I walked past the mountain laurels1 and the Japanese maple2, up the bluestone steps of Morrie's house. The white rain gutter3 hung like a lid over the doorway4. I rang the bell and was greeted not by Connie but by Morrie's wife, Charlotte, a beautiful gray-haired woman who spoke5 in a lilting voice. She was not often at home when I came by-she continued working at MIT, as Morrie wished-and I was surprised this morning to see her.
"Morrie's having a bit of a hard time today," she said. She stared over my shoulder for a moment, then moved toward the kitchen.
I'm sorry, I said.
"No, no, he'll be happy to see you," she said quickly. "Sure . . ."
She stopped in the middle of the sentence, turning her head slightly, listening for something. Then she continued. "I'm sure . . . he'll feel better when he knows you're here."
I lifted up the bags from the market-my normal food supply, I said jokingly-and she seemed to smile and fret6 at the same time.
"There's already so much food. He hasn't eaten any from last time."
This took me by surprise. He hasn't eaten any, I asked?
She opened the refrigerator and I saw familiar containers of chicken salad, vermicelli, vegetables, stuffed squash, all things I had brought for Morrie. She opened the freezer and there was even more.
"Morrie can't eat most of this food. It's too hard for him to swallow. He has to eat soft things and liquid drinks now."
But he never said anything, I said.
Charlotte smiled. "He doesn't want to hurt your feelings."
It wouldn't have hurt my feelings. I just wanted to help in some way. I mean, I just wanted to bring him something . . .
"You are bringing him something. He looks forward to your visits. He talks about having to do this project with you, how he has to concentrate and put the time aside. I think it's giving him a good sense of purpose . . ."
Again, she gave that faraway look, the tuning-in-something-from-somewhere-else. I knew Morrie's nights were becoming difficult, that he didn't sleep through them, and that meant Charlotte often did not sleep through them either. Sometimes Morrie would lie awake coughing for hours-it would take that long to get the phlegm from his throat. There were health care workers now staying through the night and all those visitors during the day, former students, fellow professors, meditation7 teachers, tramping in and out of the house. On some days, Morrie had a half a dozen visitors, and they were often there when Charlotte returned from work. She handled it with patience, even though all these outsiders were soaking up her precious minutes with Morrie.
". . . a sense of purpose," she continued. "Yes. That's good, you know."
"I hope so," I said.
I helped put the new food inside the refrigerator. The kitchen counter had all kinds of notes, messages, information, medical instructions. The table held more pill bottles than ever-Selestone for his asthma8, Ativan to help him sleep, naproxen for infections-along with a powdered milk mix and laxatives. From down the hall, we heard the sound of a door open.
"Maybe he's available now . . . let me go check."
Charlotte glanced again at my food and I felt suddenly ashamed. All these reminders9 of things Morrie would never enjoy.
The small horrors of his illness were growing, and when I finally sat down with Morrie, he was coughing more than usual, a dry, dusty cough that shook his chest and made his head jerk forward. After one violent surge, he stopped, closed his eyes, and took a breath. I sat quietly because I thought he was recovering from his exertion10.
"Is the tape on?" he said suddenly, his eyes still closed.
Yes, yes, I quickly said, pressing down the play and record buttons.
"What I'm doing now," he continued, his eyes still closed, "is detaching myself from the experience."
Detaching yourself?
"Yes. Detaching myself. And this is important-not just for someone like me, who is dying, but for someone like you, who is perfectly11 healthy. Learn to detach."
He opened his eyes. He exhaled12. "You know what the Buddhists13 say? Don't cling to things, because everything is impermanent."
But wait, I said. Aren't you always talking about experiencing life? All the good emotions, all the bad ones?
"Yes. "
Well, how can you do that if you're detached?
"Ah. You're thinking, Mitch. But detachment doesn't mean you don't let the experience penetrate14 you. On the contrary, you let it penetrate you fully15. That's how you are able to leave it."
I'm lost.
"Take any emotion-love for a woman, or grief for a loved one, or what I'm going through, fear and pain from a deadly illness. If you hold back on the emotions-if you don't allow yourself to go all the way through them-you can never get to being detached, you're too busy being afraid. You're afraid of the pain, you're afraid of the grief. You're afraid of the vulnerability that loving entails16.
"But by throwing yourself into these emotions, by allowing yourself to dive in, all the way, over your head even, you experience them fully and completely. You know what pain is. You know what love is. You know what grief is. And only then can you say, `All right. I have experienced that emotion. I recognize that emotion. Now I need to detach from that emotion for a moment.' "
Morrie stopped and looked me over, perhaps to make sure I was getting this right.
