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相约星期二|Tuesdays with Morrie

The Ninth Tuesday We Talk About How Love Goes On

属类: 双语小说 【分类】世界名著 -[作者: 米奇-艾尔邦] 阅读:[11602]
The Eighth Tuesday We Talk About Money
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树叶开始变颜色了,把西纽顿的林中骑马道染成了一幅金黄色的画。底特律那边,工会发动的那场战争陷入了僵局,双方都指责对方对谈判没有诚意。电视上的新闻也同样令人沮丧。在肯塔基,三个男子从公路桥上往下扔墓碑石块,石块击碎了从下面驶过的一辆汽车的玻璃窗,砸死了一个同家人一起去朝圣的十几岁女孩。在加州,0•J•辛普森一案正接近尾声,全国上下似乎都在关注这件事。就连机场里的电视机也都在播放有线电视网的节目,使你进出机场时也能了解这一案子的最新动态。

1
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我给西班牙的弟弟打了几次电话,留话说我真的很想同他谈谈,我一直在想我们俩的事,几个星期后,我收到了他短短的留言,说他一切都好,但他实在不想谈论病情,很抱歉。

2
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对我的教授来说,折磨他的倒不是对病情的谈论,而是疾病本身。就在我上次探访他之后,护士给他插了导尿管,他的小便通过管子流进椅子旁边的一个塑料袋。他的腿需要不停地按摩(虽然他的腿不能动弹,但依然有疼痛感,这是这种疾病又一个既残酷又具有讽刺意味的特征),他的脚也必须悬离海绵垫子几英寸,否则的话就像有人在用叉子戳他的脚,往往谈话进行到一半时,他就要让来访者移动一下他的脚,或调整一下他埋在花色枕头里的头的位置。你能想象头不能动弹的情形吗?

3
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每次去看他,莫里总显得越来越坐不直身子,他的脊椎已经变了形。但每天早上他还是坚持让人把他从床上拖起来,用轮椅推他进书房,留他与那些书本,纸张和窗台上的木槿在一起。他在这种独特的生活方式里发现了某些带有哲理性的东西。

4
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"我把它总结进了我的格言,"他说。

5
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说给我听听。

6
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"当你在床上时,你是个死人。"

7
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他笑了。只有莫里能笑对这种苦涩的幽默。

8
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他经常收到"夜线"节目的制作人员以及特德本人打来的电话。

9
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"他们想再制作一档节目,"他说。"但他们说还想等一等。"

10
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等到什么时候?等你还剩下最后一口气?

11
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"也许吧。反正我也快了。"

12
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别说这种话。

13
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"对不起。"

14
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我有些忿然:他们竟然要等到你的最后阶段。

15
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"你感到生气是因为你在守护我。"

16
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他笑了。"米奇,也许他们是想利用我增加点戏剧效果。没什么,我也在利用他们。他们可以把我的信息带给数以万计的观众。没有他们我可做不到这一点,是不是?所以,就算是我的让步吧。"

17
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他咳嗽起来,接着是一阵长长的喘气。末了,一口痰吐在了揉皱了的手中纸里。

18
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"反正,"莫里说,"我让他们别等得太久。因为我的声音很快就会消失的。它一旦侵入我的肺部,我就不能开口了。我现在说上一会儿就要喘气。我已经取消了很多约会。米奇,许多人想来探望我,可我感到太疲倦了。如果我不能集中精力和他们交谈,我就帮不了他们。"

19
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我看了一眼录音机,心里有一种负罪感,好像我是在偷窃他所剩无几的。宝贵的说话时间。"我们就此结束好吗?"我问。"你会不会太累?"

20
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莫里闭上眼睛,摇摇头。他似乎在熬过一阵无声的痛楚。"不,"他最后说。"你和我得继续下去。

21
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"你知道,这是我们的最后一篇论文。"

22
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我们的最后一篇。

23
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"我们得完成它。"

24
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我想起了我们在大学里共同完成的第一篇论文。当然,那是莫里的主意。他说我可以写一篇优等生论文--这是我从来没有想过的。

25
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此刻,我们在这里重复着十几年前的事。先立一个论点。由一个垂死的人对一个活着的人讲述他必须知道的东西。只是这一次我的论文没有时间的限制。

26
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"昨天有人向我提了一个很有趣的问题,"莫里望着我身后的一块壁毯说,壁毯上拼着一条条朋友们为他七十大寿而写的题词。每一块拼贴上去的布条上都绣着不同的话:自始至终。百尺竿头。莫里--心理永远最健康的人!

27
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什么问题,我问。

28
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"我是不是担心死后会被遗忘?"

29
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你担心吗?

