Tuesday-with-Morrie文档格式.doc
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anoldman,ayoungman,and
life’sgreatestlesson
By
MitchAlbom
Acknowledgments
Iwouldliketoacknowledgetheenormoushelpgiventomeincreatingthisbook.Fortheirmemories,theirpatience,andtheirguidance,IwishtothankCharlotte,Rob,andJonathanSchwartz,MaurieStein,CharlieDerber,GordieFellman,DavidSchwartz,RabbiAlAxelrad,andthemultitudeofMorrie‟sfriendsandcolleagues.Also,specialthankstoBillThomas,myeditor,forhandlingthisprojectwithjusttherighttouch.And,asalways,myappreciationtoDavidBlack,whooftenbelievesinmemorethanIdomyself.Mostly,mythankstoMorrie,forwantingtodothislastthesistogether.Haveyoueverhadateacherlikethis?
TheCurriculum
Thelastclassofmyoldprofessor‟slifetookplaceonceaweekinhishouse,byawindowinthestudywherehecouldwatchasmallhibiscusplantsheditspinkleaves.TheclassmetonTuesdays.Itbeganafterbreakfast.ThesubjectwasTheMeaningofLife.Itwastaughtfromexperience.
Nogradesweregiven,buttherewereoralexamseachweek.Youwereexpectedtorespondtoquestions,andyouwereexpectedtoposequestionsofyourown.Youwerealsorequiredtoperformphysicaltasksnowandthen,suchasliftingtheprofessor‟sheadtoa
comfortablespotonthepilloworplacinghisglassesonthebridgeofhisnose.Kissinghimgood-byeearnedyouextracredit.
Nobookswererequired,yetmanytopicswerecovered,includinglove,work,community,family,aging,forgiveness,and,finally,death.Thelastlecturewasbrief,onlyafewwords.
Afuneralwasheldinlieuofgraduation.
Althoughnofinalexamwasgiven,youwereexpectedtoproduceonelongpaperonwhatwaslearned.Thatpaperispresentedhere.
Thelastclassofmyoldprofessor‟slifehadonlyonestudent.Iwasthestudent.
Itisthelatespringof1979,ahot,stickySaturdayafternoon.Hundredsofussittogether,sidebyside,inrowsofwoodenfoldingchairsonthemaincampuslawn.Wewearbluenylonrobes.Welistenimpatientlytolongspeeches.Whentheceremonyisover,wethrowourcapsintheair,andweareofficiallygraduatedfromcollege,theseniorclassofBrandeisUniversityinthecityofWaltham,Massachusetts.Formanyofus,thecurtainhasjustcomedownonchildhood.
Afterward,IfindMorrieSchwartz,myfavoriteprofessor,andintroducehimtomyparents.Heisasmallmanwhotakessmallsteps,asifastrongwindcould,atanytime,whiskhimupintotheclouds.Inhisgraduationdayrobe,helookslikeacrossbetweenabiblicalprophetandaChristmaselfHehassparklingbluegreeneyes,thinningsilverhairthatspillsontohisforehead,bigears,atriangularnose,andtuftsofgrayingeyebrows.Althoughhisteetharecrookedandhisloweronesareslantedback—asifsomeonehadoncepunchedthem
in—whenhesmilesit‟sasifyou‟djusttoldhimthefirstjokeonearth.
HetellsmyparentshowItookeveryclasshetaught.Hetellsthem,“Youhaveaspecialboyhere.“Embarrassed,Ilookatmyfeet.Beforeweleave,Ihandmyprofessorapresent,
-1-
atanbriefcasewithhisinitialsonthefront.Iboughtthisthedaybeforeatashoppingmall.Ididn‟twanttoforgethim.MaybeIdidn‟twanthimtoforgetme.
“Mitch,youareoneofthegoodones,”hesays,admiringthebriefcase.Thenhehugsme.Ifeelhisthinarmsaroundmyback.Iamtallerthanheis,andwhenheholdsme,Ifeelawkward,older,asifIweretheparentandhewerethechild.HeasksifIwillstayintouch,andwithouthesitationIsay,“Ofcourse.”Whenhestepsback,Iseethatheiscrying.
TheSyllabus
Hisdeathsentencecameinthesummerof1994.Lookingback,Morrieknewsomethingbadwascominglongbeforethat.Heknewitthedayhegaveupdancing.Hehadalwaysbeenadancer,myoldprofessor.Themusicdidn‟tmatter.Rockandroll,bigband,theblues.Helovedthemall.Hewouldclosehiseyesandwithablissfulsmilebegintomovetohisownsenseofrhythm.Itwasn‟talwayspretty.Butthen,hedidn‟tworryaboutapartner.Morriedancedbyhimself.
HeusedtogotothischurchinHarvardSquareeveryWednesdaynightforsomethingcalled“DanceFree.”TheyhadflashinglightsandboomingspeakersandMorriewouldwanderinamongthemostlystudentcrowd,wearingawhiteT-shirtandblacksweatpantsandatowelaroundhisneck,andwhatevermusicwasplaying,that‟sthemusictowhichhedanced.He‟ddothelindytoJimiHendrix.Hetwistedandtwirled,hewavedhisarmslikeaconductoronamphetamines,untilsweatwasdrippingdownthemiddleofhisback.Noonethereknewhewasaprominentdoctorofsociology,withyearsofexperienceasacollegeprofessorandseveralwell-respectedbooks.Theyjustthoughthewassomeoldnut.
Once,hebroughtatangotapeandgotthemtoplayitoverthespeakers.T