"Hit him harder."
I slapped Morrie's back.
"Harder."
I slapped him again.
"Near his shoulders . . . now down lower."
Morrie, dressed in pajama bottoms, lay in bed on his side, his head flush against the pillow, his mouth open. The physical therapist was showing me how to bang loose the poison in his lungs-which he needed done regularly now, to keep it from solidifying1, to keep him breathing.
"I . . . always knew . . . you wanted . . . to hit me . . ." Morrie gasped2.
Yeah, I joked as I rapped my fist against the alabaster3 skin of his back. This is for that B you gave me sophomore4 year! Whack5!
We all laughed, a nervous laughter that comes when the devil is within earshot. It would have been cute, this little scene, were it not what we all knew it was, the final calisthenics before death. Morrie's disease was now dangerously close to his surrender spot, his lungs. He had been predicting he would die from choking, and I could not imagine a more terrible way to go. Sometimes he would close his eyes and try to draw the air up into his mouth and nostrils6, and it seemed as if he were trying to lift an anchor.
Outside, it was jacket weather, early October, the leaves clumped7 in piles on the lawns around West Newton. Morrie's physical therapist had come earlier in the day, and I usually excused myself when nurses or specialists had business with him. But as the weeks passed and our time ran down, I was increasingly less self-conscious about the physical embarrassment9. I wanted to be there. I wanted to observe everything. This was not like me, but then, neither were a lot of things that had happened these last few months in Morrie's house.
So I watched the therapist work on Morrie in the bed, pounding the back of his ribs10, asking if he could feel the congestion11 loosening within him. And when she took
a break, she asked if I wanted to try it. I said yes. Morrie, his face on the pillow, gave a little smile.
"Not too hard," he said. "I'm an old man."
I drummed on his back and sides, moving around, as she instructed. I hated the idea of Morrie's lying in bed under any circumstances (his last aphorism12, "When you're in bed, you're dead," rang in my ears), and curled on his side, he was so small, so withered13, it was more a boy's body than a man's. I saw the paleness of his skin, the stray white hairs, the way his arms hung limp and helpless. I thought about how much time we spend trying to shape our bodies, lifting weights, crunching14 sit-ups, and in the end, nature takes it away from us anyhow. Beneath my fingers, I felt the loose flesh around Morrie's bones, and I thumped15 him hard, as instructed. The truth is, I was pounding on his back when I wanted to be hitting the walls.
"Mitch?" Morrie gasped, his voice jumpy as a jackhammer as I pounded on him.
Uh-huh?
"When did . . . I . . . give you . . . a B?"
Morrie believed in the inherent good of people. But he also saw what they could become.
"People are only mean when they're threatened," he said later that day, "and that's what our culture does. That's what our economy does. Even people who have jobs in our economy are threatened, because they worry about losing them. And when you get threatened, you start looking out only for yourself. You start making money a god. It is all part of this culture."
He exhaled16. "Which is why I don't buy into it."
I nodded at him and squeezed his hand. We held hands regularly now. This was another change for me. Things that before would have made me embarrassed or squeamish were now routinely handled. The catheter bag, connected to the tube inside him and filled with greenish waste fluid, lay by my foot near the leg of his chair. A few months earlier, it might have disgusted me; it was inconsequential now. So was the smell of the room after Morrie had used the commode. He did not have the luxury of moving from place to place, of closing a bathroom door behind him, spraying some air freshener when he left. There was his bed, there was his chair, and that was his life. If my life were squeezed into such a thimble, I doubt I could make it smell any better.
"Here's what I mean by building your own little subculture," Morrie said. "I don't mean you disregard every rule of your community. I don't go around naked, for example. I don't run through red lights. The little things, I can obey. But the big things-how we think, what we value-those you must choose yourself. You can't let anyone-or any society determine those for you.
"Take my condition. The things I am supposed to be embarrassed about now-not being able to walk, not being able to wipe my ass8, waking up some mornings wanting to cry-there is nothing innately17 embarrassing or shaming about them.
"It's the same for women not being thin enough, or men not being rich enough. It's just what our culture would have you believe. Don't believe it."
I asked Morrie why he hadn't moved somewhere else when he was younger.
"Where?"
I don't know. South America. New Guinea. Someplace not as selfish as America.
