Chapter 7 classroom

Sunlight streams in through the dining room windows, illuminating the hardwood floors in the room.We've been talking there for nearly two hours.There were frequent phone calls, and Morrie asked his assistant, Connie, to answer them.She recorded the names of everyone who called in Morrie's little black-covered register: friends, meditators, discussion groups, photographers who wanted to photograph him for some magazine.Obviously, I wasn't the only one interested in interviewing him—"Nightline" made him a celebrity—but I was still amazed, and even a little jealous, by how many friends he had.I think back to the "buddies" who hung around me in college, where are they now?

"You know, Mitch, people are only interested in me because I'm dying." You have always been an interesting person. "Ah," Morrie laughed. "It's so kind of you." No, I'm not fine, I thought. "The reason," he said, "is that people see me as a bridge. I'm not alive like I used to be, but I'm not dead... I'm sort of... in between." He coughed, then smiled again. "I'm on my last journey—people want me to tell them how to pack." The phone rang again. "Morrie, can you take it?" Connie asked.

"I'm hosting old friends of mine," he said, "ask them to call back later." I don't know why he treats me so warmly.I am almost a different person from the promising student who left him sixteen years ago.If it weren't for "Nightline," Morrie might never see me again.I don't have any serious reasons for this, other than the ones everyone makes now.I was single-mindedly concerned with my own life.I am very busy. what's wrong with me?I asked myself.Morrie's thin, hoarse voice took me back to my college days.At that time, I regarded money as a sin. A shirt and tie was like a shackle in my eyes. There was no freedom and a seemingly fulfilling life-riding a motorcycle.Wandering the streets of Paris or the mountains of Tibet in the breeze — that's not a meaningful life.But what's the matter with me now?

The eighties began.The nineties began.Death, disease, obesity, baldness follow.I was trading many dreams for a bigger check, I just didn't realize it. And Murray was talking about the wonderful college life again, as if I had just been on a long vacation. "Do you have any close friends?" "Have you contributed anything to the community?" "Are you at ease with yourself?" "Do you want to be a humane person?" I fidgeted, and my mind was completely disturbed by these questions.How did I become like this?I once swore that I would never work for money, that I would join the Peace Corps and live in a beautiful paradise.

①A representative agency of the US government composed of volunteers, established in 1961, to provide technical services to developing countries. Yet I stayed in Detroit for ten years, employed by the same newspaper, in and out of the same bank, and patronizing the same barbershop.I'm in my mid-thirties, more capable than a student, stuck in a computer, modem, and cell phone all day long.I write exclusively about wealthy athletes, and they generally care about people like me.I no longer looked young among my peers, dressed up in gray tank tops or unlit cigarettes.But I also no longer have the opportunity to have long conversations about life over egg salad.

My days are full, however, I still feel unfulfilled most of the time. what's wrong with me? "Coach," I suddenly remembered the nickname. Morley looked happy, "It's me. I'm still your coach." He laughed and went on eating his meal, which he had been eating for forty minutes.I was observing him, his hand movements were a little clumsy, as if he was just learning to use his hands.He couldn't use the knife very hard.His fingers were shaking.Every bite of food takes a lot of effort, and then chews for a while before swallowing, and sometimes food leaks from the corner of his mouth, so he has to put down what he is holding and wipe it with a napkin.The skin from his wrists to his elbows was dotted with age spots and saggy like a chicken skin dangling from a soup bone.

For a while, we both ate like this.One is an old man who is sick, and the other is a young man who is healthy, and the two bear the silence in the room together.I thought it was an embarrassing silence, but I seemed to be the only one who felt embarrassed. "Death," said Morrie suddenly, "is a sad thing, Mitch. But it's just as sad to be alive unfortunately. So many of the people who visit me are unhappy." Why? "Well, first of all, our culture doesn't feel comfortable. We're teaching the wrong things. You need to be really strong to say, if the culture isn't working, don't accept it. Build your own culture. But most people can't. They're less fortunate than I am - even in this situation.

"I may be dying, but I'm surrounded by people who love and care about me. How many people can have this blessing?" I was amazed by his lack of self-pity.Morrie, one can no longer dance.Swim.How can someone who bathes and walks, who can no longer open doors, dry himself, or even turn over in bed, show such resignation to fate?I watched him struggle with the fork, failing to pick up a tomato several times - it was a sad sight.However, I can't deny that sitting in front of him can feel a kind of miraculous tranquility, just like the fresh breeze on the campus blowing away the impetuousness in my heart.

I glanced at my watch - out of habit - it was getting late, and I was thinking about getting back on another flight.Then Morrie did something that still haunts me. "Do you know how I'm going to die?" he asked. I raised my eyebrows. "I would suffocate. Yes, because I have asthma, my lungs won't be able to fight off the disease. It's going up slowly. Now it's eating my legs. It won't be long before it eats me arms and hands. When it eats into my lungs...   He shrugged. "Pang, I'm done." I didn't know what to say, so I muttered, "Well, you know, I mean...you wouldn't know..."

Morrie closed his eyes. "I know, Mitch. You don't have to be afraid of my death. I've had a good life. We both know it's only a matter of time. I probably have four or five months left." Don't say that, I interrupted nervously.No one could have predicted-- "I can expect that," he said softly. "There's even a way to test it. A doctor taught me that." testing method? "Take a few breaths." I did as he said. "Now breathe in again, but this time when you breathe out, see how many you can count." I count quickly while exhaling. "One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight..." I counted to seventy when I finished the breath.

"Very well," Morrie said, "you have a healthy lung. Now watch me." He took a breath, and began to count softly and tremblingly. "One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven, twelve, thirteen, fourteen, fifteen, sixteen, seventeen, eighteen—" He stopped, panting. "When the doctor first told me to do it, I could count to twenty-three. Now it's eighteen." He closed his eyes and shook his head. "My gas tank is empty." I nervously slapped my thighs.Time to wrap up the afternoon. "Come back and see your old professor," Morrie said as I hugged him goodbye.I promised I would come, and I tried not to think about the last time I made a promise. I bought books that Morrie had written for us in the school bookstore, such as "Personality and Crisis", "You and Me", "Separated Self" and so on.I had never heard of these books before. Before entering university, I didn't know that the study of human relations could also be an academic course.I didn't believe this was true until I met Morrie. His affection for books is real and infectious.Sometimes after school, when the classroom was empty, we started having serious conversations.He asked me about my life, and then quoted from Erich Fromm, Martin Buber, and Erik Eriksson.He often copied their quotations, and then used his own insights as footnotes.Only then did I realize that he was a real professor, not an elder.One afternoon, I was complaining about the confusion of my generation: I can't tell what I want to do and what others expect you to do. "Did I tell you about the reverse force?" he asked. Reverse force? "Life is a constant forward and backward. You want to do one thing, but you are destined to do another. You get hurt, but you know you don't deserve to be hurt. You see certain things as Take it for granted, even though you know you shouldn't. "A reverse force, like movement on a rubber band. Most of us live in the middle of it." Sounds like a wrestling match, I said. "A wrestling match." Dr. Morrie got up. "Yes, you can make a similar interpretation of life." So which side will win?I asked. "Which side will win?" He smiled at me: squinting eyes, uneven teeth. "Love wins. Love always wins."