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Tuesdays with Morrie: An Old Man, a Young Man, and Life's Greatest Lesson CD – オーディオブック, 2004/6/1
英語版
Mitch Albom
(著, 読み手)
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#1 NEW YORK TIMES BESTSELLER • The beloved book that has changed millions of lives with the story of an unforgettable friendship, the timeless wisdom of older generations, and healing lessons on loss and grief
“A wonderful book, a story of the heart told by a writer with soul.”—Los Angeles Times
“The most important thing in life is to learn how to give out love, and to let it come in.”
Maybe it was a grandparent, or a teacher, or a colleague. Someone older, patient and wise, who understood you when you were young and searching, helped you see the world as a more profound place, gave you sound advice to help you make your way through it.
For Mitch Albom, that person was Morrie Schwartz, his college professor from nearly twenty years ago.
Maybe, like Mitch, you lost track of this mentor as you made your way, and the insights faded, and the world seemed colder. Wouldn't you like to see that person again, ask the bigger questions that still haunt you, receive wisdom for your busy life today the way you once did when you were younger?
Mitch Albom had that second chance. He rediscovered Morrie in the last months of the older man's life. Knowing he was dying, Morrie visited with Mitch in his study every Tuesday, just as they used to back in college. Their rekindled relationship turned into one final "class": lessons in how to live.
Tuesdays with Morrie is a magical chronicle of their time together, through which Mitch shares Morrie's lasting gift with the world.
“A wonderful book, a story of the heart told by a writer with soul.”—Los Angeles Times
“The most important thing in life is to learn how to give out love, and to let it come in.”
Maybe it was a grandparent, or a teacher, or a colleague. Someone older, patient and wise, who understood you when you were young and searching, helped you see the world as a more profound place, gave you sound advice to help you make your way through it.
For Mitch Albom, that person was Morrie Schwartz, his college professor from nearly twenty years ago.
Maybe, like Mitch, you lost track of this mentor as you made your way, and the insights faded, and the world seemed colder. Wouldn't you like to see that person again, ask the bigger questions that still haunt you, receive wisdom for your busy life today the way you once did when you were younger?
Mitch Albom had that second chance. He rediscovered Morrie in the last months of the older man's life. Knowing he was dying, Morrie visited with Mitch in his study every Tuesday, just as they used to back in college. Their rekindled relationship turned into one final "class": lessons in how to live.
Tuesdays with Morrie is a magical chronicle of their time together, through which Mitch shares Morrie's lasting gift with the world.
- 本の長さ4ページ
- 言語英語
- 出版社Random House Audio
- 発売日2004/6/1
- 寸法12.95 x 2.79 x 15.24 cm
- ISBN-100739311123
- ISBN-13978-0739311127
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“Mitch Albom’s book is a gift to mankind.”—Philadelphia Inquirer
“A wonderful book, a story of the heart told by a writer with soul.”—Los Angeles Times
“An extraordinary contribution to the literature of death.”—Boston Globe
“One of those books that kind of sneaked up and grabbed people’s hearts over time.”—Milwaukee Journal Sentinel
“An elegantly simple story about a writer getting a second chance to discover life through the death of a friend.”—Tampa Tribune
“As sweet and nourishing as fresh summer corn ... the book begs to be read aloud.”—USA Today
"This is a sweet book of a man's love for his mentor. It has a stubborn honesty that nourishes the living." —Robert Bly, author of Iron John
"A deeply moving account of courage and wisdom, shared by an inveterate mentor looking into the multitextured face of his own death. There is much to be learned by sitting in on this final class." —Jon Kabat-Zinn, coauthor of Everyday Blessings and Wherever You Go, There You Are
"All of the saints and Buddhas have taught us that wisdom and compassion are one. Now along comes Morrie, who makes it perfectly plain. His living and dying show us the way. —Joanna Bull, Founder and Executive Director of Gilda's Club
“A wonderful book, a story of the heart told by a writer with soul.”—Los Angeles Times
“An extraordinary contribution to the literature of death.”—Boston Globe
“One of those books that kind of sneaked up and grabbed people’s hearts over time.”—Milwaukee Journal Sentinel
“An elegantly simple story about a writer getting a second chance to discover life through the death of a friend.”—Tampa Tribune
“As sweet and nourishing as fresh summer corn ... the book begs to be read aloud.”—USA Today
"This is a sweet book of a man's love for his mentor. It has a stubborn honesty that nourishes the living." —Robert Bly, author of Iron John
"A deeply moving account of courage and wisdom, shared by an inveterate mentor looking into the multitextured face of his own death. There is much to be learned by sitting in on this final class." —Jon Kabat-Zinn, coauthor of Everyday Blessings and Wherever You Go, There You Are
"All of the saints and Buddhas have taught us that wisdom and compassion are one. Now along comes Morrie, who makes it perfectly plain. His living and dying show us the way. —Joanna Bull, Founder and Executive Director of Gilda's Club
抜粋
The Curriculum
The last class of my old professor's life took place once a week in his house, by a window in the study where he could watch a small hibiscus plant shed its pink leaves. The class met on Tuesdays. It began after breakfast. The subject was The Meaning of Life. It was taught from experience.
No grades were given, but there were oral exams each week. You were expected to respond to questions, and you were expected to pose questions of your own. You were also required to perform physical tasks now and then, such as lifting the professor's head to a comfortable spot on the pillow or placing his glasses on the bridge of his nose. Kissing him good-bye earned you extra credit.
