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相约星期二|Tuesdays with Morrie

The Professor, Part Two

属类: 双语小说 【分类】世界名著 -[作者: 米奇-艾尔邦] 阅读:[11594]
The Sixth Tuesday We Talk About Emotions
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莫里曾在华盛顿郊外的一家精神病医院工作过好几年,那家医院有一个听上去挺宁静的名字:栗树园。如果没有这段人生经历的话,莫里就不会是我所认识的那个莫里,也不会是众人所认识的那个莫里。那是莫里从芝加哥大学读出硕士学位和博士学位后最早找到的一份工作。他摈弃了医学、法律、商贸专业后,把搞研究看成是一个不靠剥削别人而有所贡献的工作。

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莫里得到了医方的允许,他可以观察病人的行为举止,记录下对他们的治疗方法。这个做法在今天看来是很普通的,但在五十年代初它却极具挑战性和富有开拓精神。莫里看到了整天尖叫的病人,看到了整夜哭闹的病人。有的病人故意弄脏自己的内衣内裤,有的拒绝进食,得被人按倒后进行药物治疗,靠静脉注射让他进食。

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病人中有一个中年妇女,她每天走出病房,俯卧着躺在铺着瓷砖的大厅里,一躺就是几个小时,医生和护士就在她身边走来走去。此景让莫里觉得非常可怕。他作了记录,这是他的工作。她每天都这样重复着:早上出来,在地上躺到傍晚时分,不跟别人说话,也不为他人所注意。莫里看了很难受,他也去坐在地上,甚至和她并排躺在一起,试图帮她从痛苦中解脱出来。最后,他终于使她坐了起来,甚至回到了病房。他琢磨出了其中的原因,她最需要的其实也是许多人都需要的东西--有人注意到自己的存在。

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莫里在栗树园工作了五年。虽然院方并不鼓励他这么做,但他还是和一些病人交上了朋友,其中有一个女病人和他开玩笑说,她能进这儿来真是太幸运了,"因为我丈夫有钱,他付得起昂贵的医疗费。要是进那些价格便宜的精神病院,那才惨呢。"

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另一个女病人--她朝任何人吐唾沫--也对莫里产生了好感,称他是她的朋友。他们每天交谈,其他的医务人员见有人能与她沟通,也都抱着赞许的态度。然而有一天她逃跑了,人们叫莫里帮着把她找回来。他们在附近的一家商店找到了她,她躲在很靠后的一个地方。当莫里进来时,她向他射去愤怒的目光。

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"原来你和他们是一伙的,"她咆哮着说。

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"和谁一伙?"

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"看守我的狱卒。"

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莫里观察到那儿的病人大多数在生活中都遭到别人的冷淡和厌弃,使他们感觉不到自己的存在。他们也得不到同情--这种同情心在医务人员的身上很快就耗空了。许多病人都很有钱,来自富有的家庭,显然财富并没有力他们带来幸福和满足。这是莫里永远不会忘记的经验教训。

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我常取笑他说,他是对六十年代念念不忘的老古董。他回答我,与现在相比六十年代并不太糟。

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他在精神病医院干完后便去了布兰代斯大学,那时正要进入六十年代,在短短的几年里,校园成了文化革命的温床。吸毒,性开放,种族歧视,反战示威。阿比•霍夫曼去了布兰代斯,杰里•鲁宾和安吉拉•戴维斯也去了布兰代斯。莫里的班上有许多激进分子。

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造成这个情况的一个原因是,那些教社会学的教授不单单是教书,常常也卷入到社会和政治中去。比方说,他们都持激烈的反战态度。当教授们得知那些没有达到某一分数线的学生将被取消缓役资格时,他们便决定不给学生们打分。当学校当局说,"如果你们不打成绩,这些学生就作不及格处理时,"莫里提出了建议:"给他们全打A"他们果真这么做了。

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六十年代为校园带来了发展,也为莫里所在系的教授们拓展了思路,其中包括上课时开始始穿牛仔裤和凉鞋,也包括把教室变成一个生气勃勃的场所,他们改变了单一的讲课模式,更提倡讨论的学习方法。他们不再追求理论而是推崇实践。他们把学生送到南方腹地①去研究人权,送他们去内地城市做实地考察。他们还去华盛顿参加示威游行,莫里经常和学生们一起乘坐公共汽车。在一次外出的旅途中,他颇觉有趣地看见一些穿戴着长裙和爱情念珠的姑娘们把鲜花放人炮筒,然后坐在草坪上,合拢着双手,试图去感化五角大楼。

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"她们打动不了五角大楼的,"他后来回想道,"但是个不错的尝试。"

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有一次,一群黑人学生占领了布兰代斯校园里的福特教学楼,并打出了马尔科姆•艾克斯②大学的横幅。福特教学楼设有化学实验室,校方担心那些激进分子会在地下室里制造炸弹。莫里心里比他们清楚。他认识到了问题的本质,那就是人需要意识到他们的存在价值。僵局持续了好几个星期,而且丝毫没有缓解的迹象。这时莫里正好经过那幢大楼,里面有个示威者认出了这位他最喜欢的老师,于是大声喊他从窗口进去。

