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相约星期二|Tuesdays with Morrie
Taking Attendance|The Classroom
属类：
双语小说
【分类】世界名著
-[作者: 米奇-艾尔邦]
阅读：[11595]
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几个星期后我飞往伦敦。我是去报道温布尔顿网球公开赛的，那是世界顶级的网球比赛，也是少数几个没有观众喝倒彩，没人在停车场上喝得酪叮大醉的体育场合之一。英国很暖和，多云的天气，每天早上我在网球场附近的林荫道散步，不时碰见排着长队等退票的孩子以及叫卖草毒和冰淇淋的摊贩。网球场的大门外有一个报刊亭，卖五六种套色的英国通俗小报。裸体女郎的特写照片、“拍拍垃圾”的皇家新闻照片。星象算命书。体育杂志。抽奖比赛以及少量的时事新闻。他们把当天的热门报道写在一块倚靠着报纸堆的黑板上，它们通常是：黛安娜与查尔斯不和或加扎向球队要几百万！
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人们很欢迎这些通俗小报，津津有味地读着那些小道新闻。前几次来英国时我也这么做，可这次，不知什么原因，每当我读到那些元聊的东西，我就会想起莫里。我脑子里老是出现他在那幢长着日本槭树且铺着硬木地板的房子里数着他的呼吸次数。挤出每一分钟时间去陪伴他所爱之人的情形。而我却把大量的时间花在那些对我毫无意义的事情上：什么电影明星啦，超级模特啦，有关迪公主，玛多娜或小肯尼迪的传闻啦。说来也怪，虽然我悲叹莫里来日无多的生命，但我又忌妒它的充实。我们为何要把大量的时间花在无谓的琐事上：什么电影明星啦，超级模特啦，有关迪公主，玛多娜或小肯尼迪的传闻啦。说来也怪，虽然我悲叹莫里来日无多的生命，但我又忌妒它的充实。我们为何要把大量的时间花在无谓的琐事上？O•J•辛普森的案子在美国闹得沸沸扬扬，人们为了收看这一报道而情愿放弃整个午饭的时间，还要再预录下来不及看完的部分到晚上补看。他们并不认识辛普森，他们也不认识和这件案子有关的其他人。然而他们却甘愿为此浪费掉时间，整日、整个星期地沉溺在他人的闹剧里。
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我记起了上次见面时莫里说过的话：“我们的文化并不让我们感到心安理得。你需要十分的坚强才能说，如果这种文化没有用，就别去接受它。”
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莫里，就像他说的那样，建立了他自己的文化——早在他患病之前就这么做了。小组讨论，和朋友散步，去华盛顿广场的教堂跳舞自娱。他还制定了一个名叫绿屋的计划，为贫困的人提供心理治疗。他博览群书为他的课寻找新的思想内容，他走访同事们，与毕业的学生保持联系，给远方的朋友写信。他情愿花时间去享享口福和赏玩自然，而从不浪费在电视喜剧或周末电影上。他建立了一种人类活动的模式——相互交流，相互影响，相互爱护——这一模式充实着他的生活。
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我也建立了我自己的文化：工作。我在英国干四到五份新闻媒体的工作，像小丑一样地跳来跳去。我一天在电脑上要花八个小时，把报道传送回美国；此外我还要制作电视节目，跟着摄制组走遍伦敦的每一个地方。我还要在每天的上午和下午主持听众来电直播节月。这份负担确实够重的。几年来，我一直将工作视为我的伴侣，把其它一切都抛在了脑后。
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在温布尔顿，我就在小小方方的工作台上用餐，权当完成任务。有一天，一群发了疯似的记者拼命追踪阿加西和他那位有名的女友波姬•小丝，我被一个英国摄影师撞倒了，他只咕哝了一声“对不起”便跑得没了人影，他的脖子上辇着巨大的金属镜头。我不由地想起了莫里曾对我说过的另一番话：“许多人过着没有意义的生活。即使当他们在忙于一些自以为重要的事情时，他们也显得昏昏慵慵的。这是因为他们在追求一种错误的东西。你要使生活有意义，你就得献身于爱，献身于你周围的群体，去创造一种能给你目标和意义的价值观。”
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我想他是对的。
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尽管我在反其道而行之。
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公开赛结束了——我是靠无数咖啡才摔过来的——我关掉电脑，清理完工作台，回到了住处打点行装。已经是深夜了，电视里早已没有了画面。
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我飞回底特律，傍晚时才到达。我拖着疲惫的身子回到家，一头倒在了床上。醒来后看到的是一则爆炸性的新闻：我那家报纸的工会举行了罢工。报社关闭了。大门口站着纠察队员，请愿者在街上游行示威。作为工会的会员，我没有选择。我突然之间、也是我生活中第一次失去了工作，失去了支票，和老板处于对立面。工会的头给我打来电话，警告我别同任何我以前的老总们接触，如果他们打电话来解释，就挂断电话。他们中有许多人是我的朋友。
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"我们要战斗到胜利！”工会的头像士兵一样发誓说。
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我感到既困惑又沮丧。虽然我在电视台和电台的打工是一份不错的副业，但报纸始终是我的生命线，是我生命中的氧气。当我每天早上看见我写的报道见诸报端时，我便知道，至少从某个意义上说我还活着。
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现在它消失了。随着罢工的继续——一天，两天，三天——不断有令人焦虑的电话和谣言传来，说这次罢工有可能持续几个月。我所熟悉的生活方式被打乱了。原来每天晚上都有体育比赛需要我去采访，现在我只能呆在家里，坐在电视机前看。我已经理所当然地认为读者是非常需要我的专栏文章的，可我吃惊地发现缺了我一切照样进行得十分顺利。
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这样过了一个星期，我拿起电话拨了莫里的号码，康尼让他接了电话。
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"你来看我，”他的语调不像是询问而像是命令。
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我能来吗？
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"星期二怎么样？”
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星期二很合适，我说。就星期二。
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在大学的第二年，我选了他的另外两门课，我们跨出了教室，经常见面交谈。我以前从来没有和一个亲属以外的成年人这么相处过，但我觉得和莫里极容易相处，他也显得很快活。
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"今天我们该去哪儿？”我一走进他的办公室，他兴奋地问。
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春天，我们就坐在社会学系大楼外的一棵大树下；冬天，我们坐在他的办公桌前。我穿无领的灰色长袖衫和阿迪达斯运动鞋，莫里则穿洛克波特鞋和灯芯绒裤子。我们每次交谈时，他先听我漫无边际的聊天，然后将话题移到人生经验上，他提醒我说，金钱不是最重要的，这和校园里盛行的观点截然相反。他对我说应该做一个“完整的人”。他谈到了青春的异化问题，谈到了同周围的社会建立某种联系的必要性。有些事情我能理解，有些则不能，但这无关紧要。讨论问题向我提供了一个同他交谈的机会，我和我父亲从未有过这样的交谈，我父亲希望我将来当律师。
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莫里讨厌律师。
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"你毕业后想做什么？”他问。
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我想成为音乐家，我说。弹钢琴。
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"太好了，”他说，“但这是条很艰难的道路。”
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是的。
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"有许多行家高手。”
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我早已听说了。
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"但是，”他说，“如果你真的这么想，那就应该让你的梦想成真。”我真想拥抱他，感谢他这么说，可我不是很外向，我只是，点了点头。
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"我相信你弹钢琴时一定很有活力，”他说。
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我笑了。活力？