No books were required, yet many topics were covered, including love, work, community, family, aging, forgiveness, and, finally, death. The last lecture was brief, only a few words.
A funeral was held in lieu of graduation.
Although no final exam was given, you were expected to produce one long paper on what was learned. That paper is presented here.
The last class of my old professor's life had only one student.
I was the student.
It is the late spring of 1979, a hot, sticky Saturday afternoon. Hundreds of us sit together, side by side, in rows of wooden folding chairs on the main campus lawn. We wear blue nylon robes. We listen impatiently to long speeches. When the ceremony is over, we throw our caps in the air, and we are officially graduated from college, the senior class of Brandeis University in the city of Waltham, Massachusetts. For many of us, the curtain has just come down on childhood.
Afterward, I find Morrie Schwartz, my favorite professor, and introduce him to my parents. He is a small man who takes small steps, as if a strong wind could, at any time, whisk him up into the clouds. In his graduation day robe, he looks like a cross between a biblical prophet and a Christmas elf. He has sparkling blue-green eyes, thinning silver hair that spills onto his forehead, big ears, a triangular nose, and tufts of graying eyebrows. Although his teeth are crooked and his lower ones are slanted back--as if someone had once punched them in--when he smiles it's as if you'd just told him the first joke on earth.
He tells my parents how I took every class he taught. He tells them, "You have a special boy here." Embarrassed, I look at my feet. Before we leave, I hand my professor a present, a tan briefcase with his initials on the front. I bought this the day before at a shopping mall. I didn't want to forget him. Maybe I didn't want him to forget me.
"Mitch, you are one of the good ones," he says, admiring the briefcase. Then he hugs me. I feel his thin arms around my back. I am taller than he is, and when he holds me, I feel awkward, older, as if I were the parent and he were the child.
He asks if I will stay in touch, and without hesitation I say, "Of course."
When he steps back, I see that he is crying.
The Syllabus
His death sentence came in the summer of 1994. Looking back, Morrie knew something bad was coming long before that. He knew it the day he gave up dancing.
He had always been a dancer, my old professor. The music didn't matter. Rock and roll, big band, the blues. He loved them all. He would close his eyes and with a blissful smile begin to move to his own sense of rhythm. It wasn't always pretty. But then, he didn't worry about a partner. Morrie danced by himself.
He used to go to this church in Harvard Square every Wednesday night for something called "Dance Free." They had flashing lights and booming speakers and Morrie would wander in among the mostly student crowd, wearing a white T-shirt and black sweatpants and a towel around his neck, and whatever music was playing, that's the music to which he danced. He'd do the lindy to Jimi Hendrix. He twisted and twirled, he waved his arms like a conductor on amphetamines, until sweat was dripping down the middle of his back. No one there knew he was a prominent doctor of sociology, with years of experience as a college professor and several well-respected books. They just thought he was some old nut.
Once, he brought a tango tape and got them to play it over the speakers. Then he commandeered the floor, shooting back and forth like some hot Latin lover. When he finished, everyone applauded. He could have stayed in that moment forever.
But then the dancing stopped.
He developed asthma in his sixties. His breathing became labored. One day he was walking along the Charles River, and a cold burst of wind left him choking for air. He was rushed to the hospital and injected with Adrenalin.
A few years later, he began to have trouble walking. At a birthday party for a friend, he stumbled inexplicably. Another night, he fell down the steps of a theater, startling a small crowd of people.
"Give him air!" someone yelled.
He was in his seventies by this point, so they whispered "old age" and helped him to his feet. But Morrie, who was always more in touch with his insides than the rest of us, knew something else was wrong. This was more than old age. He was weary all the time. He had trouble sleeping. He dreamt he was dying.
He began to see doctors. Lots of them. They tested his blood. They tested his urine. They put a scope up his rear end and looked inside his intestines. Finally, when nothing could be found, one doctor ordered a muscle biopsy, taking a small piece out of Morrie's calf. The lab report came back suggesting a neurological problem, and Morrie was brought in for yet another series of tests. In one of those tests, he sat in a special seat as they zapped him with electrical current--an electric chair, of sorts--and studied his neurological responses.
"We need to check this further," the doctors said, looking over his results.
"Why?" Morrie asked. "What is it?"
"We're not sure. Your times are slow."
His times were slow? What did that mean?
Finally, on a hot, humid day in August 1994, Morrie and his wife, Charlotte, went to the neurologist's office, and he asked them to sit before he broke the news: Morrie had amyotrophic lateral sclerosis (ALS), Lou Gehrig's disease, a brutal, unforgiving illness of the neurological system.
There was no known cure.
"How did I get it?" Morrie asked.
Nobody knew.
"Is it terminal?"
Yes.
"So I'm going to die?"
Yes, you are, the doctor said. I'm very sorry.
He sat with Morrie and Charlotte for nearly two hours, patiently answering their questions. When they left, the doctor gave them some information on ALS, little pamphlets, as if they were opening a bank account. Outside, the sun was shining and people were going about their business. A woman ran to put money in the parking meter. Another carried groceries. Charlotte had a million thoughts running through her mind: How much time do we have left? How will we manage? How will we pay the bills?
My old professor, meanwhile, was stunned by the normalcy of the day around him. Shouldn't the world stop? Don't they know what has happened to me?
But the world did not stop, it took no notice at all, and as Morrie pulled weakly on the car door, he felt as if he were dropping into a hole.
Now what? he thought.
