deposited there among his books and papers and the hibiscus plant on the windowsill.
In typical fashion, he found something philosophical in this. “I sum it up in my newest aphorism,” he said. Let me hear it.
“When you’re in bed, you’re dead.” He smiled. Only Morrie could smile at something like that.
He had been getting calls from the “Nightline” people and from Ted Koppel himself.
“They want to come and do another show with me,” he said. “But they say they want to wait.”
Until what? You’re on your last breath? “Maybe. Anyhow, I’m not so far away.”
Don’t say that. “I’m sorry.” That bugs me, that they want to wait until you wither.
“It bugs you because you look out for me.” He smiled.
“Mitch, maybe they are using me for a little drama. That’s okay. Maybe I’m using them, too.
They help me get my message to millions of people. I couldn’t do that without them, right? So it’s a compromise.”
He coughed, which turned into a long-drawn-out gargle, ending with another glob into a crushed tissue.
“Anyhow,” Morrie said, “I told them they better not wait too long, because my voice won’t be there.
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