30
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"我想我不会。有那么多人亲近无比地介入了我的生活。爱是永存的感情,即使你离开了人世,你也活在人们的心里。"

31
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听起来像一首歌--"爱是永存的感情。"

32
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莫里咯咯地笑了。"也许吧。可是,米奇,就拿我们之间的谈话来说吧,你有时在家里是否也会听见我的声音?当你一个人的时候?或在飞机上?或在车子里?"

33
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是的,我承认说。

34
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"那么我死了以后你也不会忘记我的,只要想起我的声音,我就会出现在那儿。"

35
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想起你的声音。

36
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"如果你想掉几滴眼泪,也没关系。"

37
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莫里,他在我上大学一年级时就想叫我哭。"有那么一天我会打动你的心肠的,"他常对我说。

38
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好吧,好吧,我说。

39
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"我决定了我的碑文怎么写,"他说。

40
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我不想听见墓碑这个词。

41
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"为什么?它让你感到紧张?"

42
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我耸了耸肩。

43
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"那我们就别提它。"

44
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不,说下去。你决定怎么写?

45
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莫里咂了咂嘴唇,"我想这么写:一个终生的教师。"

46
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他等着让我去回味这句话。

47
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一个终生的教师。

48
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"好吗?"他问。

49
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是的,我说,好极了。

50
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我喜欢上了进门时莫里迎向我的笑脸。我知道,他对其他人都这样。可他能使每个来访者都感觉到他迎向你的笑是很独特的。

51
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"哈哈,我的老朋友来了,"他一看见我就会用含混、尖细的声音招呼我。可这仅仅是个开头。当莫里和你在一起时,他会全身心地陪伴你。他注视着你的眼睛,倾听你的说话,那专心致志的神态就仿佛你是世界上唯一的人。要是人们每天的第一次见面都能像遇见莫里那样--而不是来自女招待,司机或老板的漫不经心的咕哝声,那生活一定会美好得多。

52
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"我喜欢全身心地投入,"莫里说。"就是说你应该真正地和他在一起。当我现在同你交谈时,米奇,我就尽力把注意力集中在我们的谈话上。我不去想上个星期我们的会面,我不去想星期五要发生的事,我也不去想科佩尔要制作的另一档节目或我正在接受的药物治疗。

53
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"我在和你说话。我想的只有你。"

54
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我回想起在布兰代斯的时候,他在小组疗程课上常常教授这一观点。我那时候颇不以为然,心想这也算是大学的课程?学会怎样集中注意力?这有多少重要性可谈的?可我现在意识到它要比大学里的其它任何一门课都来得重要。

55
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莫里示意我把手伸给他,当我这么做的时候,我心中不禁涌起了一股愧意。坐在我面前的是一个有理由去哀叹自己的痛苦和不幸的老人;只要他想这么做,他可以用醒来后的每一分钟去触摸他日益枯谢的躯体,去计算他呼吸的频率。然而,有那么多人仅仅为了一些琐事而如此的自我专注,他们的眼光只停留在你身上三十秒钟便游离开去。他们早已驰心旁骛--给某个朋友打电话,给某个地方发传真,或跟某个情人约次会。只有当你的话说完时,他们才猛地回过神来,和你"嗯嗯啊啊"、"是的是的"地敷衍几句。

56
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"问题的部分症结,米奇,在于他们活得太匆忙了,"莫里说。"他们没有找到生活的意义所在,所以忙着在寻找。他们想到了新的车子,新的房子,新的工作。但过后他们发现这些东西同样是空的,于是他们重又奔忙起来。"

57
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你一旦奔忙起来,我说,就很难再停得下。

58
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"并不怎么难,"他摇摇头说。"你知道我是怎么做的?当有人想超我的车时--那还是在我能开车的时候--我就举起手……"

59
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他想做这个动作,可手只抬起了六英寸。

60
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"……我举起手,似乎要作出不太友善的手势,但随后我挥挥手,一笑了之。你不对他举起手指,而是让他过去,你就能一笑了之。

61
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"知道吗?很多时候对方也会用笑来回答你。

62
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"实际上,我不必那么急着开我的车。我情愿把精力放在与人的交流上。"

63
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他在这方面是做得极其出色的。你和他谈论不幸的事情时,他的眼睛会变得湿润;你和他开一个哪怕是蹩脚的玩笑时,他的眼睛会笑成一条缝。他随时向你但露他的感情,而这正是我们这一代人所缺少的品质。我们很会敷衍:"你是干什么的?""你住在哪儿?"可真正地去倾听--不带任何兜售,利用或想得到回报的动机和心理--我们能做到吗?我相信在莫里的最后几个月里来看望他的人,有许多是为了从莫里那儿得到他们需要的关注,而不是把他们的关注给予莫里。而这位羸弱的老人总是不顾个人的病痛和衰退在满足着他们。