As my old professor searched for answers, the disease took him over, day by day, week by week. He backed the car out of the garage one morning and could barely push the brakes. That was the end of his driving.
He kept tripping, so he purchased a cane. That was the end of his walking free.
He went for his regular swim at the YMCA, but found he could no longer undress himself. So he hired his first home care worker--a theology student named Tony--who helped him in and out of the pool, and in and out of his bathing suit. In the locker room, the other swimmers pretended not to stare. They stared anyhow. That was the end of his privacy.
In the fall of 1994, Morrie came to the hilly Brandeis campus to teach his final college course. He could have skipped this, of course. The university would have understood. Why suffer in front of so many people? Stay at home. Get your affairs in order. But the idea of quitting did not occur to Morrie.
Instead, he hobbled into the classroom, his home for more than thirty years. Because of the cane, he took a while to reach the chair. Finally, he sat down, dropped his glasses off his nose, and looked out at the young faces who stared back in silence.
"My friends, I assume you are all here for the Social Psychology class. I have been teaching this course for twenty years, and this is the first time I can say there is a risk in taking it, because I have a fatal illness. I may not live to finish the semester.
"If you feel this is a problem, I understand if you wish to drop the course."
He smiled.
And that was the end of his secret.
ALS is like a lit candle: it melts your nerves and leaves your body a pile of wax. Often. it begins with the legs and works its way up. You lose control of your thigh muscles, so that you cannot support yourself standing. You lose control of your trunk muscles, so that you cannot sit up straight. By the end, if you are still alive, you are breathing through a tube in a hole in your throat, while your soul, perfectly awake, is imprisoned inside a limp husk, perhaps able to blink, or cluck a tongue, like something from a science fiction movie, the man frozen inside his own flesh. This takes no more than five years from the day you contract the disease.
Morrie's doctors guessed he had two years left.
Morrie knew it was less.
But my old professor had made a profound decision, one he began to construct the day he came out of the doctor's office with a sword hanging over his head. Do I wither up and disappear, or do I make the best of my time left? he had asked himself.
He would not wither. He would not be ashamed of dying.
Instead, he would make death his final project, the center point of his days. Since everyone was going to die, he could be of great value, right? He could be research. A human textbook. Study me in my slow and patient demise. Watch what happens to me. Learn with me.
Morrie would walk that final bridge between life and death, and narrate the trip.
The fall semester passed quickly. The pills increased. Therapy became a regular routine. Nurses came to his house to work with Morrie's withering legs, to keep the muscles active, bending them back and forth as if pumping water from a well. Massage specialists came by once a week to try to soothe the constant, heavy stiffness he felt. He met with meditation teachers, and closed his eyes and narrowed his thoughts until his world shrunk down to a single breath, in and out, in and out.
One day, using his cane, he stepped onto the curb and fell over into the street. The cane was exchanged for a walker. As his body weakened, the back and forth to the bathroom became too exhausting, so Morrie began to urinate into a large beaker. He had to support himself as he did this, meaning someone had to hold the beaker while Morrie filled it.
Most of us would be embarrassed by all this, especially at Morrie's age. But Morrie was not like most of us. When some of his close colleagues would visit, he would say to them, "Listen, I have to pee. Would you mind helping? Are you okay with that?"
Often, to their own surprise, they were.
In fact, he entertained a growing stream of visitors. He had discussion groups about dying, what it really meant, how societies had always been afraid of it without necessarily understanding it. He told his friends that if they really wanted to help him, they would treat him not with sympathy but with visits, phone calls, a sharing of their problems--the way they had always shared their problems, because Morrie had always been a wonderful listener.
For all that was happening to him, his voice was strong and inviting, and his mind was vibrating with a million thoughts. He was intent on proving that the word "dying" was not synonymous with "useless."
The New Year came and went. Although he never said it to anyone, Morrie knew this would be the last year of his life. He was using a wheelchair now, and he was fighting time to say all the things he wanted to say to all the people he loved. When a colleague at Brandeis died suddenly of a heart attack, Morrie went to his funeral. He came home depressed.
"What a waste," he said. "All those people saying all those wonderful things, and Irv never got to hear any of it."
Morrie had a better idea. He made some calls. He chose a date. And on a cold Sunday afternoon, he was joined in his home by a small group of friends and family for a "living funeral." Each of them spoke and paid tribute to my old professor. Some cried. Some laughed. One woman read a poem:
"My dear and loving cousin ...
Your ageless heart
as you move through time, layer on layer,
tender sequoia ..."
Morrie cried and laughed with them. And all the heartfelt things we never get to say to those we love, Morrie said that day. His "living funeral" was a rousing success.
Only Morrie wasn't dead yet.
In fact, the most unusual part of his life was about to unfold.
The last class of my old professor's life took place once a week in his house, by a window in the study where he could watch a small hibiscus plant shed its pink leaves. The class met on Tuesdays. It began after breakfast. The subject was The Meaning of Life. It was taught from experience.
No grades were given, but there were oral exams each week. You were expected to respond to questions, and you were expected to pose questions of your own. You were also required to perform physical tasks now and then, such as lifting the professor's head to a comfortable spot on the pillow or placing his glasses on the bridge of his nose. Kissing him good-bye earned you extra credit.
No books were required, yet many topics were covered, including love, work, community, family, aging, forgiveness, and, finally, death. The last lecture was brief, only a few words.
A funeral was held in lieu of graduation.
Although no final exam was given, you were expected to produce one long paper on what was learned. That paper is presented here.
