听书-Tuesdays With Morrie（11）

The Classroom (11)

教室

The sun beamed in through the dining room window, lighting up the hardwood foor.

阳光透过餐厅窗户照进来，照亮了硬木地板。

We had been talking there for nearly two hours.

我们已经在餐厅里聊了将近2小时。

The phone rang yet again and Morrie asked his helper, Connie, to get it.

电话再一次响起，莫瑞让他的助手康妮去接电话。

She had been jotting the callers' names in Morrie's small black appointment book.

她把电话来访者的名字快速简略的记在莫瑞小小的黑色会见簿上。

Friends. Meditation teachers. A discussion group. Someone who wanted to photograph him for a magazine.

打来电话的是各种朋友们。冥想老师们。讨论小组。以及一些想要给他拍杂志照片的人们。

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.

很明显我不是唯一有兴趣来拜访莫瑞的人——在“晚间专线”上的亮相让他多少成了名人——但最让我敬佩的，甚至有点嫉妒的，是莫瑞看起来拥有的那些朋友们。

I thought about the"buddies" that circled my orbit back in college.

我想起了大学时总是围绕在我周围的“弟兄”们。

Where had they gone?

他们又在哪儿呢？

“You know, Mitch, now that I'm dying, I've become much more interesting to people.”

“你懂的，米契，因为我快死了，所以对于人们来说我就开始变得越发有意思了。”

You were always interesting.

你一直都是很有趣的。

“Ho.”Morrie smiled. “You're kind.”

“哦。”莫瑞微笑起来。“你真善良。”

No, I'm not, I thought.

不，我并不善良，我心里想着。

“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."

“我想事情是这样的，”他说。“人们把我当作一个桥梁。我既不像以前那样是活生生的，但我也还没有死去。我类似于是。。。居于生死之间。”

He coughed, then regained his smile.

他咳嗽起来，然后脸上又重回微笑。

“I'm on the last great journey here—and people want me to tell them what to pack.”

“我正走在人生最后的伟大旅程之中——所以人们希望我能告诉他们该在路上打包点什么东西。”

The phone rang again.

电话又响了。

“Morrie, can you talk?” Connie asked.

“莫瑞，你方便接电话吗？”康妮问道。

“I'm visiting with my old pal now,” he announced. “Let them call back.”

“我正在和我的老伙计会面呢，”他如此宣称。“让他们一会儿回电话吧。”

I cannot tell you why he received me so warmly.

我没法告诉你为什么莫瑞如此亲切的接待我。

I was hardly the promising student who had left him sixteen years earlier.

十六年前离开他的学生中，我根本算不上多么有前途。

Had it not been for “Nightline,” Morrie might have died without ever seeing me again.

如果不是”晚间专线“这档节目，莫瑞可能至死也不会再见到我。

I had no good excuse for this, except the one that everyone these days seems to have.

对此我找不出任何借口推脱，除了那个这些年人人似乎都有的一个说辞。

l had become too wrapped up in the siren song of my own life.

我变得太过于沉浸在我自身生活的种种诱惑之中了。

I was busy.

我太忙了。

What happened to me?

到底发生了什么？

I asked myself.

我问我自己。

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.

莫瑞尖锐沙哑的嗓音将我带回了大学时光，那时候我认为富人都很坏，衬衫和领带都是囚服，没有那种来去自由的生活——胯下骑着哈雷，迎面吹来微风，从巴黎的街道风驰电掣，一路驶向西藏的山巅——根本不算理想的生活。

那么在我身上又发生了什么呢？

The eighties happened.

80年代过去了。

The nineties happened.

90年代过去了。

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.

死亡，疾病，变胖和变秃都发生了，我用很多梦想换来了金额更大的支票，而我甚至压根没有意识到我在做这些事情。

Yet here was Morrie talking with the wonder of our college years, as if I'd simply been on a long vacation.

然而莫瑞在这里说着我们大学时的峥嵘时光，就像我只是离开大学度了个假又回来了似的。

“Have you found someone to share your heart with?” he asked.

“你有找到知心人分享你的内心世界吗？”他问道。

“Are you giving to your community?

“你有对你的社区做些贡献吗？”

“Are you at peace with yourself?

“你有跟自己和平相处吗？”

“Are you trying to be as human as you can be?”

“你有尽自己所能去充满人性的活着吗？”

I squirmed, wanting to show I had been grappling deeply with such questions.

我坐卧不安，试图展现我深深有为这些问题努力过一样。

我到底怎么了？

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.