"Every society has its own problems," Morrie said, lifting his eyebrows18, the closest he could come to a shrug19. "The way to do it, I think, isn't to run away. You have to work at creating your own culture.
"Look, no matter where you live, the biggest defect we human beings have is our shortsightedness. We don't see what we could be. We should be looking at our potential, stretching ourselves into everything we can become. But if you're surrounded by people who say `I want mine now,' you end up with a few people with everything and a military to keep the poor ones from rising up and stealing it."
Morrie looked over my shoulder to the far window. Sometimes you could hear a passing truck or a whip of the wind. He gazed for a moment at his neighbors' houses, then continued.
"The problem, Mitch, is that we don't believe we are as much alike as we are. Whites and blacks, Catholics and Protestants, men and women. If we saw each other as more alike, we might be very eager to join in one big human family in this world, and to care about that family the way we care about our own.
"But believe me, when you are dying, you see it is true. We all have the same beginning-birth-and we all have the same end-death. So how different can we be?
"Invest in the human family. Invest in people. Build a little community of those you love and who love you."
He squeezed my hand gently. I squeezed back harder. And like that carnival20 contest where you bang a hammer and watch the disk rise up the pole, I could almost see my body heat rise up Morrie's chest and neck into his cheeks and eyes. He smiled.
"In the beginning of life, when we are infants, we need others to survive, right? And at the end of life, when you get like me, you need others to survive, right?"
His voice dropped to a whisper. "But here's the secret: in between, we need others as well."
Later that afternoon, Connie and I went into the bedroom to watch the O. J. Simpson verdict. It was a tense scene as the principals all turned to face the jury, Simpson, in his blue suit, surrounded by his small army of lawyers, the prosecutors21 who wanted him behind bars just a few feet away. When the foreman read the verdict"Not guilty"-Connie shrieked22.
"Oh my God!"
We watched as Simpson hugged his lawyers. We listened as the commentators23 tried to explain what it all
meant. We saw crowds of blacks celebrating in the streets outside the courthouse, and crowds of whites sitting stunned24 inside restaurants. The decision was being hailed as momentous25, even though murders take place every day. Connie went out in the hall. She had seen enough.
I heard the door to Morrie's study close. I stared at the TV set. Everyone in the world is watching this thing, I told myself. Then, from the other room, I heard the ruffling26 of Morrie's being lifted from his chair and I smiled. As "The Trial of the Century" reached its dramatic conclusion, my old professor was sitting on the toilet.
It is 1979, a basketball game in the Brandeis gym. The team is doing well, and the student section begins a chant, "We're number one! We're number one!" Morrie is sitting nearby. He is puzzled by the cheer. At one point, in the midst of "We're number one!" he rises and yells, "What's wrong with being number two?"
The students look at him. They stop chanting. He sits down, smiling and triumphant27.