The last class of my old professor's life had only one student.
I was the student.
It is the late spring of 1979, a hot, sticky Saturday afternoon. Hundreds of us sit together, side by side, in rows of wooden folding chairs on the main campus lawn. We wear blue nylon robes. We listen impatiently to long speeches. When the ceremony is over, we throw our caps in the air, and we are officially graduated from college, the senior class of Brandeis University in the city of Waltham, Massachusetts. For many of us, the curtain has just come down on childhood.
Afterward, I find Morrie Schwartz, my favorite professor, and introduce him to my parents. He is a small man who takes small steps, as if a strong wind could, at any time, whisk him up into the clouds. In his graduation day robe, he looks like a cross between a biblical prophet and a Christmas elf. He has sparkling blue-green eyes, thinning silver hair that spills onto his forehead, big ears, a triangular nose, and tufts of graying eyebrows. Although his teeth are crooked and his lower ones are slanted back--as if someone had once punched them in--when he smiles it's as if you'd just told him the first joke on earth.
He tells my parents how I took every class he taught. He tells them, "You have a special boy here." Embarrassed, I look at my feet. Before we leave, I hand my professor a present, a tan briefcase with his initials on the front. I bought this the day before at a shopping mall. I didn't want to forget him. Maybe I didn't want him to forget me.
"Mitch, you are one of the good ones," he says, admiring the briefcase. Then he hugs me. I feel his thin arms around my back. I am taller than he is, and when he holds me, I feel awkward, older, as if I were the parent and he were the child.
He asks if I will stay in touch, and without hesitation I say, "Of course."
When he steps back, I see that he is crying.
The Syllabus
His death sentence came in the summer of 1994. Looking back, Morrie knew something bad was coming long before that. He knew it the day he gave up dancing.
He had always been a dancer, my old professor. The music didn't matter. Rock and roll, big band, the blues. He loved them all. He would close his eyes and with a blissful smile begin to move to his own sense of rhythm. It wasn't always pretty. But then, he didn't worry about a partner. Morrie danced by himself.
He used to go to this church in Harvard Square every Wednesday night for something called "Dance Free." They had flashing lights and booming speakers and Morrie would wander in among the mostly student crowd, wearing a white T-shirt and black sweatpants and a towel around his neck, and whatever music was playing, that's the music to which he danced. He'd do the lindy to Jimi Hendrix. He twisted and twirled, he waved his arms like a conductor on amphetamines, until sweat was dripping down the middle of his back. No one there knew he was a prominent doctor of sociology, with years of experience as a college professor and several well-respected books. They just thought he was some old nut.
Once, he brought a tango tape and got them to play it over the speakers. Then he commandeered the floor, shooting back and forth like some hot Latin lover. When he finished, everyone applauded. He could have stayed in that moment forever.
But then the dancing stopped.
He developed asthma in his sixties. His breathing became labored. One day he was walking along the Charles River, and a cold burst of wind left him choking for air. He was rushed to the hospital and injected with Adrenalin.
A few years later, he began to have trouble walking. At a birthday party for a friend, he stumbled inexplicably. Another night, he fell down the steps of a theater, startling a small crowd of people.
"Give him air!" someone yelled.
He was in his seventies by this point, so they whispered "old age" and helped him to his feet. But Morrie, who was always more in touch with his insides than the rest of us, knew something else was wrong. This was more than old age. He was weary all the time. He had trouble sleeping. He dreamt he was dying.
He began to see doctors. Lots of them. They tested his blood. They tested his urine. They put a scope up his rear end and looked inside his intestines. Finally, when nothing could be found, one doctor ordered a muscle biopsy, taking a small piece out of Morrie's calf. The lab report came back suggesting a neurological problem, and Morrie was brought in for yet another series of tests. In one of those tests, he sat in a special seat as they zapped him with electrical current--an electric chair, of sorts--and studied his neurological responses.
"We need to check this further," the doctors said, looking over his results.
"Why?" Morrie asked. "What is it?"
"We're not sure. Your times are slow."
His times were slow? What did that mean?
Finally, on a hot, humid day in August 1994, Morrie and his wife, Charlotte, went to the neurologist's office, and he asked them to sit before he broke the news: Morrie had amyotrophic lateral sclerosis (ALS), Lou Gehrig's disease, a brutal, unforgiving illness of the neurological system.
There was no known cure.
"How did I get it?" Morrie asked.
Nobody knew.
"Is it terminal?"
Yes.
"So I'm going to die?"
Yes, you are, the doctor said. I'm very sorry.
He sat with Morrie and Charlotte for nearly two hours, patiently answering their questions. When they left, the doctor gave them some information on ALS, little pamphlets, as if they were opening a bank account. Outside, the sun was shining and people were going about their business. A woman ran to put money in the parking meter. Another carried groceries. Charlotte had a million thoughts running through her mind: How much time do we have left? How will we manage? How will we pay the bills?
My old professor, meanwhile, was stunned by the normalcy of the day around him. Shouldn't the world stop? Don't they know what has happened to me?
But the world did not stop, it took no notice at all, and as Morrie pulled weakly on the car door, he felt as if he were dropping into a hole.
Now what? he thought.
As my old professor searched for answers, the disease took him over, day by day, week by week. He backed the car out of the garage one morning and could barely push the brakes. That was the end of his driving.
He kept tripping, so he purchased a cane. That was the end of his walking free.