64
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我对他说他是每个人理想中的父亲。

65
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"唔,"他闭上眼睛说,"在这方面我是有体验的……"

66
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莫里最后一次见到他父亲是在一家市停尸所。查理•施瓦茨生性寡言,他喜欢一个人在布朗克斯区特里蒙德街的路灯下看报。莫里小的时候,查理每天晚饭后便出去散步。他是个小个子的俄罗斯人,面色红润,满满一头浅灰的鬈发。莫里和弟弟大卫从窗口望着靠在路灯柱上的父亲,奠里很希望他能进屋来和他们说说话,但他很少这么做。他也从不替兄弟俩掖被子,吻他们道晚安。

67
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莫里一直发誓说,如果他有孩子的话,他一定会对他们做这些事的。几年后,他当了父亲,他确实这么做了。

68
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就在莫里开始抚养自己的孩子时,查理仍住在布朗克斯区。他仍去散步,仍去看报。有一天晚上,他吃完饭后又出去了。在离家几个街区的地方他遇上了两个强盗。

69
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"把钱拿出来,"其中一个举着枪说。

70
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吓坏的查理扔下皮夹就跑。他穿过街道,一口气跑到了一个亲戚家的台阶上,倒在了门廊里。

71
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心脏病发作。

72
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他当晚就死了。

73
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莫里被叫去认领尸体。他飞到纽约,去了那家停尸所。他被带到楼下存放尸体的那间冷气房。

74
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"是不是你父亲?"工作人员问。

75
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莫里看了一眼玻璃罩下面的尸体,正是那个责骂过他、影响过他、教他如何干活的人的尸体;他在莫里需要他说话时却一言不发,他在莫里想和别人一起共享对母亲的那份感情时却要他把回忆压抑在心里。

76
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他点点头就走了。他后来说,房间里的恐怖气氛攫走了他所有感官能力。他过了几天才哭了出来。

77
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但父亲的死却使莫里知道了该如何去准备人生的最后一段旅程。他至少懂得了:生活中应该有许多的拥抱、亲吻、交谈、欢笑和道别,而这一切他都没来得及从父亲和母亲那里得到。

78
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当最后的时刻到来时,莫里会让所有他爱的人围在他的身边,亲眼看见发生的一切。没人会接到电话,或接到电报,或在某个既冷又陌生的地下室里隔着玻璃看他。

79
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在南美的热带雨林中,有一个名叫迪萨那的部落,他们认为世界是个恒定的能量体,它在万物中流动。因此,一个生命的诞生就招致了另一个生命的终结,同样,每一个死亡也带来了另一个生命。世界的能量就这样保持着平衡。

80
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当他们外出狩猎时,迪萨那人知道他们杀死的动物会在灵魂井里留下一个洞穴,这个洞穴将由死去的迪萨那猎手的灵魂去填补。如果没有人死去,就不会有鸟和鱼的诞生。我很赞同这个说法。莫里也很赞同。越接近告别的日子,他似乎越感到我们都是同一座森林里的生物。我们获取多少,就得补偿多少。

81
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"这很公平,"他说。

82
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I held up the newspaper so that Morrie could see it: I DON’T WANT MY TOMBSTONE TO READ I NEVER OWNED A NETWORK."

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Morrie laughed, then shook his head. The morning sun was coming through the window behind him, falling on the pink flowers of the hibiscus plant that sat on the sill. The quote was from Ted Turner, the billionaire media mogul, founder of CNN, who had been lamenting his inability to snatch up the CBS network in a corporate megadeal. I had brought the story to Morrie this morning because I wondered if Turner ever found himself in my old professor’s position, his breath disappearing, his body turning to stone, his days being crossed off the calendar one by one-would he really be crying over owning a network?

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"It’s all part of the same problem, Mitch," Morrie said. "We put our values in the wrong things. And it leads to very disillusioned lives. I think we should talk about that."

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Morrie was focused. There were good days and bad days now. He was having a good day. The night before, he had been entertained by a local a cappella group that had come to the house to perform, and he relayed the story excitedly, as if the Ink Spots themselves had dropped by for a visit. Morrie’s love for music was strong even before he got sick, but now it was so intense, it moved him to tears. He would listen to opera sometimes at night, closing his eyes, riding along with the magnificent voices as they dipped and soared.

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"You should have heard this group last night, Mitch. Such a sound!"

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Morrie had always been taken with simple pleasures, singing, laughing, dancing. Now, more than ever, material things held little or no significance. When people die, you always hear the expression "You can’t take it with you." Morrie seemed to know that a long time ago.