"拍得重些。"
我拍打着莫里的背。
"再用力些。"
我又拍打下去。
"靠近肩部……往下一点。"
莫里穿着睡裤侧卧在床上，他的头陷在枕头里，嘴巴张开着。理疗师在教我怎样把他肺部的毒物拍打出来--莫里现在需要按时做这种理疗，不然他的肺就会硬化，从而丧失呼吸的功能。
"我……早就知道……你想……打我……"莫里喘着气说。
没错，我一边用拳头叩击他雪白的后背，一边开玩笑他说。谁叫你在大学二年级时给了我一个B！再来一下重的！
我们都笑了，这是面对魔鬼的临近而发出的惴惴不安的笑，如果没人知道这是莫里临死前的健身操，这场面或许会挺有趣的。莫里的病现在已经危险地逼近了他的最后一道防线--肺部。他已经预见到他最终会窒息而死，这是我所无法想象的。有时他会闭上眼睛，用力把一口气吸到嘴巴和鼻孔处，就像在做起锚前的准备工作。
刚进十月，外面的气候开始转凉，吹落的树叶铺满了西纽顿周围的绿化地。莫里的理疗师比平时来得更早了。通常，当护士和专家在他身边忙碌时，我总是找借口避开的。但几个星期下来，随着我们的时间在不断缩短，我不再对人体的种种窘态那么敏感了。我想呆在那儿。我想看见发生的一切。这不是我平常的性格。但最后几个月发生在莫里家中的一切也是不平常的。
于是我看着理疗师对躺在床上的莫里进行治疗，她叩击莫里背部的肋骨，问他是否感觉到胸口的郁闷有所缓解。她停下来休息时，问我想不想试试。我说行。莫里埋在枕头里的脸上浮现出一丝笑容。
"别太狠，"他说，"我是个老头了。"
我在她的指导下，来来回回敲打着他的背部和侧部。我不愿去想莫里躺在床上的情形（他最新的格言"当你在床上时，你就是个死人"又回响在我的耳边），蜷缩着身子侧卧在床上的莫里显得那么瘦小，那么枯槁，简直就跟一个孩子的身材差不多大。我看见了他白皙的皮肤，零散的白色汗毛，看见了他疲软下垂的双臂。我想起了我们曾热衷于健身：举杠铃，练仰卧起坐；然而最终自然又将我们的肌肉夺了回去。我的手指触摸在莫里松弛的肌肉上，我按着理疗师的指导拍打着他。而实际上，当我在捶打他的背部时，我真正想捶打的却是墙壁。
"米奇？"莫里喘着气说，他的声音在我的捶打下像风钻一样振动着。
嗯？
"我……什么时候……给过你……B？"
莫里相信人之初性本善。但他也看到了事物的可变性。
"人只有在受到威胁时才变坏，"他那天对我说，"而这一威胁正是来自我们的文明社会，来自我们的经济制度。即使有工作的人也会受到威胁，因为他会担心失去它。当你受到威胁时，你就会只为自己的利益考虑，你就会视金钱为上帝。这就是我们文化的一部分。"
他呼出一口气。"这就是为什么我不能接受它。"
我点点头，握紧他的手。我们现在常常握手，这是发生在我身上的又一个变化。从前使我感到窘迫和拘谨的事情现在则成了家常便饭，通过一根管子连接到他体内，里面装满了黄色尿液的导管袋就放在我的脚边。早几个月它会使我感到恶心，现在我一点也无所谓。莫里，"厕后留在房间里的气味同样对我没有影响。他没有条件更换居住的房间，也无法关上厕所的门往屋里喷洒空气清新剂。这是他的床，这是他的椅子，这是他的生活。如果我的生活也被圈在这样一个弹丸之地，我想我留下的气味也好不到哪儿去。
"这就是我说的你应该建立一个自己的小文化，"莫里说，"我并不是让你去忽视这个社会的每一条准则。比方说，我不会光着身子去外面转悠；我也不会去闯红灯。在这类小事情上我能遵纪守法。但在大问题上--如何思想，如何评判--你必须自己选择。你不能让任何一个人--或任何一个社会--来替你作出决定。
"就拿我来说吧。我似乎该为许多事而感到害臊--不能行走，不能擦洗屁股，有时早上醒来想哭--其实生来就没有理由要为这些事情感到羞耻。
"女人拼命想苗条，男人拼命想富有，也是同样的道理。这都是我们的文化要你相信的。别去相信它。"
我问莫里他年轻时为何不移居他国。
"去哪儿？"
我不知道。南美。新几内亚。一个不像美国那么私欲膨胀的地方。
"每个社会都有它自己的问题，"莫里说，他扬了扬眉毛，这是他最接近耸肩的表示。"我认为逃避并不是解决的方法。你应该为建立自己的文化而努力。
"不管你生活在哪儿，人类最大的弱点就是缺乏远见。我们看不到自己的将来。其实，我们应该看到自己的潜能，让自己尽量去适应各种发展和变化。但如果你的周围尽是那些利欲熏心的人，那么结局便是一小部分的人暴富起来，军队的任务是防止贫穷的人起来造反，抢夺他们的财富。"
莫里的目光越过我的肩头落在远处的窗户上。迎面偶尔传来卡车的隆隆声和风的呼啸声。他对着邻居的房子凝视了一会儿，继续说道，
"问题是，米奇，我们不相信我们都是同样的人。白人和黑人。天主教徒和新教徒。男人和女人。如果我们彼此不觉得有差异，我们就会乐意加入人类的大家庭，就会像照顾自己的小家一样去关心那个大家庭。
"相信我，当你快要死的时候，你会认识到这是对的。我们都有同样的开始--诞生--我们也有同样的结局--死亡。因此，我们怎么会有大的区别呢？
"投入到人类的大家庭里去。投入到人的感情世界里去。建立一个由你爱的人和爱你的人组成的小社会。"
他轻轻地握握我的手，我也用力地握握他的。就像在卡尼伐竞赛①中，你敲下锤子，看着圆球升向上面的洞口那样，我此刻似乎也看见了我的体热正从莫里的手传向他的胸口，又从胸口升向他的脸颊和眼睛。他笑了。
①一种游艺场里的游戏。
"在生命的起点，当我们还是婴几时，我们需要别人活着，对不对？在生命的终点，当你像我现在这样时，你也需要别人活着，是吗？"
他压低了声音。"可还有个秘密：在生命的中途，我们同样需要别人活着。"
那天下午晚些时候，康尼和我去卧室收看法庭对0•J•辛普森的裁决。当原告和被告都面向陪审团时，场面顿时紧张起来。辛普森身穿蓝色西服，被一群律师团团围着。离他几英尺的地方便是那些要他蹲大牢的检查官们。陪审团团长宣读了裁决--"无罪"--康尼尖叫起来。
"哦，我的天！"
我们看着辛普森拥抱他的律师，听着评论员的评述，成群的黑人在法庭外的街道上庆贺，而白人则目瞪口呆地呆坐在饭店里。人们称这一判决具有历史性的意义，尽管每天都有谋杀发生。康尼去了客厅。她看腻了。
我听见莫里书房的门关上了。我盯着电视机。世界上每一个人都在看，我对自己说。然而就在这时，我听见有人把莫里从椅子上拖了起来。我笑了：就在"世纪审判"戏剧性地收场时，我的老教授正坐在抽水马桶上。
1979年，布兰代斯的体育馆里有一场篮球赛。我们的球队打得不错，学生席上响起了叫喊声："我们第一！我们第一！"莫里就坐在旁边，喊声让他感到困惑。终于，他在一片"我们第一"的叫喊中站起来大吼一声，"第二又怎么样？"
学生们望着他，停止了叫喊。他坐了下来，得意地笑了。
收听单词发音 |
1
solidifying
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| （使）成为固体，（使）变硬，（使）变得坚固( solidify的现在分词 )； 使团结一致； 充实，巩固； 具体化 | |
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gasped
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| v.喘气( gasp的过去式和过去分词 )；喘息；倒抽气；很想要 | |
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3
alabaster
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| adj.雪白的；n.雪花石膏；条纹大理石 | |
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sophomore
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| n.大学二年级生；adj.第二年的 | |
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whack