He went for his regular swim at the YMCA, but found he could no longer undress himself. So he hired his first home care worker--a theology student named Tony--who helped him in and out of the pool, and in and out of his bathing suit. In the locker room, the other swimmers pretended not to stare. They stared anyhow. That was the end of his privacy.
In the fall of 1994, Morrie came to the hilly Brandeis campus to teach his final college course. He could have skipped this, of course. The university would have understood. Why suffer in front of so many people? Stay at home. Get your affairs in order. But the idea of quitting did not occur to Morrie.
Instead, he hobbled into the classroom, his home for more than thirty years. Because of the cane, he took a while to reach the chair. Finally, he sat down, dropped his glasses off his nose, and looked out at the young faces who stared back in silence.
"My friends, I assume you are all here for the Social Psychology class. I have been teaching this course for twenty years, and this is the first time I can say there is a risk in taking it, because I have a fatal illness. I may not live to finish the semester.
"If you feel this is a problem, I understand if you wish to drop the course."
He smiled.
And that was the end of his secret.
ALS is like a lit candle: it melts your nerves and leaves your body a pile of wax. Often. it begins with the legs and works its way up. You lose control of your thigh muscles, so that you cannot support yourself standing. You lose control of your trunk muscles, so that you cannot sit up straight. By the end, if you are still alive, you are breathing through a tube in a hole in your throat, while your soul, perfectly awake, is imprisoned inside a limp husk, perhaps able to blink, or cluck a tongue, like something from a science fiction movie, the man frozen inside his own flesh. This takes no more than five years from the day you contract the disease.
Morrie's doctors guessed he had two years left.
Morrie knew it was less.
But my old professor had made a profound decision, one he began to construct the day he came out of the doctor's office with a sword hanging over his head. Do I wither up and disappear, or do I make the best of my time left? he had asked himself.
He would not wither. He would not be ashamed of dying.
Instead, he would make death his final project, the center point of his days. Since everyone was going to die, he could be of great value, right? He could be research. A human textbook. Study me in my slow and patient demise. Watch what happens to me. Learn with me.
Morrie would walk that final bridge between life and death, and narrate the trip.
The fall semester passed quickly. The pills increased. Therapy became a regular routine. Nurses came to his house to work with Morrie's withering legs, to keep the muscles active, bending them back and forth as if pumping water from a well. Massage specialists came by once a week to try to soothe the constant, heavy stiffness he felt. He met with meditation teachers, and closed his eyes and narrowed his thoughts until his world shrunk down to a single breath, in and out, in and out.
One day, using his cane, he stepped onto the curb and fell over into the street. The cane was exchanged for a walker. As his body weakened, the back and forth to the bathroom became too exhausting, so Morrie began to urinate into a large beaker. He had to support himself as he did this, meaning someone had to hold the beaker while Morrie filled it.
Most of us would be embarrassed by all this, especially at Morrie's age. But Morrie was not like most of us. When some of his close colleagues would visit, he would say to them, "Listen, I have to pee. Would you mind helping? Are you okay with that?"
Often, to their own surprise, they were.
In fact, he entertained a growing stream of visitors. He had discussion groups about dying, what it really meant, how societies had always been afraid of it without necessarily understanding it. He told his friends that if they really wanted to help him, they would treat him not with sympathy but with visits, phone calls, a sharing of their problems--the way they had always shared their problems, because Morrie had always been a wonderful listener.
For all that was happening to him, his voice was strong and inviting, and his mind was vibrating with a million thoughts. He was intent on proving that the word "dying" was not synonymous with "useless."
The New Year came and went. Although he never said it to anyone, Morrie knew this would be the last year of his life. He was using a wheelchair now, and he was fighting time to say all the things he wanted to say to all the people he loved. When a colleague at Brandeis died suddenly of a heart attack, Morrie went to his funeral. He came home depressed.
"What a waste," he said. "All those people saying all those wonderful things, and Irv never got to hear any of it."
Morrie had a better idea. He made some calls. He chose a date. And on a cold Sunday afternoon, he was joined in his home by a small group of friends and family for a "living funeral." Each of them spoke and paid tribute to my old professor. Some cried. Some laughed. One woman read a poem:
"My dear and loving cousin ...
Your ageless heart
as you move through time, layer on layer,
tender sequoia ..."
Morrie cried and laughed with them. And all the heartfelt things we never get to say to those we love, Morrie said that day. His "living funeral" was a rousing success.
Only Morrie wasn't dead yet.
In fact, the most unusual part of his life was about to unfold.
著者について
Mitch Albom is the author of numerous books of fiction and nonfiction, which have collectively sold more than forty million copies in forty-seven languages worldwide. He has written seven number-one New York Times bestsellers, award-winning TV films, stage plays, screenplays, a nationally syndicated newspaper column, and a musical. He founded and oversees SAY Detroit, a consortium of nine different charitable operations in his hometown, including a nonprofit dessert shop and food product line to fund programs for Detroit’s neediest citizens. He also operates an orphanage in Port-au-Prince, Haiti. He lives with his wife, Janine, in Michigan.
