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相约星期二|Tuesdays with Morrie

The Audiovisual|The Student

属类： 双语小说 【分类】世界名著 -[作者: 米奇-艾尔邦] 阅读：[11603]
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1995年的3月，一辆小客车带着美国广播公司“夜线”电视节目的主持人特德•科佩尔驶到了马萨诸塞州西纽顿的莫里家外面覆盖着积雪的路缘上。

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莫里现在整天坐着轮椅，他已经习惯了让助手把他像沙袋一样从轮椅上搬到床上，从床上搬到椅子上。他吃东西的时候也会咳嗽，嚼咽食物成了件困难的事。他的两腿已经死了，再也无法行走。

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然而，他不想因此而沮丧。相反，他的思维比以前更加活跃。他把自己的思想随手写在黄泊纸簿、信封、文件夹或废纸上。他片言只语地写下了自己对在死亡的阴影下对生活的思考：“接受你所能接受和你所不能接受的现实”；“承认过去，不要否认它或抛弃它”；“学会原谅自己和原谅别人”；“生活中永远别说太迟了”。

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没多久，他有了五十多条这样的“格言”。他常常和朋友们谈论起它们。布兰代斯大学一位名叫毛里•斯但因的教授深深地被这些话语所感动，于是就把它们寄给了《波士顿环球》杂志的一名记者，后者写了一篇长长的报道，标题是：

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教授的最后一门课：他的死亡

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这篇文章被“夜线”节目的制作人看到了，他把它送到了在华盛顿的科佩尔手里。

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“读读这篇东西，”制作人对他说。

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接下来发生的事情便是：摄制人员来到了莫里的起居室，科佩尔的小客车停在了莫里家的门口。

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莫里的几个朋友和家人一起等着见科佩尔，当这位大名鼎鼎的主持人一走进屋子，他们都兴奋地骚动起来——只有莫里是例外，他坐着轮椅上前，扬起眉毛，用他尖细、富有音调的话语声打断了眼前的喧闹。

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“特德，在我同意进行这次采访之前，我得对你作些考查。”

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一阵令人尴尬的沉寂之后，两个人进了莫里的书房。

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“我说，”门外有一个朋友说，“希望特德不会使莫里太难堪。”

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“我希望莫里别使特德太难堪，”另一个说。

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书房里，莫里示意科佩尔坐下。他两手交叉着搁在腿上，对科佩尔笑笑。

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“你最关心的是什么？”莫里问。

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“最关心的？”

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科佩尔端详着眼前这位老人。“好吧，”他谨慎他说，他谈起了他的孩子，他们是他最关心的，不是吗？

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“很好，”莫里说。“现在谈谈你的信仰。”

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科佩尔觉得有些不自在。“通常我不跟一个只相见了几分钟的人谈论这种话题。”

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“特德，我快要死了，”莫里从眼镜的后面盯着对方说。“我没有多少时间了。”

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科佩尔笑了。好吧，信仰。他引用了一段对他很有影响的马可•奥勒利乌斯的话。

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莫里点点头。

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“现在让我来问你几个问题，”科佩尔说，“你看过我的节目吗？”

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莫里耸耸肩。“大概看过两次。”

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“就两次？”

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“别感到不好受。‘奥普拉’我也只看过一次。”

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“唔，那两次你看了我的节目，有什么感想？”

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莫里有些迟疑。“说真话？”

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“是的。”

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“我觉得你是个自恋狂。”

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科佩尔哈哈大笑。

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“我这么丑还配自恋？”他说。

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不一会，摄像机在客厅的壁炉前转动起来，科佩尔身穿那件挺括的蓝西装，莫里则还是那件皱巴巴的灰毛衣。他不愿为这次采访而特意换上新衣服或打扮一番。他的哲学是，死亡不应该是一件令人难堪的事；他不愿为它涂脂抹粉。

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由于莫里坐在轮椅上，摄像机一直拍不到他那两条萎缩的腿。加上他的手还能动——莫里说话时总喜欢挥动双手——因此他显得非常有激情地在阐述如何面对生命的终结。

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“特德，”他说，“当这一切发生后，我问自己，’我是像大多数人那样退出生活 舞台呢，还是继续生活下去？’我决定活下去--至少尽力去那么做--像我希望的那 样活下去，带着尊严、勇气、幽默和平静。

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“有时早上醒来我会暗自流泪，哀叹自己的不幸。我也有怨天怨地、痛苦不堪的时候。但这种心情不会持续很久。我起床后便对自己说，‘我要活下去……’

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“眼下，我已经能应付了。可我能继续应付下去吗？我不知道。但我愿意为自己押这个宝。”

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科佩尔看来完全被莫里吸引住了。他问及由死亡引起的羞怯感。

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“嗯，弗雷德，”莫里意外地叫错了名字，他很快纠正了自己。“我是说特德……”

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“这句话引出了羞怯感，”科佩尔大笑着说。

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两人还谈到了来世，谈到了莫里对别人越来越多的依赖性。他现在吃、坐、移动都需要有人帮助。科佩尔问莫里，面对这种不知不觉在加剧的衰亡，他最怕的是什么。

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莫里迟疑了片刻。他问能不能在电视上谈论这种事。

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科佩尔说没关系。

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莫里直视着这位美国最著名的采访记者的眼睛。“那好吧，特德，用不了多久，有人就得替我擦屁股。”

