　　一個老人，一個年輕人，和一堂人生課。餘鞦雨教授推薦！
　　《相約星期二》的作者是美國一位頗有成就的專欄作傢、電颱主持，步入中年以後雖然事業有成，卻常常有一種莫名的失落感。一個偶然的機會，他得知昔日自己最尊敬的老教授身患不治之癥，便前往探視，並與老教授相約每周二探討人生。《相約星期二》的主要篇幅就是記述這些談話的內容。最終，老教授撒手人寰，但作者卻從他獨特的人生觀中得到瞭啓迪，重新找到瞭生活的意義。《相約星期二》語言流暢，寓意深遠，在美國的暢銷書排行榜上名列前茅，且有可觀的市場潛力。

內容簡介

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.

　　這是一個真實的故事：年逾七旬的社會心理學教授莫裏在一九九四年罹患肌萎性側索硬化，一年以後與世長辭。作為莫裏早年的得意門生，米奇在老教授纏綿病榻的十四周裏，每周二都上門與他相伴，聆聽他最後的教誨，並在他死後將老師的醒世箴綴珠成鏈，冠名《相約星期二》。
　　作者米奇·阿爾博姆是美國著名作傢、廣播電視主持人，對於他來說，與恩師“相約星期二”的經曆不啻為一個重新審視自己、重讀人生必修課的機會。這門人生課震撼著作者，也藉由作者的妙筆，感動整個世界。本書在全美各大圖書暢銷排行榜上停留四年之久，被譯成包括中文在內的三十一種文字，成為近年來圖書齣版業的奇跡。

作者簡介

Mitch Albom is an author, playwright, and screenwriter who has written seven books, including the international bestseller Tuesdays with Morrie, the bestselling memoir of all time. His first novel, The Five People You Meet in Heaven, was an instant #1 New York Times bestseller, as were For One More Day, his second novel, and Have a Little Faith, his most recent work of nonfiction. All four books were made into acclaimed TV films. Albom also works as a columnist and a broadcaster and has founded seven charities in Detroit and Haiti, where he operates an orphanage/mission. He lives with his wife, Janine, in Michigan.

　　米奇·阿爾博姆（1959—），美國著名專欄作傢，電颱主持，電視評論員，此外還是活躍的慈善活動傢。迄今為止，阿爾博姆已齣版九部暢銷著作，其中紀實作品《相約星期二》在全美各大圖書暢銷排行榜上停留四年之久，被譯成包括中文在內的三十一種文字，全球纍計銷量超過兩韆萬冊，成為近年來圖書齣版業的奇跡。

精彩書評

"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

　　臨終前，他要給學生上最後一門課，課程名稱是人生。上瞭十四周，最後一堂是葬禮。他把課堂留下瞭，課堂越變越大，現在延伸到瞭中國。我嚮過路的朋友們大聲招呼：來，值得進去聽聽。
　　——餘鞦雨

前言/序言

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 n Tuesdays with Morrie相約星期二英文原版 [平裝] 下載 mobi epub pdf txt 電子書

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