登録情報
- 出版社 : Random House Audio; Unabridged版 (2004/6/1)
- 発売日 : 2004/6/1
- 言語 : 英語
- CD : 4ページ
- ISBN-10 : 0739311123
- ISBN-13 : 978-0739311127
- 寸法 : 12.95 x 2.79 x 15.24 cm
- Amazon 売れ筋ランキング: - 70,854位洋書 (洋書の売れ筋ランキングを見る)
- - 62位Grief & Bereavement
- - 512位Spirituality (洋書)
- - 717位Motivational Self-Help
- カスタマーレビュー:
著者について
著者をフォローして、新作のアップデートや改善されたおすすめを入手してください。
著者の本をもっと発見したり、よく似た著者を見つけたり、著者のブログを読んだりしましょう
-
トップレビュー
上位レビュー、対象国: 日本
レビューのフィルタリング中に問題が発生しました。後でもう一度試してください。
2021年8月14日に日本でレビュー済み
Amazonで購入
Lots of lessons u can learn from the story.
2020年6月15日に日本でレビュー済み
Amazonで購入
This is a must read book for everyone.
If Morrie was still here, I certainly take his lectures. And his series of lectures will give you something invisible but important things in your your heart.
If Morrie was still here, I certainly take his lectures. And his series of lectures will give you something invisible but important things in your your heart.
2020年9月27日に日本でレビュー済み
Amazonで購入
英語の勉強にと人から勧められて購入しました。私にはちょっと難しく文字も小さく読みづらいのですが、せっかくですから頑張って読んでみます。注文から届くまですごく早くて嬉しかったです。
2021年4月18日に日本でレビュー済み
Amazonで購入
It recalibarated the way I think about life.
2023年4月6日に日本でレビュー済み
■どのような方に読んでもらいたいか
「Tuesdays with Morrie: An Old Man, a Young Man, and Life’s Greatest Lesson, 25th Anniversary Edition」は、人生の意味や目的について考えたいと思っている人にぴったりの本です。また、自己啓発や哲学に興味がある人や、人間関係や感謝について学びたいと思っている人にもおすすめです。
さらに、死についての考え方や、誰かを支えることの大切さについて学びたいと思っている人にも価値があるでしょう。
この本は、多くの人が日々の生活で直面する悩みや課題に対する答えを提供することができます。人生の探求や自己成長に興味がある方に、ぜひ読んでいただきたい一冊です。
■超要約
「Tuesdays with Morrie: An Old Man, a Young Man, and Life’s Greatest Lesson, 25th Anniversary Edition」は、ミッチ・アルボムによる感動的な回想録です。本書は、ミッチがかつて大学で学んだ恩師であるモリーとの週に一度の面会を通じて、彼が教えてくれた人生の大きな教訓を伝える物語です。
モリーはALSという難病を患っており、余命がわずかしかなかった。しかし、彼は自分の状況を受け入れ、自分が持っていた知恵と経験を生かして、生き方についての洞察をミッチに伝えました。モリーは、人生を自分の目的に向けて生きること、家族や友人、コミュニティとのつながりを大切にすること、そして自分自身と向き合うことの重要性を説きました。
本書は、ミッチとモリーの週に一度の面会の記録から構成されています。彼らは、人生についてのさまざまな話題を話し合い、モリーの考えや哲学について深く掘り下げます。彼らが話し合ったトピックには、人間関係、自己啓発、感謝の大切さ、そして死についての考え方などが含まれています。
この本は、モリーの知恵と教えを通じて、読者に人生を深く考え、真剣に向き合うことの大切さを教えてくれます。本書は、多くの人が日々の生活で直面する悩みや課題に対する答えを提供することができます。読み終わった後、読者は自分自身の人生について考え、改善するための方法を見つけることができるかもしれません。
総合的に、この本は感動的な物語であり、誰にとっても有益な教訓を提供してくれます。ミッチとモリーの友情と知恵は、読者の心を深く打つことでしょう。この本を読めば、人生の本当の意味を理解することができます。
■この書籍のユニークな点
「Tuesdays with Morrie: An Old Man, a Young Man, and Life’s Greatest Lesson, 25th Anniversary Edition」が他の書籍と比べて優れている点は以下のとおりです。
▼感動的なストーリー
本書は、ミッチ・アルボムと彼の教授であるモリーの週に一度の面会を通じて、人生の大切な教訓を伝える物語です。モリーはALSという難病を患っており、余命がわずかしかなかったため、彼が残した言葉や哲学は非常に感動的であり、読者の心に強く訴えかけます。
▼深い洞察力
本書は、人生についての深い洞察力を持ったモリーという人物が登場します。彼は、人生の意味や目的、家族や友人、自分自身と向き合うことの重要性などについて深く考えており、その知恵をミッチに伝えます。そのため、読者は本書を通じて、人生について深く考え、自己成長することができます。
▼実践的なアドバイス
本書には、人生のさまざまな局面で役立つ実践的なアドバイスが含まれています。モリーは、自分の体験や考えを通じて、読者に人生を豊かに生きるためのヒントを提供します。そのため、読者は本書を読むことで、自分の人生について考え、改善するためのアイデアを得ることができます。
■人生のさまざまな局面で役立つ実践的なアドバイス
