“This Ted Turner guy,” Morrie said, “he couldn’t think of anything else for his tombstone?”
‘Each night, when I go to sleep, I die. And the next morning, when I wake up, I am reborn.’ —Mahatma Gandhi
The Ninth Tuesday We Talk About How Love Goes On
The leaves had begun to change color, turning the ride through West Newton into a portrait of gold and rust.
Back in Detroit, the labor war had stagnated, with each side accusing the other of failing to communicate.
The stories on the TV news were just as depressing.
In rural Kentucky, three men threw pieces of a tombstone off a bridge, smashing the windshield of a passing car,
killing a teenage girl who was traveling with her family on a religious pilgrimage.
In California, the O. J. Simpson trial was heading toward a conclusion, and the whole country seemed to be obsessed.
Even in airports, there were hanging TV sets tuned to CNN so that you could get an O.J. update as you made your way to a gate.
I had tried calling my brother in Spain several times.
I left messages saying that I really wanted to talk to him, that I had been doing a lot of thinking about us.
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