The Last Lecture by Randy Pausch, Jeffrey Zaslow 

These were the passages that stood out to me.

“It has become a common exercise on college campuses. Professors are asked to consider their demise and to  ruminate on what matters most to them. And while they speak, audiences can’t help but mull the same question:  What wisdom would we impart to the world if we knew it was our last chance? If we had to vanish tomorrow,  what would we want as our legacy?” 

“That very week, however, I got the news: My most recent treatment hadn’t worked. I had just months to live. I  knew I could cancel the lecture. Everyone would understand. Suddenly, there were so many other things to be  done. I had to deal with my own grief and the sadness of those who loved me. I had to throw myself into getting  my family’s affairs in order. And yet, despite everything, I couldn’t shake the idea of giving the talk. I was  energized by the idea of delivering a last lecture that really was a last lecture. What could I say? How would it  be received? Could I even get through it? “They’ll let me back out,” I told my wife, Jai, “but I really want to do  it.” 

“Certainly, the thought of leaving Jai that day was painful to me. And yet, I couldn’t let go of the idea of the  lecture. I had come to see it as the last moment of my career, as a way to say goodbye to my “work family.” I  also found myself fantasizing about giving a last lecture that would be the oratorical equivalent of a retiring  baseball slugger driving one last ball into the upper deck. I had always liked the final scene in The Natural, when  the aging, bleeding ballplayer Roy Hobbs miraculously hits that towering home run.” 

“Dr. Reiss saw a man not yet ready to fully retreat to his home life, and certainly not yet ready to climb into his  deathbed. “This lecture will be the last time many people I care about will see me in the flesh,” I told her flatly.  “I have a chance here to really think about what matters most to me, to cement how people will remember me,  and to do whatever good I can on the way out.”

“Given Jai’s reticence, I knew I had to look honestly at my motivations. Why was this talk so important to me?  Was it a way to remind me and everyone else that I was still very much alive? To prove I still had the fortitude  to perform? Was it a limelight-lover’s urge to show off one last time? The answer was yes on all fronts. “An  injured lion wants to know if he can still roar,” I told Jai. “It’s about dignity and self-esteem, which isn’t quite  the same as vanity.” 

“And how about Logan and Chloe? They may have no memories at all. Nothing. Especially Chloe. And I can  tell you this: When the kids are older, they’re going to go through this phase where they absolutely, achingly  need to know: ‘Who was my dad? What was he like?’ This lecture could help give them an answer to that.” 

“I’ll get you a DVD. When the kids are older, you can show it to them. It’ll help them understand who I was and  what I cared about.” 

“When the waitress brought our meals, I congratulated her on her pregnancy. “You must be overjoyed,” I said.  “Not exactly,” she responded. “It was an accident.” As she walked away, I couldn’t help but be struck by her  frankness. Her casual remark was a reminder about the accidental elements that play into both our arrival into  life… and our departure into death. Here was a woman, having a child by accident that she surely would come to  love. As for me, through the accident of cancer I’d be leaving three children to grow up without my love.” 

“JAI WAS already in the hall—an unexpected full house of 400—and as I hopped on stage to check out the  podium and get organized, she could see how nervous I was. While I busied myself arranging my props, Jai  noticed that I was making eye contact with almost no one. She thought that I couldn’t bring myself to look into  the crowd, knowing I might see a friend or former student, and I’d be too overwhelmed by the emotion of that  eye contact.” 

“Granted, at first glance I looked like the guy who’d take your order at a fast-food drive-through. But actually, the  logo on my short-sleeved polo shirt was an emblem of honor because it’s the one worn by Walt Disney  Imagineers—the artists, writers and engineers who create theme-park fantasies. In 1995, I spent a six-month  sabbatical as an Imagineer. It was a highlight of my life, the fulfillment of a childhood dream. That’s why I was  also wearing the oval “Randy” name badge given to me when I worked at Disney. I was paying tribute to that  life experience, and to Walt Disney himself, who famously had said, “If you can dream it, you can do it.”

“I let the slide linger, so the audience could follow the arrows and count my tumors. “All right,” I said. “That is  what it is. We can’t change it. We just have to decide how we’ll respond. We cannot change the cards we are  dealt, just how we play the hand.” 