「Tuesdays with Morrie: An Old Man, a Young Man, and Life’s Greatest Lesson, 25th Anniversary Edition」には、人生のさまざまな局面で役立つ実践的なアドバイスがいくつか含まれています。以下にその一部を具体的に紹介します。
▼人間関係について
「愛することを決めるのではなく、愛することができる人を探すことが大切だ」
「自分を開放し、他人を愛することが、人生における真の幸福感を得るための秘訣である」
▼自分自身と向き合うことについて
「自分自身を知ることが大切である」
「一日に一度、自分に問いかけることが大切である。『私は今日何を学んだのか?』と」
▼死について
「死は自然なことであり、それを受け入れることが大切である」
「死が迫ったとき、大切なことはお金や地位ではなく、家族や友人、そして自分自身が幸福であることである」
▼人生の意味について
「人生には意味がある。その意味を見出すことが、人生を豊かに生きるための秘訣である」
「自分がやりたいこと、自分が大切に思うことを追求することが、人生を豊かに生きるための重要なポイントである」
これらのアドバイスは、モリーがミッチに伝えた言葉であり、読者自身がそのアドバイスを自分の人生に応用することで、より豊かな人生を送ることができるようになるでしょう。
「Tuesdays with Morrie: An Old Man, a Young Man, and Life’s Greatest Lesson, 25th Anniversary Edition」は、人生の意味や目的について考えたいと思っている人にぴったりの本です。また、自己啓発や哲学に興味がある人や、人間関係や感謝について学びたいと思っている人にもおすすめです。
さらに、死についての考え方や、誰かを支えることの大切さについて学びたいと思っている人にも価値があるでしょう。
この本は、多くの人が日々の生活で直面する悩みや課題に対する答えを提供することができます。人生の探求や自己成長に興味がある方に、ぜひ読んでいただきたい一冊です。
■超要約
「Tuesdays with Morrie: An Old Man, a Young Man, and Life’s Greatest Lesson, 25th Anniversary Edition」は、ミッチ・アルボムによる感動的な回想録です。本書は、ミッチがかつて大学で学んだ恩師であるモリーとの週に一度の面会を通じて、彼が教えてくれた人生の大きな教訓を伝える物語です。
モリーはALSという難病を患っており、余命がわずかしかなかった。しかし、彼は自分の状況を受け入れ、自分が持っていた知恵と経験を生かして、生き方についての洞察をミッチに伝えました。モリーは、人生を自分の目的に向けて生きること、家族や友人、コミュニティとのつながりを大切にすること、そして自分自身と向き合うことの重要性を説きました。
本書は、ミッチとモリーの週に一度の面会の記録から構成されています。彼らは、人生についてのさまざまな話題を話し合い、モリーの考えや哲学について深く掘り下げます。彼らが話し合ったトピックには、人間関係、自己啓発、感謝の大切さ、そして死についての考え方などが含まれています。
この本は、モリーの知恵と教えを通じて、読者に人生を深く考え、真剣に向き合うことの大切さを教えてくれます。本書は、多くの人が日々の生活で直面する悩みや課題に対する答えを提供することができます。読み終わった後、読者は自分自身の人生について考え、改善するための方法を見つけることができるかもしれません。
総合的に、この本は感動的な物語であり、誰にとっても有益な教訓を提供してくれます。ミッチとモリーの友情と知恵は、読者の心を深く打つことでしょう。この本を読めば、人生の本当の意味を理解することができます。
■この書籍のユニークな点
「Tuesdays with Morrie: An Old Man, a Young Man, and Life’s Greatest Lesson, 25th Anniversary Edition」が他の書籍と比べて優れている点は以下のとおりです。
▼感動的なストーリー
本書は、ミッチ・アルボムと彼の教授であるモリーの週に一度の面会を通じて、人生の大切な教訓を伝える物語です。モリーはALSという難病を患っており、余命がわずかしかなかったため、彼が残した言葉や哲学は非常に感動的であり、読者の心に強く訴えかけます。
▼深い洞察力
本書は、人生についての深い洞察力を持ったモリーという人物が登場します。彼は、人生の意味や目的、家族や友人、自分自身と向き合うことの重要性などについて深く考えており、その知恵をミッチに伝えます。そのため、読者は本書を通じて、人生について深く考え、自己成長することができます。
▼実践的なアドバイス
本書には、人生のさまざまな局面で役立つ実践的なアドバイスが含まれています。モリーは、自分の体験や考えを通じて、読者に人生を豊かに生きるためのヒントを提供します。そのため、読者は本書を読むことで、自分の人生について考え、改善するためのアイデアを得ることができます。
■人生のさまざまな局面で役立つ実践的なアドバイス
「Tuesdays with Morrie: An Old Man, a Young Man, and Life’s Greatest Lesson, 25th Anniversary Edition」には、人生のさまざまな局面で役立つ実践的なアドバイスがいくつか含まれています。以下にその一部を具体的に紹介します。
▼人間関係について
「愛することを決めるのではなく、愛することができる人を探すことが大切だ」
「自分を開放し、他人を愛することが、人生における真の幸福感を得るための秘訣である」
▼自分自身と向き合うことについて
「自分自身を知ることが大切である」
「一日に一度、自分に問いかけることが大切である。『私は今日何を学んだのか?』と」
▼死について
「死は自然なことであり、それを受け入れることが大切である」
「死が迫ったとき、大切なことはお金や地位ではなく、家族や友人、そして自分自身が幸福であることである」
▼人生の意味について
「人生には意味がある。その意味を見出すことが、人生を豊かに生きるための秘訣である」
「自分がやりたいこと、自分が大切に思うことを追求することが、人生を豊かに生きるための重要なポイントである」
これらのアドバイスは、モリーがミッチに伝えた言葉であり、読者自身がそのアドバイスを自分の人生に応用することで、より豊かな人生を送ることができるようになるでしょう。
2021年3月8日に日本でレビュー済み
Amazonで購入
Plenty of life lessons
2020年3月7日に日本でレビュー済み
Amazonで購入
Tells you what is important in life.
