.犯罪；内疚；过失，罪责 | |
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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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suburban
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| adj.城郊的，在郊区的 | |
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rumbles
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| 隆隆声，辘辘声( rumble的名词复数 ) | |
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descend
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| vt./vi.传下来，下来，下降 | |
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steer
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| vt.驾驶，为…操舵；引导；vi.驾驶 | |
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hooded
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| adj.戴头巾的；有罩盖的；颈部因肋骨运动而膨胀的 | |
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tingling
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| v.有刺痛感( tingle的现在分词 ) | |
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