Tuesdays with Morrie: An Old Man, a Young Man, and Life’s Greatest Lesson, 20th Anniversary Edition Paperback – October 8, 2002 by Mitch Albom

Description

Author: Albom Mitch

Brand: Broadway Books

Color: Multicolor

Edition: Anniversary, Reprint

Features:

• This book will tug at your emotions.

Package Dimensions: 18x182x160

Number Of Pages: 192

Release Date: 08-10-2002

Details: Product Description
#1 NEW YORK TIMES BESTSELLER • A special 20th anniversary edition of the beloved book that changed millions of lives—with a new afterword by the author

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.
Review
“Mitch Albom’s book is a gift to mankind.”
—
Philadelphia Inquirer“A wonderful book, a story of the heart told by a writer with soul.”
—
Los Angeles Times“An extraordinary contribution to the literature of death.”
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Boston Globe“One of those books that kind of sneaked up and grabbed people’s hearts over time.”
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Milwaukee Journal Sentinel“An elegantly simple story about a writer getting a second chance to discover life through the death of a friend.”
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Tampa Tribune“As sweet and nourishing as fresh summer corn . . . the book begs to be read aloud.”
—USA Today
About the Author
Mitch Albom is the author of numerous books of fiction and nonfiction, which have collectively sold more than forty million copies in forty-seven languages worldwide. He has written seven number-one
New York Times bestsellers, award-winning TV films, stage plays, screenplays, a nationally syndicated newspaper column, and a musical. He founded and oversees SAY Detroit, a consortium of nine different charitable operations in his hometown, including a nonprofit dessert shop and food product line to fund programs for Detroit’s neediest citizens. He also operates an orphanage in Port-Au-Prince, Haiti. He lives with his wife, Janine, in Michigan.
Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.
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 ce