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A review by smart_as_paint
Tuesdays with Morrie: An Old Man, a Young Man, and Life's Greatest Lesson by Mitch Albom
5.0
It's difficult to say something about life that hasn't been said before. Humans have been reckoning with reality since the Pleistocene, so new ideas about existing are hard to find. Yet somehow, Tuesdays with Morrie manages to say something new. And I think I know why.
Tuesday's with Morrie is technically Mitch Albom's memoir. But that's not what the book is really about. It's about Morrie Schwartz, Albom's former professor, dying from ALS and the lessons he has to teach along the way.
The thing that stands out most in the book is Morrie. Albom's prose is infatuated with the teacher. He lavishes Morie with praise and holds him up as a paragon of self-actualization. That's not to say Morrie is perfect, but his blemishes are drowned out by his virtues. He's practically perfect in every way.
But practically perfect people still die. And Morrie wants to share his experience with you.
What Morrie actually says is both the most and least interesting part of the book. He talks in platitudes. He revels in love and family and dancing like nobody cares. There are no messy practicalities to be found in Morrie's wisdom. It's well-worn ideals with a strong theme of morbid resignation.
Love is how you stay alive, even after you are gone
I normally find myself tired of this genre of writing. "Easier said than done" pops into my head most of the time I hear one of these pithy wisdoms. But Morrie is different. He doesn't speak in cliches because they are easy. He speaks in cliches because they are true. And they are true for him. Meaning is a jumper you have to knit yourself. But Morrie is such a shining beacon of goodness that he compels you to follow his stitches.
There's a one-star book, most often found in close proximity to a middle-class toilet, called 8,789 Words of Wisdom. It's 600 pages of bullet-pointed cliches about love and family and dancing like nobody cares. It's Morrie's wisdom without the Morrie. Yet it's little more than doom scrolling— memorable because it's so forgettable.
Morrie shows us that wisdom demands context. Life has too much momentum to change for just a good idea. We need a reason to internalize the wisdom of others. As I watched the secular Morrie die with composure, I felt like maybe I could use his death as a template. Maybe I could use meaning to overcome my fear of oblivion. Maybe I could live in such a way as to die like Morrie.
And that sounds like a pretty good reason to listen to his wisdom.
I don't know if Tuesdays with Morrie is a book for all occasions. When times are good, it's no fun to stare into the abyss. And Morrie is a blunt-force reminder that the abyss is coming for us all. But I do know that death does feel like the ultimate darkness— an incomprehensible finality that wiggles its way into your mind when times are tough.
But if Morrie can walk into the valley of shadow with his head held high, maybe I can do the same.
Tuesday's with Morrie is technically Mitch Albom's memoir. But that's not what the book is really about. It's about Morrie Schwartz, Albom's former professor, dying from ALS and the lessons he has to teach along the way.
The thing that stands out most in the book is Morrie. Albom's prose is infatuated with the teacher. He lavishes Morie with praise and holds him up as a paragon of self-actualization. That's not to say Morrie is perfect, but his blemishes are drowned out by his virtues. He's practically perfect in every way.
But practically perfect people still die. And Morrie wants to share his experience with you.
What Morrie actually says is both the most and least interesting part of the book. He talks in platitudes. He revels in love and family and dancing like nobody cares. There are no messy practicalities to be found in Morrie's wisdom. It's well-worn ideals with a strong theme of morbid resignation.
Love is how you stay alive, even after you are gone
I normally find myself tired of this genre of writing. "Easier said than done" pops into my head most of the time I hear one of these pithy wisdoms. But Morrie is different. He doesn't speak in cliches because they are easy. He speaks in cliches because they are true. And they are true for him. Meaning is a jumper you have to knit yourself. But Morrie is such a shining beacon of goodness that he compels you to follow his stitches.
There's a one-star book, most often found in close proximity to a middle-class toilet, called 8,789 Words of Wisdom. It's 600 pages of bullet-pointed cliches about love and family and dancing like nobody cares. It's Morrie's wisdom without the Morrie. Yet it's little more than doom scrolling— memorable because it's so forgettable.
Morrie shows us that wisdom demands context. Life has too much momentum to change for just a good idea. We need a reason to internalize the wisdom of others. As I watched the secular Morrie die with composure, I felt like maybe I could use his death as a template. Maybe I could use meaning to overcome my fear of oblivion. Maybe I could live in such a way as to die like Morrie.
And that sounds like a pretty good reason to listen to his wisdom.
I don't know if Tuesdays with Morrie is a book for all occasions. When times are good, it's no fun to stare into the abyss. And Morrie is a blunt-force reminder that the abyss is coming for us all. But I do know that death does feel like the ultimate darkness— an incomprehensible finality that wiggles its way into your mind when times are tough.
But if Morrie can walk into the valley of shadow with his head held high, maybe I can do the same.