"I know you think this is just about dying," he said, "but it's like I keep telling you. When you learn how to die, you learn how to live."
Morrie talked about his most fearful moments, when he felt his chest locked in heaving surges or when he wasn't sure where his next breath would come from. These were horrifying17 times, he said, and his first emotions were horror, fear, anxiety. But once he recognized the feel of those emotions, their texture18, their moisture, the shiver down the back, the quick flash of heat that crosses your brain-then he was able to say, "Okay. This is fear. Step away from it. Step away."
I thought about how often this was needed in everyday life. How we feel lonely, sometimes to the point of tears, but we don't let those tears come because we are not supposed to cry. Or how we feel a surge of love for a partner but we don't say anything because we're frozen with the fear of what those words might do to the relationship.
Morrie's approach was exactly the opposite. Turn on the faucet19. Wash yourself with the emotion. It won't hurt you. It will only help. If you let the fear inside, if you pull it on like a familiar shirt, then you can say to yourself, "All right, it's just fear, I don't have to let it control me. I see it for what it is."
Same for loneliness: you let go, let the tears flow, feel it completely-but eventually be able to say, "All right, that was my moment with loneliness. I'm not afraid of feeling lonely, but now I'm going to put that loneliness aside and know that there are other emotions in the world, and I'm going to experience them as well."
"Detach," Morrie said again.
He closed his eyes, then coughed. Then he coughed again.
Then he coughed again, more loudly.
Suddenly, he was half-choking, the congestion20 in his lungs seemingly teasing him, jumping halfway21 up, then dropping back down, stealing his breath. He was gagging, then hacking22 violently, and he shook his hands in front of him-with his eyes closed, shaking his hands, he appeared almost possessed-and I felt my forehead break into a sweat. I instinctively23 pulled him forward and slapped the back of his shoulders, and he pushed a tissue to his mouth and spit out a wad of phlegm.
The coughing stopped, and Morrie dropped back into the foam24 pillows and sucked in air.
"You okay? You all right?" I said, trying to hide my fear.
"I'm . . . okay," Morrie whispered, raising a shaky finger. "Just . . . wait a minute."
We sat there quietly until his breathing returned to normal. I felt the perspiration25 on my scalp. He asked me to close the window, the breeze was making him cold. I didn't mention that it was eighty degrees outside.
Finally, in a whisper, he said, "I know how I want to die."
I waited in silence.
"I want to die serenely26. Peacefully. Not like what just happened.
"And this is where detachment comes in. If I die in the middle of a coughing spell like I just had, I need to be able to detach from the horror, I need to say, `This is my moment.'
"I don't want to leave the world in a state of fright. I want to know what's happening, accept it, get to a peaceful place, and let go. Do you understand?"
I nodded.
Don't let go yet, I added quickly.
Morrie forced a smile. "No. Not yet. We still have work to do."
Do you believe in reincarnation? I ask. "Perhaps. "
What would you come back as? `If I had my choice, a gazelle."
" A gazelle?"
"Yes. So graceful27. So fast."
" A gazelle?
Morrie smiles at me. "You think that's strange?"
I study his shrunken frame, the loose clothes, the sockswrapped feet that rest stiffly on foam rubber cushions, unable to move, like a prisoner in leg irons. I picture a gazelle racing28 across the desert.
No, I say. I don't think that's strange at all.