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①指美国南部最具南方特点的几个省份,尤指南卡罗来纳滥治亚、亚拉巴马和密西西比等州。

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②美国黑人领袖。

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一个小时后,莫里带着一份示威者的要求从窗口爬了出来。他把这份要求送到了校长那里,形势得到了缓解。

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莫里总是充当和平的使者。

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在布兰代斯,他给学生们讲授社会心理学,心理疾病和健康以及小组疗程。教授们并不注重现在所谓的"职业能力"的培养,而是偏重于"个人发展"的研究。

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正因为如此,今天的企业管理专业和法律专业的学生也许会把莫里的努力视作既愚蠢又幼稚的行为。他教出的学生能赚多少钱?他们能打赢多少有高额报酬的官司?

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然而,有多少企业管理专业和法律专业的学生在离开大学后会再去看望他们的导师?莫里的学生却一直和他保持着联系,就在他最后的几个月里,有数以百计的学生回到他的身边。他们来自波士顿,纽约,加州,伦敦和瑞士;来自公司的办公室和内地的学校。他们打电话,写信。他们千里迢迢地赶来,就为了一次探望,一句话,一个微笑。

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"我一生中从未有过像你这样的老师,"他们异口同声他说。

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随着我对莫里的探访的继续,我开始学习有关死亡的学说,研究不同的文化对人生最后这段旅程的不同诠释。比如说,在北美的北极地带有个部落,他们相信世界上的一切生灵都存在着灵魂。它是一种缩小了的依附在躯体内的原我--因此,鹿的体内还有一头小鹿,人的体内也有一个小人,当大的躯体死去时,小的原我依然活着。它会投胎到诞生在附近的某某生物里,或者去天空的暂憩处--伟大女神的肚子里,等待月亮把它送回地球。

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有时候,他们说,月亮固忙于新的灵魂的降世,于是便从天空中消失了。所以有的夜晚没有月光。但最终,月亮是要回来的,就像我们每个人一样。

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这就是他们的信仰。

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I walked past the mountain laurels and the Japanese maple, up the bluestone steps of Morrie’s house. The white rain gutter hung like a lid over the doorway. I rang the bell and was greeted not by Connie but by Morrie’s wife, Charlotte, a beautiful gray-haired woman who spoke 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.

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"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.

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I’m sorry, I said.

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"No, no, he’ll be happy to see you," she said quickly. "Sure . . ."

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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."

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I lifted up the bags from the market-my normal food supply, I said jokingly-and she seemed to smile and fret at the same time.

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"There’s already so much food. He hasn’t eaten any from last time."

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This took me by surprise. He hasn’t eaten any, I asked?

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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.

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"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."

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But he never said anything, I said.

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Charlotte smiled. "He doesn’t want to hurt your feelings."

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It wouldn’t have hurt my feelings. I just wanted to help in some way. I mean, I just wanted to bring him something . . .

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"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 . . ."

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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, meditation 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.

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". . . a sense of purpose," she continued. "Yes. That’s good, you know."

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"I hope so," I said.

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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 asthma, 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.

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"Maybe he’s available now . . . let me go check."

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Charlotte glanced again at my food and I felt suddenly ashamed. All these reminders of things Morrie would never enjoy.

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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 exertion.

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"Is the tape on?" he said suddenly, his eyes still closed.

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Yes, yes, I quickly said, pressing down the play and record buttons.

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"What I’m doing now," he continued, his eyes still closed, "is detaching myself from the experience."

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Detaching yourself?

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"Yes. Detaching myself. And this is important-not just for someone like me, who is dying, but for someone like you, who is perfectly healthy. Learn to detach."

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He opened his eyes. He exhaled. "You know what the Buddhists say? Don’t cling to things, because everything is impermanent."

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But wait, I said. Aren’t you always talking about experiencing life? All the good emotions, all the bad ones?

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"Yes. "

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Well, how can you do that if you’re detached?

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"Ah. You’re thinking, Mitch. But detachment doesn’t mean you don’t let the experience penetrate you. On the contrary, you let it penetrate you fully. That’s how you are able to leave it."

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I’m lost.

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"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 entails.

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"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.’ "

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Morrie stopped and looked me over, perhaps to make sure I was getting this right.

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"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."

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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 horrifying times, he said, and his first emotions were horror, fear, anxiety. But once he recognized the feel of those emotions, their texture, 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."

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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.

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Morrie’s approach was exactly the opposite. Turn on the faucet. 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."

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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."

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Suddenly, he was half-choking, the congestion in his lungs seemingly teasing him, jumping halfway up, then dropping back down, stealing his breath. He was gagging, then hacking 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 instinctively 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.

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The coughing stopped, and Morrie dropped back into the foam pillows and sucked in air.

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