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他也笑了。“活力。怎么啦，这个说法已经过时了？”
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The sun beamed in through the dining room window, lighting up the hardwood floor. We had been talking there for nearly two hours. The phone rang yet again and Morrie asked his helper, Connie, to get it. She had been jotting the callers’ names in Morrie’s small black appointment book. Friends. Meditation teachers. A discussion group. Someone who wanted to photograph him for a magazine. It was clear I was not the only one interested in visiting my old professor-the "Nightline" appearance had made him something of a celebrity-but I was impressed with, perhaps even a bit envious of, all the friends that Morrie seemed to have. I thought about the "buddies" that circled my orbit back in college. Where had they gone?
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"You know, Mitch, now that I’m dying, I’ve become much more interesting to people."
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You were always interesting.
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"Ho." Morrie smiled. "You’re kind." No, I’m not, I thought.
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"Here’s the thing," he said. "People see me as a bridge. I’m not as alive as I used to be, but I’m not yet dead. I’m sort of . . . in-between."
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He coughed, then regained his smile. "I’m on the last great journey here-and people want me to tell them what to pack."
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The phone rang again.
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"Morrie, can you talk?" Connie asked.
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"I’m visiting with my old pal now," he announced. "Let them call back."
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I cannot tell you why he received me so warmly. I was hardly the promising student who had left him sixteen years earlier. Had it not been for "Nightline," Morrie might have died without ever seeing me again. I had no good excuse for this, except the one that everyone these days seems to have. I had become too wrapped up in the siren song of my own life. I was busy.
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What happened to me? I asked myself. Morrie’s high, smoky voice took me back to my university years, when I thought rich people were evil, a shirt and tie were prison clothes, and life without freedom to get up and go motorcycle beneath you, breeze in your face, down the streets of Paris, into the mountains of Tibet-was not a good life at all. What happened to me?
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The eighties happened. The nineties happened. Death and sickness and getting fat and going bald happened. I traded lots of dreams for a bigger paycheck, and I never even realized I was doing it.
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Yet here was Morrie talking with the wonder of our college years, as if I’d simply been on a long vacation.
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"Have you found someone to share your heart with?" he asked.
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"Are you giving to your community? "Are you at peace with yourself?
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"Are you trying to be as human as you can be?"
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I squirmed, wanting to show I had been grappling deeply with such questions. What happened to me? I once promised myself I would never work for money, that I would join the Peace Corps, that I would live in beautiful, inspirational places.
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Instead, I had been in Detroit for ten years now, at the same workplace, using the same bank, visiting the same barber. I was thirty-seven, more efficient than in college, tied to computers and modems and cell phones. I wrote articles about rich athletes who, for the most part, could not care less about people like me. I was no longer young for my peer group, nor did I walk around in gray sweatshirts with unlit cigarettes in my mouth. I did not have long discussions over egg salad sandwiches about the meaning of life.