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这个节目在星期五的晚上播出了。节目开始时，特德•科佩尔在他华盛顿的工作台后面用他富有魅力的语调说："谁是莫里•施瓦茨？为什么你们这么多人今晚要去关心他？”

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几千英里之外，在我山上的那幢住宅里，我正随意地调换着电视的频道。我听见了那句话——“谁是莫里•施瓦茨？”——我一下子愣住了。

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那是在1976年的春天，我第一次上他的课。我走进莫里那间大办公室，注意到沿墙而立的一排排书架。书架上叠放着有关社会学、哲学，宗教和心理学的书籍，看上去无以计数，硬木地板上铺着一块大地毯，窗户对着校园的林荫道。课堂上只有十来个学生，正忙着翻笔记本和教学提纲。他们中大多数人穿着牛仔裤。大地鞋①和格子衬衫。我暗自说，这么个小班要逃课可没那么容易。也许我不该选这门课。

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①一种前掌比后掌厚、穿看舒适的方头鞋。

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“米切尔？”莫里看着点名册说。

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我举起了手。

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"喜欢称你米奇？还是米切尔？”

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从来没有一个老师这么问过。我不禁再次打量起了这个穿着黄色高领衫、绿色灯芯绒裤，白发覆盖到前额的老头。他在微笑。

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米奇，我说。朋友们都叫我米奇。

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“那好，就叫你米奇了，”莫里说，像是跟人成交了，“嗯，米奇？”

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什么？

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“我希望有一天你会把我当成你的朋友。”

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At this point, I should explain what had happened to me since that summer day when I last hugged my dear and wise professor, and promised to keep in touch.

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I did not keep in touch.

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In fact, I lost contact with most of the people I knew in college, including my, beer-drinking friends and the first woman I ever woke up with in the morning. The years after graduation hardened me into someone quite different from the strutting graduate who left campus that day headed for New York City, ready to offer the world his talent.

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The world, I discovered, was not all that interested. I wandered around my early twenties, paying rent and reading classifieds and wondering why the lights were not turning green for me. My dream was to be a famous musician (I played the piano), but after several years of dark, empty nightclubs, broken promises, bands that kept breaking up and producers who seemed excited about everyone but me, the dream soured. I was failing for the first time in my life.

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At the same time, I had my first serious encounter with death. My favorite uncle, my mother’s brother, the man who had taught me music, taught me to drive, teased me about girls, thrown me a football-that one adult whom I targeted as a child and said, "That’s who I want to be when I grow up"-died of pancreatic cancer at the age of forty-four. He was a short, handsome man with a thick mustache, and I was with him for the last year of his life, living in an apartment just below his. I watched his strong body wither, then bloat, saw him suffer, night after night, doubled over at the dinner table, pressing on his stomach, his eyes shut, his mouth contorted in pain. "Ahhhhh, God," he would moan. "Ahhhhhh, Jesus!" The rest of us-my aunt, his two young sons, me-stood there, silently, cleaning the plates, averting our eyes.

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It was the most helpless I have ever felt in my life. One night in May, my uncle and I sat on the balcony of his apartment. It was breezy and warm. He looked out toward the horizon and said, through gritted teeth, that he wouldn’t be around to see his kids into the next school year. He asked if I would look after them. I told him not to talk that way. He stared at me sadly.

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He died a few weeks later.

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After the funeral, my life changed. I felt as if time were suddenly precious, water going down an open drain, and I could not move quickly enough. No more playing music at half-empty night clubs. No more writing songs in my apartment, songs that no one would hear. I returned to school. I earned a master’s degree in journalism and took the first job offered, as a sports writer. Instead of chasing my own fame, I wrote about famous athletes chasing theirs. I worked for newspapers and freelanced for magazines. I worked at a pace that knew no hours, no limits. I would wake up in the morning, brush my teeth, and sit down at the typewriter in the same clothes I had slept in. My uncle had worked for a corporation and hated it-same thing, every day-and I was determined never to end up like him.

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I bounced around from New York to Florida and eventually took a job in Detroit as a columnist for the Detroit Free Press. The sports appetite in that city was insatiable-they had professional teams in football, basketball, baseball, and hockey-and it matched my ambition. In a few years, I was not only penning columns, I was writing sports books, doing radio shows, and appearing regularly on TV, spouting my opinions on rich football players and hypocritical college sports programs. I was part of the media thunderstorm that now soaks our country. I was in demand.

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I stopped renting. I started buying. I bought a house on a hill. I bought cars. I invested in stocks and built a portfolio. I was cranked to a fifth gear, and everything I did, I did on a deadline. I exercised like a demon. I drove my car at breakneck speed. I made more money than I had ever figured to see. I met a dark-haired woman named Janine who somehow loved me despite my schedule and the constant absences. We married after a seven year courtship. I was back to work a week after the wedding. I told her-and myself-that we would one day start a family, something she wanted very much. But that day never came.

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Instead, I buried myself in accomplishments, because with accomplishments, I believed I could control things, I could squeeze in every last piece of happiness before I got sick and died, like my uncle before me, which I figured was my natural fate.

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As for Morrie? Well, I thought about him now and then, the things he had taught me about "being human" and "relating to others," but it was always in the distance, as if from another life. Over the years, I threw away any mail that came from Brandeis University, figuring they were only asking for money. So I did not know of Morrie’s illness. The people who might have told me were long forgotten, their phone numbers buried in some packed-away box in the attic.

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It might have stayed that way, had I not been flicking through the TV channels late one night, when something caught my ear . . .

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