我走过山月桂和日本槭树，踏上了莫里家的蓝砂岩台阶。白色的雨檐像帽盖一样突伸在门廊的上面。我按响了门铃，来开门的不是康尼，而是莫里的妻子夏洛特，一个漂亮、头发花白的妇女，说话很悦耳。我平时去的时候她不常在家--她按莫里的意愿仍在麻省理工学院工作--所以今天早上见到她我有些意外。
"莫里今天早上不太好，"她说。她的眼神有些恍惚，接着她朝厨房走去。
很抱歉，我说。
"不，不，他见到你会很高兴的，"她马上说道。"我肯定……"
她说到一半突然停住了，微微侧过头去，似乎在倾听着什么。接着她继续说，"我肯定……他知道你来了会好受得多。"
我提起了从超市买来的食品袋--送来补给品了，我打趣他说--她似乎笑了笑，同时又流露出烦恼的神情。
"食品大多了。他自从你上次来了以后就几乎没吃什么东西。"
我听了很吃惊。
他没吃东西？我问。
她打开冰箱，我看见了原封不动的鸡肉色拉、细面条、蔬菜、肉馅南瓜，以及其它所有我买给他的食物。她打开冷藏柜，那里的食品更多。
"这里的大部分东西莫里都不能吃，硬得无法下咽。他现在只能吃一些软食和流质。"
可他从未说起过，我说。
夏洛特笑了，"他不想挫伤你的感情。"
那不会挫伤我的感情。我只想能帮上点什么忙。我是说，我想给他带点什么来……
"你是给他带来了他需要的东西，他盼望着你的来访。他一直谈论着你们的课题，他说他要集中精力。挤出时间来做这件事。我觉得这给了他一种使命感……"
她的眼神又一次恍惚起来。我知道莫里晚上睡觉很成问题，他常常无法入睡，这就意味着夏洛特也时常睡不好。有时，莫里会躺着咳上几个小时--才能把痰咳出喉咙。他们现在请了夜间护理，白天又不断有来访者：以前的学生，同事，默念师，穿梭不停地进出这幢房子。有时，莫里会一下子接待五六个人，而且常常是当夏洛特下班回家以后。虽然这么多的外人占用了她和莫里在一起的宝贵时间，但夏洛特仍显得很有耐心。
"……一种使命感，"她继续说道。"是的，这对他有好处。"
但愿如此，我说。
我帮她把买来的食物放进冰箱。厨房的长台上放着各种各样的字条，留言、通知以及医疗说明书。餐桌上的药瓶也多了起来--治哮喘的塞列斯通，治失眠的阿替芬，抗感染的奈普洛克森①--还有奶粉和通便剂。客厅那边传来了开门声。
①药品的原文分别是Selesstone，Ativan，Naproxen。
"也许他准备好了……我去看看。"
夏洛特又看了一眼我带来的食品，我突然感到一阵不安。莫里再也享受不到这些食品了。
疾病的可怕症状在逐渐显示出来。等我在莫里身边坐下后，他比平时更厉害地咳嗽起来，他的胸部随着一阵阵的干咳而上下起伏，头也朝前冲出着。一阵剧烈的折腾之后，他终于停了下来。他闭着眼睛，吁了口气。我静静地坐着，觉得他正在慢慢缓过气来。"录音机打开了吗？"他突然问，眼睛仍闭着。是的，是的，我赶紧按下了录音键说。
"我现在做的，"他依；日闭着眼睛说，"是在超脱自我。"
超脱自我？
"是的，超脱自我。这非常重要--不仅对我这个快要死的人是这样，对像你这样完全健康的人也如此。要学会超脱。"
他睁开眼睛，长长地吐了口气。"你知道佛教是怎么说的？别庸人自扰，一切皆是空。"
可是，我说，你不是说要体验生活吗？所有好的情感，还有坏的情感？
"是的。"
那么，如果超脱的话又该怎么做呢？
"啊，你在思考了，米奇。但超脱并不是说不投入到生活中去。相反，你应该完完全全地投入进去。然后你才走得出来。"
我迷惘了。
"接受所有的感情--对女人的爱恋，对亲人的悲伤，或像我所经历的：由致命的疾病而引起的恐惧和痛苦。如果你逃避这些感情--不让自己去感受。经历--你就永远超脱不了，因为你始终心存恐惧。你害怕痛苦，害怕悲伤，害怕爱必须承受的感情伤害。
"可你一旦投入进去，沉浸在感情的汪洋里，你就能充分地体验它，知道什么是痛苦，什么是悲伤。只有到那时你才能说，'好吧，我已经经历了这份感情，我已经认识了这份感情，现在我需要超脱它。'"
莫里停下来注视着我，或许是想看我有没有理解透彻。
"我知道你在想，这跟谈论死亡差不多，"他说，"它的确就像我反复对你说的：当你学会了怎么死，你也就学会了怎么活。"
莫里谈到了最让他害怕的时刻：剧烈的喘气使他透不过气来，他不知道还有没有第二口气能接上去。这是最让人害怕的时刻，他说，他最初的感情便是恐惧。害怕和担心。但当他认识了这些感情的内容和特征--背部的颤抖，闪过脑部的热眩--后，他便能说，"好了，这就是恐惧感。离开它。离开它一会儿。"
我在想，日常生活中是多么地需要这样的感情处理。我们常感到孤独，有时孤独得想哭，但我们却不让泪水淌下来，因为我们觉得不该哭泣。有时我们从心里对伴侣涌起一股爱的激流，但我们却不去表达，因为我们害怕那些话语可能会带来的伤害。
莫里的态度截然相反：打开水龙头，用感情来冲洗。它不会伤害你。它只会帮助你。如果你不拒绝恐惧的进入，如果你把它当作一件常穿的衬衫穿上，那么你就能对自己说，"好吧，这仅仅是恐惧，我不必受它的支配。我能直面它。"
对孤独也一样：体会它的感受，让泪水流淌下来，细细地品味--但最后要能说，"好吧，这是我的孤独一刻，我不怕感到孤独，现在我要把它弃之一旁，因为世界上还有其它的感情让我去体验。"
"超脱，"莫里又说道。
他闭上眼睛，接着咳了起来。
又咳了一下。
咳得更重了。
突然，他的呼吸急促了。他肺部的淤积物似乎在捉弄他，忽而涌上来，忽而沉下去，吞噬着他的呼吸。他大口大口地喘气，然后是一阵猛烈的干咳，连手也抖动起来--他闭着眼睛双手抖动的样子简直就像是中了邪--我感到自己的额头上沁出了汗珠。我本能地把他拉起来，用手拍打他的背部，他把手中纸递到嘴边，吐出了一口痰。
咳嗽停止了。莫里一头倒在海绵枕头上，拼命地呼吸着。
"你怎么样？你没事吧？"我说。我在竭力掩饰自己的恐惧。
"我……没事，"莫里低声说，他举起颤抖的手，"稍等……什刻。"
我们无声地坐着，等他的呼吸渐渐趋于平缓，我的头皮里也沁出了汗珠。他叫我把窗户关上，外面吹进的微风使他感到冷，我没有告诉他外面的气温是华氏八十度。
最后，他像耳语似他说，"我知道我希望怎样地死去。"
我默默地听着。
"我想安详地死去。宁静地死去，不要像刚才那样。
"那个时候是需要超脱的，如果我在刚才那阵咳嗽中死去的话，我需要从恐惧中超脱出来，我需要说，'我的时刻到了。'
"我不想让世界惊慌不安。我要知道发生了什么，接受它，进入一种安宁的心境，然后离去，你明白吗？"
我点点头。
现在别离去，我赶紧加了一句。
莫里挤出了一丝笑容。"不，现在还不会。我们还有事情要做。"
你相信轮回转世吗，我问。
"也许。"
你来世想做什么？
"如果我能选择的话，就做一头羚羊。"
羚羊？
"是的，那么优美，那么迅捷。"
羚羊？
莫里冲我一笑。"你觉得奇怪？"
我凝视着他脱形的躯体，宽松的衣服，裹着袜子的脚僵直地搁在海绵橡皮垫子上，无法动弹，犹如戴着脚镣的囚犯。我想象一头羚羊跃过沙漠的情景。
不，我说。我一点都不觉得奇怪。
收听单词发音 |
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laurels
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| n.桂冠，荣誉 | |
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maple
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| n.槭树，枫树，槭木 | |
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gutter
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| n.沟，街沟，水槽，檐槽，贫民窟 | |
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doorway