我曾经向自己保证我永远不会为了钱去工作，我会加入和平队组织，我会在一个美丽且振奋人心的地方生活。

Instead, I had been in Detroit for ten years now, at the same workplace, using the same bank, visiting the same barber.

相反，我在底特律待了十年，在同一个工作地点，使用同一家银行，去同一家理发店。

I was thirty-seven, more efficient than in college, tied to computers and modems and cell phones.

我三十七岁了，比在大学的时候更有能力了，整天和电脑、宽带以及电话绑定在一起。

I wrote articles about rich athletes who, for the most part, could not care less about people like me.

我写着那些关于富有的运动员的文章，那些运动员中的大多数，对于像我这样的人简直没法更不在意了。

I was no longer young for my peer group, nor did I walk around in gray sweatshirts with unlit cigarettes in my mouth.

我不再是同龄人中更小的那个，也不再嘴里叼着没点着的烟穿着灰T恤衫到处乱晃。

I did not have long discussions over egg salad sandwiches about the meaning of life.

我不再对着鸡蛋沙拉三明治大聊特聊生活的意义。

My days were full, yet I remained,much of the time, unsatisfied, What happened to me?

我的日子过得很充实，然而却仍然觉得，大多数时间里，不够满足，我到底怎么了？

“Coach,”I said suddenly, remembering the nickname.

“教练，”我突然蹦出这个词，想起了这个昵称。

Morrie beamed. “That's me. I'm still your coach.”

莫瑞满面开心。“没错是我。我仍然是你的教练。”

He laughed and resumed his eating, a meal he had started forty minutes earlier.

他一边笑着一边继续吃饭，一顿他40分钟前就开始吃的饭。

I watched him now, his hands working gingerly, as if he were learning to use them for the very first time.

我看着现在的他，他的手小心翼翼的动着，就像生平第一次学习怎么用手一样。

He could not press down hard with a knife.

他没法拿刀用力切下去。

His fingers shook.

他的手指会颤抖。

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.

每嚼一下都很费力；他要把食物嚼透了然后才能咽下去，而且时不时的食物还要从他嘴边漏出来，所以他又不得不放下手里正拿着的东西去用餐巾轻轻的擦拭嘴角。

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.

他从手腕到关节的皮肤上都星星点点布满老人斑，而且皮肤非常松弛，就像鸡汤骨头上那快要掉下来的皮一样。

For a while, we just ate like that, a sick old man, a healthy, younger man, both absorbing the quiet ofthe room.

有那么一会儿，我们就那样，一个生病的老人，一个健康的年轻人，彼此消化着房间里静静的空气。

I would say it was an embarrassed silence, but I seemed to be the only one embarrassed.

要我说那真是一种尴尬的沉默，但似乎我是唯一感到尴尬的那个人。

“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.”

“死亡，”莫瑞突然说道。“是唯一一件让人悲哀的事，米契。而不快乐的活着就是另外一件。很多来拜访我的人都不快乐。”

Why?

为什么？

“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.

“其一，我们所拥有的文化没法让人们对自己感觉良好。我们正在教授错误的东西。而且你得足够坚强才能说如果社会文化行不通，那就不去相信它。转而去创造你自己的文化。大多数人做不到这点。所以他们比我还不开心——尽管我的近况是这么糟糕。”

“I may be dying, but I am surrounded by loving, caring souls. How many people can say that?”

“我可能会死，但围绕着我的尽是友爱体贴的灵魂。有多少人可以说能像我这样？”

I was astonished by his complete lack of self-pity.

我为他彻底不囿于自怜的精神震惊了。

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.

莫瑞其人，再也不能跳舞、游泳、洗澡；莫瑞其人，再也不能给人应门，洗完澡也没法给自己擦干，甚至做不到在床上翻身。

How could he be so accepting?

他怎么能这么坦然接受？

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.

我看着他无比艰难的用着勺子，挑起一块番茄，前两次还掉了——一个多么可悲的场景，可我仍然不能否认，坐在他面前简直神奇的让人内心平静，就是那种大学时抚慰我的同样的安宁的气息。

I shot a glance at my watch—force of habit—it was getting late, and I thought about changing my plane reservation home.

我瞟了一眼我的手表——习惯使然——天渐渐晚了，我想着更改回家的预定机票。

Then Morrie did something that haunts me to this day.

接着莫瑞做了一件让我接下来整天都魂不守舍的事情。

原著：Mitch Albom

译播：薪栀Vera

英文小说《Tuesdays With Morrie 相约星期二》的听书音频会持续连载更新，每周更新一或二篇，敬请期待...