Chapter 5 audio-visual teaching

In March 1995, a van took Ted Koppel, host of ABC's "Nightline" TV show, to the snow-covered curb outside Murray's home in West Newton, Massachusetts. . Morrie, who is now in a wheelchair all day, has become accustomed to having an assistant carry him from the wheelchair to the bed and from the bed to the chair like a sandbag.He also coughed when he ate, and chewing food became difficult.His legs were dead and he could no longer walk. However, he didn't want to be discouraged by it.Instead, his mind was more active than before.He writes his thoughts on yellow pads, envelopes, folders or waste paper.He wrote down his thoughts on life under the shadow of death in a few words: "Accept the reality you can accept and what you cannot accept"; "Acknowledge the past, don't deny it or abandon it"; "Learn to forgive yourself and forgive others”; “It is never too late in life”.

Before long, he had more than fifty such "maxims".He often talks about them with his friends.A professor at Brandeis University named Maurie Stein was so moved by these words that he sent them to a reporter for the Boston Globe, who wrote a long report with the title: Professor's Last Class: His Death The article was seen by the producer of "Nightline," who sent it to Koppel in Washington. "Read this stuff," the producer told him. Here's what happened next: The film crew arrived in Morrie's living room, and Koppel's van pulled up in front of Morrie's house.

Several of Morrie's friends and family had been waiting to meet Koppel, and they were all abuzz with excitement as soon as the famed presenter entered the room -- with the exception of Morrie, who stepped forward in a wheelchair, Jan Raising his eyebrows, he interrupted the commotion in front of him with his thin, tonal voice. "Ted, I need to do some research on you before I agree to do this interview." After an awkward silence, the two entered Morrie's study. "I said," said a friend outside the door, "I hope Ted doesn't embarrass Morrie too much."

"I hope Murray doesn't embarrass Ted too much," said another. In the study, Morrie gestured for Koppel to sit down.He folded his hands in his lap and smiled at Koppel. "What's your biggest concern?" Morrie asked. "Most concerned?" Koppel looked at the old man in front of him. "Well," he said cautiously, he talked about his children, they were his main concern, weren't they? "Very well," Morrie said. "Now talk about your faith." Koppel felt a little uncomfortable. "Usually I don't talk about that with someone I've only met for a few minutes."

"Ted, I'm dying," Morrie said, staring at him from behind his glasses. "I don't have much time left." Koppel smiled.Well, faith.He quotes a passage from Marcus Aurelius, who was very influential to him. Morrie nodded. "Now let me ask you a few questions," Koppel said. "Have you seen my show?" Morrie shrugged. "I've seen it probably twice." "Only twice?" "Don't feel bad. I've only seen 'Oprah' once." "Well, what did you think of the two times you watched my show?" Morrie hesitated. "Tell the truth?"

"yes." "I think you're a narcissist." Koppel laughed. "Am I ugly enough to be narcissistic?" he said. A moment later, the camera was rolling in front of the fireplace in the living room, Koppel in his crisp blue suit and Morrie in his crumpled gray sweater.He would not go out of his way to change into new clothes or dress up for this interview.His philosophy was that death shouldn't be an embarrassment; he didn't want to embellish it. Because Morrie was in a wheelchair, the cameras never captured his shrunken legs.Plus he can move his hands—Morrie likes to wave them when he talks—so he seems very passionate about how to deal with the end of life.

"Ted," he said, "when all this happened, I asked myself, did I withdraw from life like most people do, or did I continue to live? I decided to live -- at least try to do so -- as I live as I wish, with dignity, courage, humor and equanimity. "Sometimes I wake up in the morning and weep to myself, bemoaning my misfortune. I also have moments of resentment and misery. But it doesn't last long. I wake up and say to myself, 'I'm going to live... ...' "Right now, I can handle it. But can I continue to handle it? I don't know. But I'm willing to bet on it for myself."

Koppel seemed utterly captivated by Murray.He asked about the shyness caused by death. "Well, Fred," Morrie quickly corrected himself, accidentally calling the wrong name. "I mean Ted..." "That statement elicited shyness," Koppel said with a laugh. The two also talked about the afterlife, about Morrie's growing dependence on other people.He now needs help eating, sitting, and moving.Koppel asked Murray what he dreaded most in the face of this unwittingly intensifying decline. Morrie hesitated for a moment.He asked if he could talk about it on TV. Koppel said it was okay.

Murray looked America's most famous interviewer straight in the eye. "Well then, Ted, it won't be long before someone has to wipe my ass." The show aired on Friday nights.The show began with Ted Koppel speaking in his charismatic voice from behind his Washington desk: "Who's Maury Schwartz? Why are so many of you going to care about him tonight?" Thousands of miles away, in my house up in the hills, I'm flipping through the channels on my TV.When I heard that line—"Who's Morrie Schwartz?"—I froze. ※※※ It was in the spring of 1976, and I took his class for the first time.I walked into Morrie's large office and noticed the rows of bookshelves lining the walls.There are seemingly endless stacks of books on sociology, philosophy, religion, and psychology on the shelves, a large rug on the hardwood floors, and windows that look out onto a campus boulevard.There were only a dozen or so students in the class, busy flipping through notebooks and syllabus.Most of them are wearing jeans.Earth shoes ① and a plaid shirt.I said to myself, it is not so easy to skip class in such a small class.Maybe I shouldn't take this course.

① A square-toed shoe with a thicker forefoot than the back and is comfortable to wear. "Mitchell?" Morrie said, looking at the roster. I raised my hand. "Like calling you Mickey? Or Mitchell?" No teacher has ever asked that.I couldn't help but look again at this old man in a yellow turtleneck, green corduroy pants, and white hair covering his forehead.He is smiling. Mitch, I said.My friends call me Mickey. "Well, I'll call you Mickey, then," Morrie said, as if making a deal. "Huh, Mickey?" What? "I hope one day you will consider me your friend."