“I WON THE parent lottery. I was born with the winning ticket, a major reason I was able to live out my  childhood dreams. My mother was a tough, old-school English teacher with nerves of titanium. She worked her  students hard, enduring those parents who complained that she expected too much from kids. As her son, I knew  a thing or two about her high expectations, and that became my good fortune. My dad was a World War II medic  who served in the Battle of the Bulge. He founded a nonprofit group to help immigrants’ kids learn English. And  for his livelihood, he ran a small business which sold auto insurance in inner-city Baltimore. His clients were  mostly poor people with bad credit histories or few resources, and he’d find a way to get them insured and on  the road. For a million reasons, my dad was my hero.” 

“When I was two years old and my sister was four, my mom took us to the circus. I wanted to go again when I  was nine. “You don’t need to go,” my mom said. “You’ve already been to the circus.” It sounds oppressive by  today’s standards, but it was actually a magical childhood. I really do see myself as a guy who had this  incredible leg up in life because I had a mother and a father who got so many things right.” 

“We didn’t buy much. But we thought about everything. That’s because my dad had this infectious  inquisitiveness about current events, history, our lives. In fact, growing up, I thought there were two types of  families: 1) Those who need a dictionary to get through dinner. 2) Those who don’t. We were No. 1. Most every  night, we’d end up consulting the dictionary, which we kept on a shelf just six steps from the table. “If you have  a question,” my folks would say, “then find the answer.” 

“I quote my father to people almost every day. Part of that is because if you dispense your own wisdom, others  often dismiss it; if you offer wisdom from a third party, it seems less arrogant and more acceptable. Of course,  when you have someone like my dad in your back pocket, you can’t help yourself. You quote him every chance you get.” 

“He’d also warn me that even if I was in a position of strength, whether at work or in relationships, I had to play  fair. “Just because you’re in the driver’s seat,” he’d say, “doesn’t mean you have to run people over.”

“My parents knew what it really took to help people. They were always finding big projects off the beaten path,  then throwing themselves into them. Together, they underwrote a fifty-student dormitory in rural Thailand,  which was designed to help girls remain in school and avoid prostitution.” 

“At age eighty-three, my dad was diagnosed with leukemia. Knowing he didn’t have long to live, he arranged to  donate his body to medical science, and he gave money to continue his program in Thailand for at least six more years.” 

“I also think my dad would be reminding me that kids— more than anything else—need to know their parents  love them. Their parents don’t have to be alive for that to happen.” 

“MY IMAGINATION was always pretty hard to contain, and halfway through high school, I felt this urge to  splash some of the thoughts swirling in my head onto the walls of my childhood bedroom. I asked my parents  for permission. “I want to paint things on my walls,” I said. “Like what?” they asked. “Things that matter to  me,” I said. “Things I think will be cool. You’ll see.” That explanation was enough for my father. That’s what  was so great about him. He encouraged creativity just by smiling at you. He loved to watch the spark of  enthusiasm turn into fireworks. And he understood me and my need to express myself in unconventional ways.  So he thought my wall-painting adventure was a great idea.” 

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Jack and I painted a large silver elevator door. To the left of the door, we drew “Up” and “Down” buttons, and  above the elevator, we painted a panel with floor numbers one through six. The number “three” was illuminated.  We lived in a ranch house—it was just one level—so I was doing a bit of fantasizing to imagine six floors. But  looking back, why didn’t I paint eighty or ninety floors? If I was such a big-shot dreamer, why did my elevator  stop at three? I don’t know. Maybe it was a symbol of the balance in my life between aspiration and pragmatism. 

Anybody out there who is a parent, if your kids want to paint their bedrooms, as a favor to me, let them do it.  It’ll be OK. Don’t worry about resale value on the house.” 

“I don’t know how many more times I will get to visit my childhood home. But it is a gift every time I go there. I  still sleep in that bunk bed my father built, I look at those crazy walls, I think about my parents allowing me to  paint, and I fall asleep feeling lucky and pleased.”

