Dying," Morrie suddenly said, "is the 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.

I may be dying, but I am surrounded by loving, caring souls. How many people can say that?

There are some mornings when I cry and cry and mourn for myself. Some mornings, I'm so angry and bitter. But it doesn't last too long. Then I get up and say, 'I want to live..'
'So far, I've been able to do it. Will I be able to continue? I don't know. But I'm betting on myself I will.'
Koppel seemed extremely taken with Morrie. He asked about the humility that death induced.

What she mostly wanted, he learned, was the same thing many people want--someone to notice she was there.

I hope you never hear those words. Your mom. She died. They are different than other words. They are too big to fit in your ears. They belong to some strange, heavy, powerful language that pounds away at the side of your head, a wrecking ball coming at you again and again, until finally, the words crack a hole large enough to fit inside your brain. And in so doing, they split you apart.

Dying is only one thing to be sad over. Living unhappily is something else.