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| n.门口，(喻)入门；门路，途径 | |
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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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fret
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| v.(使)烦恼；(使)焦急；(使)腐蚀，(使)磨损 | |
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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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asthma
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| n.气喘病，哮喘病 | |
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reminders
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| n.令人回忆起…的东西( reminder的名词复数 )；提醒…的东西；（告知该做某事的）通知单；提示信 | |
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exertion
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| n.尽力，努力 | |
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perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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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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Buddhists
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| n.佛教徒( Buddhist的名词复数 ) | |
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penetrate
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| v.透(渗)入；刺入，刺穿；洞察，了解 | |
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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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entails
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| 使…成为必要( entail的第三人称单数 )； 需要； 限定继承； 使必需 | |
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horrifying
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| a.令人震惊的，使人毛骨悚然的 | |
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texture
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| n.(织物)质地；(材料)构造；结构；肌理 | |
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faucet
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| n.水龙头 | |
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congestion
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| n.阻塞，消化不良 | |
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halfway
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| adj.中途的，不彻底的，部分的；adv.半路地，在中途，在半途 | |
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hacking
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| n.非法访问计算机系统和数据库的活动 | |
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instinctively
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| adv.本能地 | |
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foam
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| v./n.泡沫，起泡沫 | |
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perspiration
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| n.汗水；出汗 | |
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serenely
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| adv.安详地，宁静地，平静地 | |
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graceful
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| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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racing
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| n.竞赛，赛马；adj.竞赛用的，赛马用的 | |
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