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相约星期二|Tuesdays with Morrie

The Fourth Tuesday We Talk About Death|The Professor

属类： 双语小说 【分类】世界名著 -[作者: 米奇-艾尔邦] 阅读：[11600]
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"我们就从这儿开始吧，"莫里说。"每个人都知道自己要死，可没人愿意相信这一事实。"

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这个星期二，莫里完全处于工作的精神状态。讨论的课题是死亡，是我目录上的第一项内容。在我到来之前，莫里在小纸条上已经作了一些笔记，以备遗忘。他颤抖的字体现在除他自己外谁都看不懂。快要到劳工节①了，通过书房的窗口，我可以看见后院里深绿色的树篱，听见孩子们在街上的嬉闹声，这是他们开学前的最后一个星期的假日。

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①九月的第一个星期一。

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底特律那边，报业的罢工者正准备组织一次大规模的节日游行，向资方显示工会的团结。在飞机上，我读到一则报道：一个女子开枪打死了正在熟睡的丈夫和两个女儿，声称她这么做是为了保护他们不受"坏人"的影响。在加州，O•J•辛普森案子中的律师们正成为新闻热点。

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在莫里的书房里，宝贵的生命仍在一天天流逝。此刻我们坐在一起，面前放着一件新增添的设备：一台制氧机。机器不大，只到膝盖的高度，是便携式的。有些晚上，当他呼吸感到困难时，他就把长长的塑料管插进自己的鼻子，像是鼻孔被抽血的器械夹住了一样。我讨厌把莫里和任何器械联系在一起，所以当莫里说话时，我尽量不去看那玩艺。

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"每个人都知道自己要死，"莫里重复道，"可没人愿意相信。如果我们相信这一事实的话，我们就会作出不同的反应。"

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我们就会用戏谐的态度去对待死亡，我说。

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"是的，但还有一个更好的方法。意识到自己会死，并时刻作好准备。这样做会更有帮助。你活着的时候就会更珍惜生活。"

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怎么能够去准备死呢？

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"像佛教徒那样。每天，放一只小鸟在你的肩膀上问，’是今天吗？我准备好了吗？能生而无悔，死而元憾了？’"

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他转过头去，似乎肩膀上这会就停着一只小鸟。

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"今天是我的大限吗？"他问。

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莫里接纳了各种各样的宗教思想。他出生在犹太教家庭，上学后变成了一个不可知论者，那是因为孩提时经历了大多的变故。他对佛教和基督教的一些哲学思想也很感兴趣。但他最接近的文化还是犹太教。他在宗教上是个杂家，这就使他更加为学生们所接受。他最后几个月里所说的话语似乎超越了一切宗教的特征。死亡能使人做到这一点。

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"事实是，米奇，"他说，"一旦你学会了怎样去死，你也就学会了怎样去活。"

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我点点头。

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"我还要再说一遍，"他说。"一旦你学会了怎样去死，你也就学会了怎样去活。"他笑了。我明白了他的用意。他想知道我是否真正理解了这个观点，但他没有直截了当地问，免得使我窘迫。这就是他当老师与众不同的地方。

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你患病前对死亡想得多吗？我问。

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"不，"莫里笑笑。"我和别人一样，我曾经对一个朋友说过，’我将成为你所见到的最最健康的老人！’"

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你那时多大？

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"六十几岁。"

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你挺乐观的。

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"为什么不？正像我说的，没人真的相信自己会死。"

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可每个人都知道有人在死去，我说。为什么思考死亡这个问题就这么难呢？

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"这是因为，"莫里说，"我们大多数人都生活在梦里。我们并没有真正地在体验世界，我们处于一种浑浑噩噩的状态，做着自以为该做的事。"

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去面对死亡就能改变这种状况？

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"哦，是的。拂去外表的尘埃，你便看到了生活的真谛。当你意识到自己快要死去时，你看问题的眼光也就大不一样了。"

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他叹了口气。"学会了死，就学会了活。"

27
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我注意到他的手抖得很厉害。当他把挂在胸前的眼镜戴上时，眼镜滑落在太阳穴处，仿佛他是在黑暗中替别人戴眼镜。我伸手帮他移正了位置。

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"谢谢，"莫里低声说。当我的手碰触到他的头时，他笑了。人类最细小的接触也能给他带来欢乐。

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"米奇，我能告诉你一些事情吗？"

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当然行，我说。

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"你也许不爱听。"

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为什么？

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"嗯，事实上，如果你真的在听小鸟的说话，如果你能接受随时都会死去的事实--你就不会像现在这样耽于抱负了。"

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我挤出了一丝笑容。

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"你为此而付出时间和精力的事--你所做的工作--也许就不再显得那么重要了。你也许会让出空间来满足精神上的需求。"

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精神上？

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"你不喜欢这个词，是吗？’精神上’。你认为那是多愁善感的玩艺。"

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这个么，我无言以对。

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他装作没看见我的窘态，但没装成功，我笑出声来。

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"米奇，"他也笑了。"尽管我说不上来’精神产物’到底为何物，但我知道我们在有些方面确实是有缺陷的。我们过多地追求物质需要，可它们并不能使我们满足。我们忽视了人与人之间互相爱护的关系，我们忽视了周围的世界。"

