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Tuesdays With Morrie: An old man, a young man, and life's greatest lesson

This memoir explores the deepening bond between Morrie Schwartz, a beloved college professor, and Mitch Albom, his former student, as they meet weekly to discuss life, love, and mortality. The story delves into the wisdom and insights Morrie imparts, offering a moving reflection on the human experience and the importance of living fully. more

Author

Mitch Albom
Mitch Albom

Mitch Albom, born on May 23, 1958, is a renowned American author known for his profound exploration of themes such as life, faith, and love. His works, including 'Tuesdays with Morrie' and 'For One More Day', are celebrated for their emotional depth and rich character development. more

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“He nodded toward the window with the sunshine streaming in. "You see that? You can go out there, outside, anytime. You can run up and down the block and go crazy. I can't do that. I can't go out. I can't run. I can't be out there without fear of getting sick. But you know what? I appreciate that window more than you do.”

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“London, December 1915. In the master bedroom (never was the estate agent's epithet more appropriate) of Flat 21, Carlyle Mansions, Cheyne Walk, Chelsea, the distinguished author is dying - slowly, but surely. In Flanders, less than two hundred miles away, other men are dying more quickly, more painfully, more pitifully - young men, mostly, with their lives still before them, blank pages that will never be filled. The author is seventy-two. He has had an interesting and varied life, written many books, travelled widely, enjoyed the arts, moved in society (one winter he dined out 107 times), and owns a charming old house in Rye as well as the lease of this spacious London flat with its fine view of the Thames. He has had deeply rewarding friendships with both men and women. If he has never experienced sexual intercourse, that was by his own choice, unlike the many young men in Flanders who died virgins either for lack of opportunity or because they hoped to marry and were keeping themselves chaste on principle.”

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“Let my heiress have full rights, Live in my house, sing songs that I composed. Yet how slowly my strength ebbs, How the tortured breast craves air. The love of my friends, my enemies' rancor And the yellow roses in my bushy garden, And a lover's burning tenderness—all this I bestow upon you, messenger of dawn. Also the glory for which I was born, For which my star, like some whirlwind, soared And now falls. Look, its falling Prophesies your power, love and inspiration. Preserving my generous bequest, You will live long and worthily. Thus it will be. You see, I am content, Be happy, but remember me.”

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“If it had been a heart attack, the newspaper might have used the word massive, as if a mountain range had opened inside her, but instead it used the word suddenly, a light coming on in an empty room. The telephone fell from my shoulder, a black parrot repeating something happened, something awful a sunday, dusky. If it had been terminal, we could have cradled her as she grew smaller, wiped her mouth, said good-bye. But it was sudden, how overnight we could be orphaned & the world became a bell we'd crawl inside & the ringing all we'd eat.”

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