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| v.敲击，重打，瓜分；n.重击，重打，尝试，一份 | |
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nostrils
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| 鼻孔( nostril的名词复数 ) | |
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clumped
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| adj.[医]成群的v.（树、灌木、植物等的）丛、簇( clump的过去式和过去分词 )；（土、泥等）团；块；笨重的脚步声 | |
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8
ass
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| n.驴；傻瓜，蠢笨的人 | |
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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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ribs
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| n.肋骨( rib的名词复数 )；（船或屋顶等的）肋拱；肋骨状的东西；（织物的）凸条花纹 | |
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congestion
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| n.阻塞，消化不良 | |
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aphorism
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| n.格言，警语 | |
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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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crunching
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| v.嘎吱嘎吱地咬嚼( crunch的现在分词 )；嘎吱作响；（快速大量地）处理信息；数字捣弄 | |
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thumped
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| v.重击， （指心脏）急速跳动( thump的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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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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innately
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| adv.天赋地；内在地，固有地 | |
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eyebrows
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| 眉毛( eyebrow的名词复数 ) | |
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shrug
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| v.耸肩(表示怀疑、冷漠、不知等) | |
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carnival
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| n.嘉年华会，狂欢，狂欢节，巡回表演 | |
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prosecutors
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| 检举人( prosecutor的名词复数 )； 告发人； 起诉人； 公诉人 | |
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shrieked
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| v.尖叫( shriek的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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commentators
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| n.评论员( commentator的名词复数 )；时事评论员；注释者；实况广播员 | |
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stunned
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| adj. 震惊的，惊讶的 动词stun的过去式和过去分词 | |
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momentous
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| adj.重要的，重大的 | |
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ruffling
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| 弄皱( ruffle的现在分词 )； 弄乱； 激怒； 扰乱 | |
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triumphant
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| adj.胜利的，成功的；狂欢的，喜悦的 | |
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