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他把头扭向透进阳光的窗户。"你看见了？你可以去外面，任何时候。你可以在大街上发疯似地跑。可我不能。我不能外出。我不能跑。我一出大门就得担心生病。但你知道吗？我比你更能体味那扇窗户。"

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体味那扇窗？

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"是的。我每天都从窗口看外面的世界。我注意到了树上的变化，风的大小。我似乎能看见时间在窗台上流逝。这是因为我的时间已经到头了，自然界对我的吸引力就像我第一次看见它时那样强烈。"

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他停住了。我们俩一齐望着窗外。我想看见他看得见的东西。我想看见时间和季节，看见我的人生慢慢地在流逝。莫里微微低下头，扭向肩膀。

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"是今天吗，小鸟？"他问。"是今天吗？"

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由于"夜线"节目的播出，莫里不断收到来自世界各地的信件。只要有精神，他就会坐起来，对替他代笔的朋友和家人口述他的回复。

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有一个星期天，回家来探望他的两个儿子罗布和乔恩都来到了起居室。莫里坐在轮椅上，两条瘦骨嶙峋的腿上盖着毯子。他感到冷的时候，他的助手们会来给他披上尼龙外套。

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"第一封信是什么？"莫里问。

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他的同事给他念了一封来自一个名叫南希的妇女的信，她的母亲也死于ALS。她在信中写了失去母亲的悲伤，并说她知道莫里也一定很痛苦。

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"好吧，"信念完后莫里说。他闭上了眼睛。"开头这么写，’亲爱的南希，你母亲的不幸令我很难过。我完全能理解你所经历的一切。这种悲伤和痛苦是双方的。伤心对我是一件好事，希望对你也同样是件好事。’"

51
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"最后一句想不想改动一下？"罗布说。

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莫里想了想，然后说，"你说得对。这么写吧，’希望你会发现伤心是一帖治愈创伤的良药。’这样写好些吗？"

53
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罗布点点头。

54
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"加上’谢谢，莫里’，"他说。

55
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另一封信是一个名叫简的妇女写来的，感谢他在"夜线"节目中给予她的启示和鼓励，她称他是神的代言者。

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"这是极高的赞誉，"他的同事说。"神的代言者。"

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莫里做了个鬼脸，他显然并不同意这个评价。"感谢她的溢美之词。告诉她我很高兴我的话能对她有所启示。

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"别忘了最后写上’谢谢，莫里’。"

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还有一封信来自英国的一个男子，他失去了母亲，要莫里帮他在冥界见到母亲。有一对夫妇来信说他们想开车去波士顿见他。一个以前的研究生写了一封长信，讲述了她离开大学后的生活。信中还讲到了一宗谋杀--自杀案和三个死产儿，讲到了一个死于ALS的母亲，还说那个女儿害怕她也会感染上这种疾病，信唠唠叨叨没完没了。两页，三页，四页。

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莫里坐着听完了那些既长又可怕的故事。然后他轻声说，"啊，我们该怎么回复？"

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没人吭声。最后罗布说，"这样写行不行，’谢谢你的长信’？"

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大家都笑了。莫里望着儿子，面露喜色。

63
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椅子旁边的报纸上有一张波士顿棒球队员的照片，我暗自想，在所有的疾病中，莫里得的是一种以运动员的名字命名的病。

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你还记得卢•格里克吗？我问。

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"我记得他在体育馆里向观众道别。"

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那么你还记得他那句有名的话。

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"哪一句？"

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真的不记得了？卢•格里克，"扬基队的骄傲"？他回荡在扩音器里的那段演讲？

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"提醒我，"莫里说。"你来演讲一遍。"

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从打开的窗户传来垃圾车的声音。虽然天很热，但莫里仍穿着长袖，腿上还盖着毯子。他的肤色非常苍白，病魔在折磨着他。

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我提了提嗓门，模仿格里克的语调，使声音仿佛回荡在体育馆的墙壁上："今、今、天、天……我感到……自己是……最最幸运的人、人……"

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莫里闭上了眼睛，缓缓地点点头。

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"是啊。嗯，我没有这么说过。"

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He was eight years old. A telegram came from the hospital, and since his father, a Russian immigrant, could not read English, Morrie had to break the news, reading his mother’s death notice like a student in front of the class. "We regret to inform you . . ." he began.

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On the morning of the funeral, Morrie’s relatives came down the steps of his tenement building on the poor Lower East Side of Manhattan. The men wore dark suits, the women wore veils. The kids in the neighborhood were going off to school, and as they passed, Morrie looked down, ashamed that his classmates would see him this way. One of his aunts, a heavyset woman, grabbed Morrie and began to wail: "What will you do without your mother? What will become of you?"

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Morrie burst into tears. His classmates ran away.

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At the cemetery, Morrie watched as they shoveled dirt into his mother’s grave. He tried to recall the tender moments they had shared when she was alive. She had operated a candy store until she got sick, after which she mostly slept or sat by the window, looking frail and weak. Sometimes she would yell out for her son to get her some medicine, and young Morrie, playing stickball in the street, would pretend he did not hear her. In his mind he believed he could make the illness go away by ignoring it.