他の国からのトップレビュー
joanne black
5つ星のうち5.0
amazing story
2024年3月27日にカナダでレビュー済みAmazonで購入
Easy read, but a SO many life lessons! Will have you laughing, crying - but most of all; looking at life from a little different view - seeing what is really important in our lives, and understanding how much our lives matter. - Have bought a copy for each of my 4 children, hoping they find the 'life gems' I discovered. Is definitely a book I will re-read from time to time. Also loved this author's other books: "Stranger in the Lifeboat" and "The Five People you meet in Heaven".
Ananda
5つ星のうち5.0
One of the best books I’ve ever read!
2024年1月27日にブラジルでレビュー済みAmazonで購入
It makes you think about really important things in life and really touches deep within the soul, I recommend it 100%!
chux
5つ星のうち5.0
estar muriendo para aprender a vivir?
2023年11月29日にメキシコでレビュー済みAmazonで購入
Un libro de empatia y agradecimiento a aquellos docentes
que impactan profundo en tu vida.
"Quien honra a sus maestros, se honra así mismo"
que impactan profundo en tu vida.
"Quien honra a sus maestros, se honra así mismo"
Anonym
5つ星のうち5.0
Brought me to tears.
2024年5月23日にドイツでレビュー済みAmazonで購入
It's almost unbelievable how much you learn by reading this. As someone lucky enough to have found a teacher like Morrie, i just want to say thank you for making me aware of this kind of beauty in life again <3
Sruthi
5つ星のうち5.0
One of the most beautiful books I read in ages.
2024年5月17日にインドでレビュー済みAmazonで購入
"Tuesdays with Morrie" is a heart-touching memoir by Mitch Albom. The book chronicles his profound relationship with his former college professor, coach, and spiritual guru, Morrie Schwartz. Morrie is battling ALS (Amyotrophic lateral sclerosis); yet, his charismatic personality, coupled with his wisdom and unwavering optimism, captivates the readers from the very first page.
Mitch reconnects with Morrie after seeing him on television during an interview. The interview, which is about Morrie's battle with ALS, strikes a chord with Mitch, prompting him to reach out to his former professor. Despite years of lost contact due to Mitch's busy career and personal pursuits, the sight of Morrie's struggle, along with his profound wisdom, resonates deeply with Mitch, leading him to make the decision to visit Morrie every Tuesday and rekindle their connection.
Through these meetings, Morrie imparts his wisdom on love, family, forgiveness, and the pursuit of meaningful experiences, urging Mitch to embrace vulnerability and authenticity. As they explore topics ranging from the fear of aging to the significance of living a purposeful life, Mitch undergoes profound introspection, realizing his misplaced priorities and finding renewed meaning in Morrie's teachings.
Albom's writing style is simple yet poignant; it allows the reader to immerse themselves in the conversation between Mitch and Morrie. These conversations will resonate with readers of all ages. At some point, it feels like this is a fatherly conversation that you need.
Overall, the book is a thought-provoking read that reminds us of the importance of embracing every moment. Once you read the book, it will stay with you, prompting you to reflect upon how you choose to live and leave a legacy behind.
Mitch reconnects with Morrie after seeing him on television during an interview. The interview, which is about Morrie's battle with ALS, strikes a chord with Mitch, prompting him to reach out to his former professor. Despite years of lost contact due to Mitch's busy career and personal pursuits, the sight of Morrie's struggle, along with his profound wisdom, resonates deeply with Mitch, leading him to make the decision to visit Morrie every Tuesday and rekindle their connection.
Through these meetings, Morrie imparts his wisdom on love, family, forgiveness, and the pursuit of meaningful experiences, urging Mitch to embrace vulnerability and authenticity. As they explore topics ranging from the fear of aging to the significance of living a purposeful life, Mitch undergoes profound introspection, realizing his misplaced priorities and finding renewed meaning in Morrie's teachings.
Albom's writing style is simple yet poignant; it allows the reader to immerse themselves in the conversation between Mitch and Morrie. These conversations will resonate with readers of all ages. At some point, it feels like this is a fatherly conversation that you need.
Overall, the book is a thought-provoking read that reminds us of the importance of embracing every moment. Once you read the book, it will stay with you, prompting you to reflect upon how you choose to live and leave a legacy behind.
Sruthi
2024年5月17日にインドでレビュー済み
Mitch reconnects with Morrie after seeing him on television during an interview. The interview, which is about Morrie's battle with ALS, strikes a chord with Mitch, prompting him to reach out to his former professor. Despite years of lost contact due to Mitch's busy career and personal pursuits, the sight of Morrie's struggle, along with his profound wisdom, resonates deeply with Mitch, leading him to make the decision to visit Morrie every Tuesday and rekindle their connection.
Through these meetings, Morrie imparts his wisdom on love, family, forgiveness, and the pursuit of meaningful experiences, urging Mitch to embrace vulnerability and authenticity. As they explore topics ranging from the fear of aging to the significance of living a purposeful life, Mitch undergoes profound introspection, realizing his misplaced priorities and finding renewed meaning in Morrie's teachings.
Albom's writing style is simple yet poignant; it allows the reader to immerse themselves in the conversation between Mitch and Morrie. These conversations will resonate with readers of all ages. At some point, it feels like this is a fatherly conversation that you need.
Overall, the book is a thought-provoking read that reminds us of the importance of embracing every moment. Once you read the book, it will stay with you, prompting you to reflect upon how you choose to live and leave a legacy behind.
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