“And how many people are touching the football at any given time?” One of them. “Right!” he said. “So we’re  going to work on what those other twenty-one guys are doing.” Fundamentals. That was a great gift Coach  Graham gave us. Fundamentals, fundamentals, fundamentals. As a college professor, I’ve seen this as one lesson  so many kids ignore, always to their detriment: You’ve got to get the fundamentals down, because otherwise the fancy stuff is not going to work.” 

“When I was finally dismissed, one of the assistant coaches came over to reassure me. “Coach Graham rode you  pretty hard, didn’t he?” he said. I could barely muster a “yeah.” “That’s a good thing,” the assistant told me.  “When you’re screwing up and nobody says anything to you anymore, that means they’ve given up on you.” 

“That lesson has stuck with me my whole life. When you see yourself doing something badly and nobody’s  bothering to tell you anymore, that’s a bad place to be. You may not want to hear it, but your critics are often the  ones telling you they still love you and care about you, and want to make you better.” 

“It saddens me that many kids today are so coddled. I think back to how I felt during that halftime rant. Yes, I  was thirsty. But more than that, I felt humiliated. We had all let down Coach Graham, and he let us know it in a  way we’d never forget. He was right. We had shown more energy at the water bucket than we had in the damn  game. And getting chewed out by him meant something to us. During the second half, we went back on the  field, and gave it our all.” 

“What we really want them to learn is far more important: teamwork, perseverance, sportsmanship, the value of  hard work, an ability to deal with adversity. This kind of indirect learning is what some of us like to call a “head  fake.” 

“I learned so much by watching this guy in action. He was the distilled essence of the dynamic manager, a guy  who knew how to delegate, had the passion to inspire, and looked good in what he wore to work. He never  professed to have skills greater than his subordinates. He acknowledged that they knew what they were doing in  their domains. But he established the vision, the tone. He was in charge of morale. On top of that, Kirk had the  romantic chops to woo women in every galaxy he visited. Picture me at home watching TV, a ten-year-old in  glasses. Every time Kirk showed up on the screen he was like a Greek god to me.”

Shatner stayed for three hours and asked tons of questions. A colleague later said to me: “He just kept asking  and asking. He doesn’t seem to get it.” But I was hugely impressed. Kirk, I mean, Shatner, was the ultimate  example of a man who knew what he didn’t know, was perfectly willing to admit it, and didn’t want to leave  until he understood. That’s heroic to me. I wish every grad student had that attitude.” 

“But I do know that one of my star faculty members is in my office and he’s really excited. So  tell me more.” My sister and me on the Alice ride: All I could think was, “I can’t wait to make stuff like this.”  Now, here’s a lesson for managers and administrators. Both deans said the same thing: They didn’t know if this  sabbatical was a good idea. But think about how differently they said it! I ended up being allowed to take that  sabbatical, and it was a fantasy come true. In fact, I have a confession. This is exactly how geeky I am: Soon  after I arrived in California, I hopped into my convertible and drove over to Imagineering headquarters. It was a  hot summer night, and I had the soundtrack to Disney’s The Lion King blasting on my stereo. Tears actually  began streaming down my face as I drove past the building. Here I was, the grown-up version of that wide-eyed  eight-year-old at Disneyland. I had finally arrived. I was an Imagineer.” 

I wished every medical student considering oncology could see what I was seeing. I watched Dr. Wolff use  semantics to phrase whatever he could in a positive light. When we asked, “How long before I die?” he  answered, “You probably have three to six months of good health.” That reminded me of my time at Disney.  Ask Disney World workers: “What time does the park close?” They’re supposed to answer: “The park is open  until 8 p.m.” 

“At the end of the meeting, the doctor hugged Jai and shook my hand, and Jai and I walked out together, into our  new reality. Leaving the doctor’s office, I thought about what I’d said to Jai in the water park in the afterglow of  the speed slide. “Even if the scan results are bad tomorrow,” I had told her, “I just want you to know that it feels  great to be alive, and to be here today, alive with you. Whatever news we get about the scans, I’m not going to die when we hear it. I won’t die the next day, or the day after that, or the day after that. So today, right now, well  this is a wonderful day. And I want you to know how much I’m enjoying it.” 

