Tuesday-with-Morrie文档格式.doc

1、 an old man, a young man, and lifes greatest lesson By Mitch Albom Acknowledgments I would like to acknowledge the enormous help given to me in creating this book. For their memories, their patience, and their guidance, I wish to thank Charlotte, Rob, and Jonathan Schwartz, Maurie Stein, Charlie Der

2、ber, Gordie Fellman, David Schwartz, Rabbi Al Axelrad, and the multitude of Morries friends and colleagues. Also, special thanks to Bill Thomas, my editor, for handling this project with just the right touch. And, as always, my appreciation to David Black, who often believes in me more than I do mys

3、elf. Mostly, my thanks to Morrie, for wanting to do this last thesis together. Have you ever had a teacher like this? The Curriculum The last class of my old professors life took place once a week in his house, by a window in the study where he could watch a small hibiscus plant shed its pink leaves

4、. The class met on Tuesdays. It began after breakfast. The subject was The Meaning of Life. It was taught from experience. No grades were given, but there were oral exams each week. You were expected to respond to questions, and you were expected to pose questions of your own. You were also required

5、 to perform physical tasks now and then, such as lifting the professors head to a comfortable spot on the pillow or placing his glasses on the bridge of his nose. Kissing him good-bye earned you extra credit. No books were required, yet many topics were covered, including love, work, community, fami

6、ly, aging, forgiveness, and, finally, death. The last lecture was brief, only a few words. A funeral was held in lieu of graduation. Although no final exam was given, you were expected to produce one long paper on what was learned. That paper is presented here. The last class of my old professors li

7、fe had only one student. I was the student. It is the late spring of 1979, a hot, sticky Saturday afternoon. Hundreds of us sit together, side by side, in rows of wooden folding chairs on the main campus lawn. We wear blue nylon robes. We listen impatiently to long speeches. When the ceremony is ove

8、r, we throw our caps in the air, and we are officially graduated from college, the senior class of Brandeis University in the city of Waltham, Massachusetts. For many of us, the curtain has just come down on childhood. Afterward, I find Morrie Schwartz, my favorite professor, and introduce him to my

9、 parents. He is a small man who takes small steps, as if a strong wind could, at any time, whisk him up into the clouds. In his graduation day robe, he looks like a cross between a biblical prophet and a Christmas elf He has sparkling blue green eyes, thinning silver hair that spills onto his forehe

10、ad, big ears, a triangular nose, and tufts of graying eyebrows. Although his teeth are crooked and his lower ones are slanted backas if someone had once punched them inwhen he smiles its as if youd just told him the first joke on earth. He tells my parents how I took every class he taught. He tells

11、them, “You have a special boy here. “Embarrassed, I look at my feet. Before we leave, I hand my professor a present, - 1 - a tan briefcase with his initials on the front. I bought this the day before at a shopping mall. I didnt want to forget him. Maybe I didnt want him to forget me. “Mitch, you are

12、 one of the good ones,” he says, admiring the briefcase. Then he hugs me. I feel his thin arms around my back. I am taller than he is, and when he holds me, I feel awkward, older, as if I were the parent and he were the child. He asks if I will stay in touch, and without hesitation I say, “Of course

13、.” When he steps back, I see that he is crying. The Syllabus His death sentence came in the summer of 1994. Looking back, Morrie knew something bad was coming long before that. He knew it the day he gave up dancing. He had always been a dancer, my old professor. The music didnt matter. Rock and roll

14、, big band, the blues. He loved them all. He would close his eyes and with a blissful smile begin to move to his own sense of rhythm. It wasnt always pretty. But then, he didnt worry about a partner. Morrie danced by himself. He used to go to this church in Harvard Square every Wednesday night for s

15、omething called “Dance Free.” They had flashing lights and booming speakers and Morrie would wander in among the mostly student crowd, wearing a white T-shirt and black sweatpants and a towel around his neck, and whatever music was playing, thats the music to which he danced. Hed do the lindy to Jim

16、i Hendrix. He twisted and twirled, he waved his arms like a conductor on amphetamines, until sweat was dripping down the middle of his back. No one there knew he was a prominent doctor of sociology, with years of experience as a college professor and several well-respected books. They just thought he was some old nut. Once, he brought a tango tape and got them to play it over the speakers. T