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My days were full, yet I remained, much of the time, unsatisfied.
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What happened to me?
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"Coach," I said suddenly, remembering the nickname.
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Morrie beamed. "That’s me. I’m still your coach." He laughed and resumed his eating, a meal he had started forty minutes earlier. I watched him now, his hands working gingerly, as if he were learning to use them for the very first time. He could not press down hard with a knife. His fingers shook. Each bite was a struggle; he chewed the food finely before swallowing, and sometimes it slid out the sides of his lips, so that he had to put down what he was holding to dab his face with a napkin. The skin from his wrist to his knuckles was dotted with age spots, and it was loose, like skin hanging from a chicken soup bone.
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For a while, we just ate like that, a sick old man, a healthy, younger man, both absorbing the quiet of the room. I would say it was an embarrassed silence, but I seemed to be the only one embarrassed.
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"Dying," Morrie suddenly said, "is only one thing to be sad over, Mitch. Living unhappily is something else. So many of the people who come to visit me are unhappy." Why?
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"Well, for one thing, the culture we have does not make people feel good about themselves. We’re teaching the wrong things. And you have to be strong enough to say if the culture doesn’t work, don’t buy it. Create your own. Most people can’t do it. They’re more unhappy than me-even in my current condition.
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"I may be dying, but I am surrounded by loving, caring souls. How many people can say that?"
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I was astonished by his complete lack of self-pity. Morrie, who could no longer dance, swim, bathe, or walk; Morrie, who could no longer answer his own door, dry himself after a shower, or even roll over in bed. How could he be so accepting? I watched him struggle with his fork, picking at a piece of tomato, missing it the first two times-a pathetic scene, and yet I could not deny that sitting in his presence was almost magically serene, the same calm breeze that soothed me back in college.
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I shot a glance at my watch-force of habit-it was getting late, and I thought about changing my plane reservation home. Then Morrie did something that haunts me to this day.
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"You know how I’m going to die?" he said.
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I raised my eyebrows.
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"I’m going to suffocate. Yes. My lungs, because of my asthma, can’t handle the disease. It’s moving up my body, this ALS. It’s already got my legs. Pretty soon it’ll get my arms and hands. And when it hits my lungs . . .
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He shrugged his shoulders.
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". . . I’m sunk."
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I had no idea what to say, so I said, "Well, you know, I mean . . . you never know."
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Morrie closed his eyes. "I know, Mitch. You mustn’t be afraid of my dying. I’ve had a good life, and we all know it’s going to happen. I maybe have four or five months."
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Come on, I said nervously. Nobody can say
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"I can," he said softly. "There’s even a little test. A doctor showed me."
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A test?
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"Inhale a few times." I did as he said.
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"Now, once more, but this time, when you exhale, count as many numbers as you can before you take another breath."
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I quickly exhaled the numbers. "One-two-three-four-five-six-seven-eight . . ." I reached seventy before my breath was gone.
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"Good," Morrie said. "You have healthy lungs. Now. Watch what I do."
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He inhaled, then began his number count in a soft, wobbly voice. "One-two-three-four-five-six-seven-eight-nine-ten-eleven-twelve-thirteen-fourteen-fifteensixteen-seventeen-eighteen-"
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He stopped, gasping for air.
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"When the doctor first asked me to do this, I could reach twenty-three. Now it’s eighteen."
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He closed his eyes, shook his head. "My tank is almost empty."
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I tapped my thighs nervously. That was enough for one afternoon.
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"Come back and see your old professor," Morrie said when I hugged him good-bye.
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I promised I would, and I tried not to think about the last time I promised this.
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In the campus bookstore, I shop for the items on Morrie’s reading list. I purchase books that I never knew existed, titles such as Youth: Identity and Crisis, I and Thou, The Divided Self.
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Before college I did not know the study of human relations could be considered scholarly. Until I met Morrie, I did not believe it.
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But his passion for books is real and contagious. We begin to talk seriously sometimes, after class, when the room has emptied. He asks me questions about my life, then quotes lines from Erich Fromm, Martin Buber, Erik Erikson. Often he defers to their words, footnoting his own advice, even though he obviously thought the same things himself. It is at these times that I realize he is indeed a professor, not an uncle. One afternoon, I am complaining about the confusion of my age, what is expected of me versus what I want for myself.
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"Have I told you about the tension of opposites?" he says. The tension of opposites?
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"Life is a series of pulls back and forth. You want to do one thing, but you are bound to do something else. Something hurts you, yet you know it shouldn’t. You take certain things for granted, even when you know you should never take anything for granted.
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"A tension of opposites, like a pull on a rubber band. And most of us live somewhere in the middle. "
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Sounds like a wrestling match, I say.
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"A wrestling match." He laughs. "Yes, you could describe life that way."
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So which side wins, I ask? " Which side wins?"
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He smiles at me, the crinkled eyes, the crooked teeth.
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"Love wins. Love always wins."
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