“ONE MORNING, well after I was diagnosed with cancer, I got an email from Robbee Kosak, Carnegie  Mellon’s vice president for advancement. She told me a story. She said she had been driving home from work  the night before, and she found herself behind a man in a convertible. It was a warm, gorgeous, early-spring  evening, and the man had his top down and all his windows lowered. His arm was hanging over the driver’s side  door, and his fingers were tapping along to the music on his radio. His head was bobbing along, too, as the wind  blew through his hair. Robbee changed lanes and pulled a little closer. From the side, she could see that the man had a slight smile on his face, the kind of absentminded smile a person might have when he’s all alone, happy in  his own thoughts. Robbee found herself thinking: “Wow, this is the epitome of a person appreciating this day  and this moment.” 

“The convertible eventually turned the corner, and that’s when Robbee got a look at the man’s full face. “Oh my  God,” she said to herself. “It’s Randy Pausch!” She was so struck by the sight of me. She knew that my cancer  diagnosis was grim. And yet, as she wrote in her email, she was moved by how contented I seemed. In this  private moment, I was obviously in high spirits. Robbee wrote in her email: “You can never know how much  that glimpse of you made my day, reminding me of what life is all about.” 

“Her email was just a paragraph, but it meant a great deal to me. She had given me a window into myself. I was  still fully engaged. I still knew life was good. I was doing OK.” 

By the time I got to Brown University, I had certain abilities and people knew I knew it. My good friend Scott  Sherman, whom I met freshman year, now recalls me as “having a total lack of tact, and being universally  acclaimed as the person quickest to offend someone he had just met.” I usually didn’t notice how I was coming  off, in part because things seemed to be working out and I was succeeding academically. Andy van Dam, the  school’s legendary computer science professor, made me his teaching assistant. “Andy van Demand,” as he was  known, liked me. I was impassioned about so many things—a good trait. But like many people, I had strengths  that were also flaws. In Andy’s view, I was self-possessed to a fault, I was way too brash and I was an inflexible  contrarian, always spouting opinions.” 

“I also want my niece and nephew to tell my kids a few things. First, they can say simply: “Your dad asked us to  spend this time with you, just like he spent time with us.” I hope they’ll also explain to my kids how hard I  fought to stay alive. I signed up for the hardest treatments that could be thrown at me because I wanted to be  around as long as possible to be there for my kids. That’s the message I’ve asked Laura and Chris to deliver.” 

“Oh, and one more thing. If my kids mess up their cars, I hope Chris and Laura will think of me and smile.” 

“We went to a wine bar, even though I don’t really drink, and I quickly felt a magnetic sense that I really wanted  to be with this woman. I was scheduled to take a flight home the next morning, but I told her I’d change it if  she’d go on a date with me the following day. She said yes, and we ended up having a terrific time. After I returned to Pittsburgh, I offered her my frequent flyer miles and asked her to visit me. She had obvious feelings  for me, but she was scared—of both my reputation and of the possibility that she was falling in love.” 

“We saw each other most every weekend through the winter. Though Jai wasn’t thrilled with my bluntness and  my know-it-all attitude, she said I was the most positive, upbeat person she’d ever met. And she was bringing  out good things in me. I found myself caring about her welfare and happiness more than anything else.” 

“It was an awkward scene. She didn’t know how to feel. I didn’t know how to feel. I needed a ride over to my  hotel. “Would you be kind enough to drive me or should I call a cab?” She drove me, and when we got there, I  pulled my bag out of her trunk, fighting back tears. If it’s possible to be arrogant, optimistic and totally  miserable all at the same time, I think I might have pulled it off: “Look, I’m going to find a way to be happy, and  I’d really love to be happy with you, but if I can’t be happy with you, then I’ll find a way to be happy without  you.” In the hotel, I spent much of the day on the phone with my parents, telling them about the brick wall I’d  just smashed into. Their advice was incredible. “Look,” my dad said. “I don’t think she means it. It’s not  consistent with her behavior thus far. You’ve asked her to pull up roots and run away with you. She’s probably  confused and scared to death. If she doesn’t really love you, then it’s over. And if she does love you, then love  will win out.” I asked my parents what I should do. “Be supportive,” my mom said. “If you love her, support  her.” And so I did that. I spent that week teaching, hanging out in an office up the hall from Jai. I stopped by a  couple of times, however, just to see if she was all right.”

