Mitch Albom
Mitch Albom
Mitchell David "Mitch" Albomis an American best-selling author, journalist, screenwriter, dramatist, radio and television broadcaster, and musician. His books have sold over 35 million copies worldwide. Having achieved national recognition for sports writing in the earlier part of his career, he is perhaps best known for the inspirational stories and themes that weave through his books, plays, and films...
NationalityAmerican
ProfessionNovelist
Date of Birth23 May 1958
CityPassaic, NJ
CountryUnited States of America
To know you're going to die, and to be prepared for it at any time. That's better. That way you can actually be more involved in your life while you're living.
Holding anger is a poison. It eats you from the inside. We think that hating is a weapon that attacks the person who harmed us. But hatred is a curved blade. And the harm we do, we do to ourselves. Forgive, Edward. Forgive...no one is born with anger. And when we die, the soul is freed of it. But now, here, in order to move on, you must understand why you felt what you did, and why you no longer need to feel it.' She touched his hand. 'You need to forgive your father.' ~pgs 141-142
Sometimes, they say, the moon is so busy with the new souls of the world that it disappears from the sky. That is why we have moonless nights. But in the end, the moon always returns, as do we all.
So, have we solved the secret of happiness? "I believe so," he said Are you going to tell me? "Yes.Ready?" Ready. "Be satisfied." That's it? "Be greatful." That's it? "For what you have.For the love you receive.And for what God has given you." That's it? He looked me in the eye.Then he sighed deeply. "That's it.
Why are we embarassed by silence? What comfort do we find in all the noise?
How could he find perfection in such an average day? Then I realized this was the whole point.
Once, lovers on faraway shores sat by candlelight and dipped ink to parchment, writing words that could not be erased. They took an evening to compose their thoughts, maybe the next evening as well.
At that moment i felt lonelier than i'd ever felt before, and that loneliness seemed to squat in my lungs and crush all but my most minimal breathing. There was nothing left to say. Not about this. Not about anything.
A wind blew, and the sand around his drawing scattered. He wrapped his fingers inside his wife's, and Father Time rekindled a connection he had only ever had with her. He surrendered to that sensation and felt the final drops of their lives touch one another, like water in a cave, top meets bottom, Heaven meets Earth. As their eyes closed, a different set of eyes opened, and they rose from the ground as a shared south, up and up, a sun and a moon in a single sky.
There was always a quest for more minutes, more hours, faster progress to accomplish more in each day. The simple joy of living between summers was gone.
Please, please, please, please, please...,", squeezing his eyes shut because it somehow made the words more pure.
He almost told her everything right then, that very moment. But you grab a moment, or you let it pass. He let it pass.
And I suppose tapes are a desperate attempt to steal something from Death's suitcase.
We all have same beginning (BIRTH), and we will have same ending (DEATH). So how different can we be?