Tuesdays with Morrie: An Old Man, a Young Man, and Life's Greatest Lesson [Englisch] [Taschenbuch]

Dieser Titel ist in englischer Sprache.
Diese wahre Geschichte von der Liebe zwischen einem spirituellen Mentor und seinem Schüler ist aus vielen Gründen in der Bestsellerliste nach oben geschossen. Zum einen erinnert sie uns an die Zuneigung und Dankbarkeit, die viele von uns immer noch für die bedeutenden Mentoren unserer Vergangenheit hegen. Zum anderen spielt sie eine Phantasie durch, die vielen von uns im Kopf herumspukt: diese Leute wieder aufzusuchen, um ihnen zu sagen, was sie uns bedeutet haben, und vielleicht sogar die Beziehung wieder aufzunehmen. Außerdem lernen wir Morrie Schwartz kennen -- einen einmaligen Professor, den der Autor als eine Kreuzung zwischen einem biblischen Propheten und einem Weihnachtself beschreibt. Und schließlich werden wir in die intimen Momente der letzten Tage von Morrie eingeweiht, als er wegen einer unheilbaren Krankheit im Sterben liegt. Sogar auf seinem Sterbebett schafft es dieser ehrwürdige Mensch mit seinen funkelnden Augen, uns alles über ein bewußtes und gehaltvolles Leben beizubringen. Alle Achtung vor dem Autor und anerkannten Sportkolumnisten Mitch Albom, der uns diese universell-rührende Geschichte mit soviel Charme und Bescheidenheit erzählt. --Gail Hudson

Der Titelheld Morrie ist Morrie Schwartz, der 20 Jahre zuvor Alboms Universitätsprofessor gewesen war. Albom sah zufällig ein Interview mit Morrie in der Sendung Nightline, was schließlich dazu führte, daß er wieder mit seinem alten Lehrer, Freund und "Coach" zusammentraf. Albom, ein erfolgreicher Sportjournalist, kämpfte zu dieser Zeit damit, seine Unzufriedenheit mit seinem eigenen Leben und seiner Karriere zu definieren. Morrie, andererseits, litt nach einem gehaltvollen Leben voller Freunde, Familie, Unterrichten und Musik an der tödlichen Lou-Gehrig-Krankheit, ein lähmendes Leiden, das seine Aktivitäten von Tag zu Tag mehr einschränkte. Albom war einer von hunderten von früheren Studenten und Bekannten, die von weither kamen, um Morrie in den letzten Monaten seines Lebens zu besuchen.

Die 14 Dienstagsbesuche, die ihrem Wiedersehen folgten, schickten Albom -- und so wird es auch seinen Lesern gehen -- auf eine Reise, die ihm wieder die Augen öffnete für die Dinge, die ein Leben erfüllt machen. Die Geschichte ist in einem journalistischen Stil geschrieben, der niemals in Pathos übergeht. --Brenda Pittsley -- Dieser Text bezieht sich auf eine andere Ausgabe: Gebundene Ausgabe .

This true story about the love between a spiritual mentor and his pupil has soared to the bestseller list for many reasons. For starters, it reminds us of the affection and gratitude that many of us still feel for the significant mentors of our past. It also plays out a fantasy many of us have entertained: what would it be like to look those people up again, tell them how much they meant to us, maybe even resume the mentorship? And we meet Morrie Schwartz--a one of a kind professor, whom the author describes as looking like a cross between a biblical prophet and Christmas elf. Finally, we are privy to intimate moments of Morrie's final days as he lies dying from a terminal illness. Even on his deathbed, this twinkling-eyed mensch manages to teach us all about living robustly and fully. Kudos to author and acclaimed sports columnist Mitch Albom for telling this universally touching story with such grace and humility. --Gail Hudson -- Dieser Text bezieht sich auf eine vergriffene oder nicht verfügbare Ausgabe dieses Titels.

