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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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“"Eva?" the monster whispered, feathering a panicked touch to her cheek. Her color was fading, a deathly pallor swallowing the rosy hue of sun-touched skin. "Wake up," it pleaded weakly, cradling the back of her neck to prevent her head from lolling. Salt burned the corners of its eyes. Strange, how tears could hurt sometimes. With a little sob, the monster repositioned Eva on the grass and pressed both palms to the wound in her side. The gentle pressure made Eva convulse, her eyes slitting open. She moaned. "I’m sorry." The monster couldn’t tell where its panic ended and Arthur’s began. The level of terror coursing through their shared being was so violent it made the monster nauseous. "I’m so sorry. But you’ve got to stay awake for me.” It scrubbed under its eyes, clearing the blurriness away, tasting salt. "You have to stay.” Eva’s lips parted, but no sound came out. The monster stripped off Arthur’s shirt and balled it up, then pressed it to her wound. "Come on, Freckles,” it choked out. The monster had never prayed before. What was a creature like it supposed to do with God, anyway? But it firmly believed that if anyone should curry divine favor, it was Arthur’s bee girl.”

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“When he had thought of death before, he had thought of it either as a literary event or as the slow, quiet attrition of time against imperfect flesh. He had not thought of it as the explosion of violence upon a battlefield, as the gush of blood from the ruptured throat. He wondered at the difference between the two kinds of dying, and what the difference meant; and he found growing in him some of that bitterness he had glimpsed once in the living heart of his friend David Masters.”

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“Some students looked sad. Some looked bored. I probably looked deranged as I waited for the marching band to bust through the doors, yelling, “Surprise!” as they banged on their stupid drums. “Hadley’s not really dead! But you know who’s gonna be dead this Friday when we kill them in football? The Mountain View Mustangs!” Then, they’d step out of the way to reveal a living Hadley, and we’d all shoot streamers into the air and chant the fight song.”

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“you would see a lot of paintings of dead people. You'd see Jesus on the cross, and you'd see a dude getting stabbed in the neck, and you'd see people dying at sea and in battle and a parade of martyrs. But Not. One. Single. Cancer. Kid. Nobody biting it from the plague of smallpox or yellow fever or whatever, because there is no glory in illness. There is no meaning to it. There is no honor in dying of.”

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