Each bite was a struggle; he chewed the food finely before swallowing,
and sometimes it slid out the sides of his lips, so that he had to put down what he was holding to dab his face with a napkin.
The skin from his wrist to his knuckles was dotted with age spots, and it was loose, like skin hanging from a chicken soup bone.
For a while, we just ate like that, a sick old man, a healthy, younger man, both absorbing the quiet of the room.
I would say it was an embarrassed silence, but I seemed to be the only one embarrassed.
“Dying,” Morrie suddenly said, “is only one thing to be sad over, Mitch. Living unhappily is something else.
So many of the people who come to visit me are unhappy.” Why?
Well, for one thing, the culture we have does not make people feel good about themselves.
We’re teaching the wrong things. And you have to be strong enough to say if the culture doesn’t work, don’t buy it.
Create your own. Most people can’t do it. They’re more unhappy than me—even in my current condition.
I may be dying, but I am surrounded by loving, caring souls. How many people can say that?”
I was astonished by his complete lack of self-pity.
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