“A few days later, Jai called. “Well, Randy, I’m sitting here missing you, just wishing you were here. That means  something, doesn’t it?” She had come to a realization: She was in love, after all. Once again, my parents had  come through. Love had won out. At week’s end, Jai moved to Pittsburgh. Brick walls are there for a reason.  They give us a chance to show how badly we want something.” 

“We did not leave the reception in a car with cans rattling from the rear bumper. We did not get into a horse drawn carriage. Instead, we got into a huge, multicolored hot-air balloon that whisked us off into the clouds, as  our friends and loved ones waved up to us, wishing us bon voyage. What a Kodak moment!” 

“Toward the end of our terrific dinner she said, “Randy, I have something to tell you. I hit one car with the other  car.” I asked her how it happened. I had her describe the damage. She said the convertible got the worst of it, but  both cars were running fine. “Want to go in the garage and look at them?” she asked. “No,” I said. “Let’s just  finish dinner.” She was surprised. I wasn’t angry. I hardly seemed concerned. As she’d soon learn, my measured  response was rooted in my upbringing. After dinner, we looked at the cars. I just shrugged, and I could see that for Jai, an entire day’s worth of anxiety was just melting away. “Tomorrow morning,” she promised, “I’ll get  estimates on the repairs.” I told her that wasn’t necessary. The dents would be OK. My parents had raised me to  recognize that automobiles are there to get you from point A to point B. They are utilitarian devices, not  expressions of social status. And so I told Jai we didn’t need to do cosmetic repairs. We’d just live with the dents  and gashes. Jai was a bit shocked. “We’re really going to drive around in dented cars?” she asked. “Well, you  can’t have just some of me, Jai,” I told her. “You appreciate the part of me that didn’t get angry because two  ‘things’ we own got hurt. But the flip side of that is my belief that you don’t repair things if they still do what  they’re supposed to do. The cars still work. Let’s just drive ’em.” 

“OK, maybe this makes me quirky. But if your trashcan or wheelbarrow has a dent in it, you don’t buy a new one.  Maybe that’s because we don’t use trashcans and wheelbarrows to communicate our social status or identity to  others. For Jai and me, our dented cars became a statement in our marriage. Not everything needs to be fixed.” 

“I see a baby,” I said. “There’s a baby coming.” Through tears, she couldn’t ask the hardest question. But I had  the answer. “He’s moving.” And then the baby, our first child, Dylan, let out a wail like you’ve never heard  before. Just bloody murder. The nurses smiled. “That’s great,” someone said. The preemies who come out limp  often have the most trouble. But the ones who come out all pissed off and full of noise, they’re the fighters.  They’re the ones who thrive.” 

“I’m a spreader. My clothes, clean and dirty, are spread around the bedroom, and my bathroom sink is cluttered.  It drives Jai crazy. Before I got sick, she’d say something. But Dr. Reiss has advised her not to let small things  trip us up. Obviously, I ought to be neater. I owe Jai many apologies. But she has stopped telling me about the minor stuff that bugs her. Do we really want to spend our last months together arguing that I haven’t hung up my  khakis? We do not. So now Jai kicks my clothes into a corner and moves on.” 

“The apprentice (Natalie Portman) tells the toymaker (Dustin Hoffman) that he  can’t die; he has to live. And he responds: “I already did that.” 

“At Christmas, I had made an adventure out of putting the lights on the tree. Rather than showing Dylan and  Logan the proper way to do it—carefully and meticulously—I just let them have at it haphazardly. However  they wanted to throw those lights on the tree was fine by me. We got video of the whole chaotic scene, and Jai  says it was a “magical moment” that will be one of her favorite memories of our family together.”

“However, one entry she came upon moved her into action. It was written by a woman whose husband had  pancreatic cancer. They planned to take a family vacation but postponed it. He died before they could  reschedule. “Go on those trips you’ve always wanted to take,” the woman advised other care-givers. “Live in the  moment.” Jai vows to keep doing just that.” 