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"We’ve got a form of brainwashing going on in our country," Morrie sighed. "Do you know how they brainwash people? They repeat something over and over. And that’s what we do in this country. Owning things is good. More money is good. More property is good. More commercialism is good. More is good. More is good. We repeat it-and have it repeated to us-over and over until nobody bothers to even think otherwise. The average person is so fogged up by all this, he has no perspective on what’s really important anymore.

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"Wherever I went in my life, I met people wanting to Gobble up something new. Gobble up a new car. Gobble up a new piece of property. Gobble up the latest toy. And then they wanted to tell you about it. `Guess what I got? Guess what I got?’

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"You know how I always interpreted that? These were people so hungry for love that they were accepting substitutes. They were embracing material things and expecting a sort of hug back. But it never works. You can’t substitute material things for love or for gentleness or for tenderness or for a sense of comradeship.

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"Money is not a substitute for tenderness, and power is not a substitute for tenderness. I can tell you, as I’m sitting here dying, when you most need it, neither money nor power will give you the feeling you’re looking for, no matter how much of them you have."

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I glanced around Morrie’s study. It was the same today as it had been the first day I arrived. The books held their same places on the shelves. The papers cluttered the same old desk. The outside rooms had not been improved or upgraded. In fact, Morrie really hadn’t bought anything new-except medical equipment-in a long, long time, maybe years. The day he learned that he was terminally ill was the day he lost interest in his purchasing power.

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So the TV was the same old model, the car that Charlotte drove was the same old model, the dishes and the silverware and the towels-all the same. And yet the house had changed so drastically. It had filled with love and teaching and communication. It had filled with friendship and family and honesty and tears. It had filled with colleagues and students and meditation teachers and therapists and nurses and a cappella groups. It had become, in a very real way, a wealthy home, even though Morrie’s bank account was rapidly depleting.

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"There’s a big confusion in this country over what we want versus what we need," Morrie said. "You need food, you want a chocolate sundae. You have to be honest with yourself. You don’t need the latest sports car, you don’t need the biggest house.

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"The truth is, you don’t get satisfaction from those things. You know what really gives you satisfaction?" What?

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"Offering others what you have to give."

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You sound like a Boy Scout.

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"I don’t mean money, Mitch. I mean your time. Your concern. Your storytelling. It’s not so hard. There’s a senior center that opened near here. Dozens of elderly people come there every day. If you’re a young man or young woman and you have a skill, you are asked to come and teach it. Say you know computers. You come there and teach them computers. You are very welcome there. And they are very grateful. This is how you start to get respect, by offering something that you have.

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"There are plenty of places to do this. You don’t need to have a big talent. There are lonely people in hospitals and shelters who only want some companionship. You play cards with a lonely older man and you find new respect for yourself, because you are needed. "Remember what I said about finding a meaningful life? I wrote it down, but now I can recite it: Devote yourself to loving others, devote yourself to your community around you, and devote yourself to creating something that gives you purpose and meaning.

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"You notice," he added, grinning, "there’s nothing in there about a salary."

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I jotted some of the things Morrie was saying on a yellow pad. I did this mostly because I didn’t want him to see my eyes, to know what I was thinking, that I had been, for much of my life since graduation, pursuing these very things he had been railing against-bigger toys, nicer house. Because I worked among rich and famous athletes, I convinced myself that my needs were realistic, my greed inconsequential compared to theirs.

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This was a smokescreen. Morrie made that obvious. "Mitch, if you’re trying to show off for people at the top, forget it. They will look down at you anyhow. And if you’re trying to show off for people at the bottom, forget it. They will only envy you. Status will get you nowhere. Only an open heart will allow you to float equally between everyone."

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He paused, then looked at me. "I’m dying, right?" Yes.

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"Why do you think it’s so important for me to hear other people’s problems? Don’t I have enough pain and suffering of my own?

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"Of course I do. But giving to other people is what makes me feel alive. Not my car or my house. Not what I look like in the mirror. When I give my time, when I can make someone smile after they were feeling sad, it’s as close to healthy as I ever feel.

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"Do the kinds of things that come from the heart. When you do, you won’t be dissatisfied, you won’t be envious, you won’t be longing for somebody else’s things. On the contrary, you’ll be overwhelmed with what comes back."

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He coughed and reached for the small bell that lay on the chair. He had to poke a few times at it, and I finally picked it up and put it in his hand.

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"Thank you," he whispered. He shook it weakly, trying to get Connie’s attention.

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"This Ted Turner guy," Morrie said, "he couldn’t think of anything else for his tombstone?"

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’Each night, when I go to sleep, I die. And the next morning, when I wake up, I am reborn. "

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--MAHATMA GANDHI

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