This true story about the love between a spiritual mentor and his pupil has soared to the bestseller list for many reasons. For starters: it reminds us of the affection and gratitude that many of us still feel for the significant mentors of our past. It also plays out a fantasy many of us have entertained: what would it be like to look those people up again, tell them how much they meant to us, maybe even resume the mentorship? Plus, we meet Morrie Schwartz--a one of a kind professor, whom the author describes as looking like a cross between a biblical prophet and Christmas elf. And finally we are privy to intimate moments of Morrie's final days as he lies dying from a terminal illness. Even on his deathbed, this twinkling-eyed mensch manages to teach us all about living robustly and fully. Kudos to author and acclaimed sports columnist Mitch Albom for telling this universally touching story with such grace and humility. --Gail Hudson -- Dieser Text bezieht sich auf eine andere Ausgabe: Gebundene Ausgabe .

Award-winning sportswriter Albom was a student at Brandeis University, some two decades ago, of sociologist Morrie Schwartz. Here Albom recounts how, recently, as the old man was dying, he renewed his warm relationship with his revered mentor. This is the vivid record of the teacher's battle with muscle- wasting amyotrophic lateral sclerosis, or Lou Gehrig's disease. The dying man, largely because of his life-affirming attitude toward his death-dealing illness, became a sort of thanatopic guru, and was the subject of three Ted Koppel interviews on Nightline. That was how the author first learned of Morrie's condition. Albom well fulfilled the age-old obligation to visit the sick. He calls his weekly visits to his teacher his last class, and the present book a term paper. The subject: The Meaning of Life. Unfortunately, but surely not surprisingly, those relying on this text will not actually learn The Meaning of Life here. Albom does not present a full transcript of the regular Tuesday talks. Rather, he expands a little on the professor's aphorisms, which are, to be sure, unassailable. ``Love is the only rational act,'' Morrie said. ``Love each other or perish,'' he warned, quoting Auden. Albom learned well the teaching that ``death ends a life, not a relationship.'' The love between the old man and the younger one is manifest. This book, small and easily digested, stopping just short of the maudlin and the mawkish, is on the whole sincere, sentimental, and skillful. (The substantial costs of Morrie's last illness, Albom tells us, were partly defrayed by the publisher's advance). Place it under the heading ``Inspirational.'' ``Death,'' said Morrie, ``is as natural as life. It's part of the deal we made.'' If that is so (and it's not a notion quickly gainsaid), this book could well have been called ``The Art of the Deal.'' -- Copyright ©1997, Kirkus Associates, LP. All rights reserved. -- Dieser Text bezieht sich auf eine andere Ausgabe: Gebundene Ausgabe .

A Detroit Free Press journalist and best-selling author recounts his weekly visits with a dying teacher who years before had set him straight.
Copyright 1997 Reed Business Information, Inc. -- Dieser Text bezieht sich auf eine andere Ausgabe: Gebundene Ausgabe .

“Mitch Albom’s book is a gift to mankind.” --The Philadelphia Inquirer

“A wonderful book, a story of the heart told by a writer with soul.” --Los Angeles Times

“An elegantly simple story about a writer getting a second chance to discover life through the death of a friend.” --Tampa Tribune

“An extraordinary contribution to the literature of death.” --The Boston Globe

“This is a true story that shines and leaves you forever warmed by its afterglow.” --Amy Tan

“Every page of this beautiful, moving little book shines with the warmth of unembarrassed love.” --Rabbi Harold Kushner

“One of those books that kind of sneaked up and grabbed people’s hearts over time.” --Milwaukee Journal Sentinel

“The book is an incredible treasure.” --Bernie Siegel, M.D.

3 CDs read by the author. A true story of friendship and rediscovering a mentor. Unabrisged. Running time: 3hrs. -- Dieser Text bezieht sich auf eine andere Ausgabe: Audio CD .

Mitch Albom, Jahrgang 1958, schreibt für die Detroit Free Press und wurde bereits zehnmal als Amerikas Sportkolumnist Nr. 1 ausgezeichnet. Albom, der früher als professioneller Musiker arbeitete, ist außerdem als Radiomoderator und TV-Journalist tätig. Mit seiner Frau Janine lebt er in Michigan. -- Dieser Text bezieht sich auf eine andere Ausgabe: Gebundene Ausgabe .

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...