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How else can a child confront death?

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Morrie’s father, whom everyone called Charlie, had come to America to escape the Russian Army. He worked in the fur business, but was constantly out of a job. Uneducated and barely able to speak English, he was terribly poor, and the family was on public assistance much of the time. Their apartment was a dark, cramped, depressing place behind the candy store. They had no luxuries. No car. Sometimes, to make money, Morrie and his younger brother, David, would wash porch steps together for a nickel.

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After their mother’s death, the two boys were sent off to a small hotel in the Connecticut woods where several families shared a large cabin and a communal kitchen. The fresh air might be good for the children, the relatives thought. Morrie and David had never seen so much greenery, and they ran and played in the fields. One night after dinner, they went for a walk and it began to rain. Rather than come inside, they splashed around for hours.

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The next morning, when they awoke, Morrie hopped out of bed.

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"Come on," he said to his brother. "Get up." "I can’t."

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"What do you mean?"

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David’s face was panicked. "I can’t . . . move."

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He had polio.

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Of course, the rain did not cause this. But a child Morrie’s age could not understand that. For a long time-as his brother was taken back and forth to a special medical home and was forced to wear braces on his legs, which left him limping-Morrie felt responsible.

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So in the mornings, he went to synagogue-by himself, because his father was not a religious man-and he stood among the swaying men in their long black coats and he asked God to take care of his dead mother and his sick brother.

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And in the afternoons, he stood at the bottom of the subway steps and hawked magazines, turning whatever money he made over to his family to buy food.

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In the evenings, he watched his father eat in silence, hoping for-but never getting--a show of affection, communication, warmth.

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At nine years old, he felt as if the weight of a mountain were on his shoulders.

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But a saving embrace came into Morrie’s life the following year: his new stepmother, Eva. She was a short Romanian immigrant with plain features, curly brown hair, and the energy of two women. She had a glow that warmed the otherwise murky atmosphere his father created. She talked when her new husband was silent, she sang songs to the children at night. Morrie took comfort in her soothing voice, her school lessons, her strong character. When his brother returned from the medical home, still wearing leg braces from the polio, the two of them shared a rollaway bed in the kitchen of their apartment, and Eva would kiss them good-night. Morrie waited on those kisses like a puppy waits on milk, and he felt, deep down, that he had a mother again.

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There was no escaping their poverty, however. They lived now in the Bronx, in a one-bedroom apartment in a redbrick building on Tremont Avenue, next to an Italian beer garden where the old men played boccie on summer evenings. Because of the Depression, Morrie’s father found even less work in the fur business. Sometimes when the family sat at the dinner table, all Eva could put out was bread.

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"What else is there?" David would ask.

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"Nothing else," she would answer.

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When she tucked Morrie and David into bed, she would sing to them in Yiddish. Even the songs were sad and poor. There was one about a girl trying to sell her cigarettes:

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Please buy my cigarettes.

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They are dry, not wet by rain.

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Take pity on me, take pity on me.

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Still, despite their circumstances, Morrie was taught to love and to care. And to learn. Eva would accept nothing less than excellence in school, because she saw education as the only antidote to their poverty. She herself went to night school to improve her English. Morrie’s love for education was hatched in her arms.

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He studied at night, by the lamp at the kitchen table. And in the mornings he would go to synagogue to say Yizkor-the memorial prayer for the dead-for his mother. He did this to keep her memory alive. Incredibly, Morrie had been told by his father never to talk about her. Charlie wanted young David to think Eva was his natural mother.

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It was a terrible burden to Morrie. For years, the only evidence Morrie had of his mother was the telegram announcing her death. He had hidden it the day it arrived.

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He would keep it the rest of his life.

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When Morrie was a teenager, his father took him to a fur factory where he worked. This was during the Depression. The idea was to get Morrie a job.

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He entered the factory, and immediately felt as if the walls had closed in around him. The room was dark and hot, the windows covered with filth, and the machines were packed tightly together, churning like train wheels. The fur hairs were flying, creating a thickened air, and the workers, sewing the pelts together, were bent over their needles as the boss marched up and down the rows, screaming for them to go faster. Morrie could barely breathe. He stood next to his father, frozen with fear, hoping the boss wouldn’t scream at him, too.

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During lunch break, his father took Morrie to the boss and pushed him in front of him, asking if there was any work for his son. But there was barely enough work for the adult laborers, and no one was giving it up.

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This, for Morrie, was a blessing. He hated the place. He made another vow that he kept to the end of his life: he would never do any work that exploited someone else, and he would never allow himself to make money off the sweat of others.

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"What will you do?" Eva would ask him.

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"I don’t know," he would say. He ruled out law, because he didn’t like lawyers, and he ruled out medicine, because he couldn’t take the sight of blood.

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"What will you do?"

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It was only through default that the best professor I ever had became a teacher.

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"A teacher affects eternity; he can never tell where his influence stops. "

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-HENRY ADAMS

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