“The cop looked at my scars. He looked in my eyes. I could see on his face: He now knew he was talking to a  dying man. And if by some chance I was the most brazen con man he’d ever stopped, well, he wasn’t taking this  any further. He handed me back my license. “Do me a favor,” he said. “Slow down from now on.” The awful  truth had set me free. As he trotted back to his police car, I had a realization. I have never been one of those  gorgeous blondes who could bat her eyelashes and get out of tickets. I drove home under the speed limit, and I  was smiling like a beauty queen.” 

“Time must be explicitly managed, like money. My students would sometimes roll their eyes at what they called  “Pauschisms,” but I stand by them. Urging students not to invest time on irrelevant details, I’d tell them: “It  doesn’t matter how well you polish the underside of the banister.” 

“Rethink the telephone. I live in a culture where I spend a lot of time on hold, listening to “Your call is very  important to us.” Yeah, right. That’s like a guy slapping a girl in the face on a first date and saying, “I actually  do love you.” Yet that’s how modern customer service works. And I reject that. I make sure I am never on hold  with a phone against my ear. I always use a speaker phone, so my hands are free to do something else.” 

“As a professor, I learned early on that I could trust bright, nineteen-year-old students with the keys to  my kingdom, and most of the time, they were responsible and impressive. It’s never too early to delegate. My  daughter, Chloe, is just eighteen months old, but two of my favorite photos are of her in my arms. In the first,  I’m giving her a bottle. In the second, I’ve delegated the task to her. She looks satisfied. Me, too.” 

“Hi, this is Randy. I waited until I was thirty-nine to get married, so my wife and I are going away for a month. I  hope you don’t have a problem with that, but my boss does. Apparently, I have to be reachable.” I then gave the  names of Jai’s parents and the city where they live. “If you call directory assistance, you can get their number.  And then, if you can convince my new in-laws that your emergency merits interrupting their only daughter’s  honeymoon, they have our number.” We didn’t get any calls. Some of my time management tips are dead-on  serious and some are a bit tongue-in-cheek. But I believe all of them are worth considering. Time is all you have.  And you may find one day that you have less than you think.”

“I always saw the value in that, sure. But in my mind, a better number one goal was this: I wanted to help  students learn how to judge themselves. Did they recognize their true abilities? Did they have a sense of their  own flaws? Were they realistic about how others viewed them?”

“To that end, I’ve tried hard to come up with mechanical ways to get people to listen to feedback. I was  constantly helping my students develop their own feedback loops. It was not easy. Getting people to welcome  feedback was the hardest thing I ever had to do as an educator.” 

“Out of fifty students in the class, your peers ranked you dead last. You are number fifty. You have a serious  issue. They say you’re not listening. You’re hard to get along with. It’s not going well.” The student was  shocked. (They’re always shocked.) He had had all of these rationalizations, and now here I was, giving him  hard data. And then I told him the truth about myself. “I used to be just like you,” I said. “I was in denial. But I  had a professor who showed he cared about me by smacking the truth into my head. And here’s what makes me  special: I listened.” This student’s eyes widened. “I admit it,” I told him. “I’m a recovering jerk. And that gives  me the moral authority to tell you that you can be a recovering jerk, too.” For the rest of the semester, this  student kept himself in check. He improved. I’d done him a favor, just as Andy van Dam had done for me years before.” 

“When I moved on to Carnegie Mellon, every member of my team from the University of Virginia came with me — everyone except Tommy. He couldn’t make the move. Why? Because he had been hired by producer/director  George Lucas’s company, Industrial Light & Magic. And it’s worth noting that they didn’t hire him for his  dream; they hired him for his skills. In his time with our research group, he had become an outstanding  programmer in the Python language, which as luck would have it, was the language of choice in their shop. Luck  is indeed where preparation meets opportunity. It’s not hard to guess where this story is going. Three new Star  Wars films would be made—in 1999, 2002, and 2005— and Tommy would end up working on all of them.” 

“Tommy sat on a panel with three other former students of mine, and my current students asked questions. This  particular bunch of current students was still unsure what to make of me. I’d been my usual self—a tough  teacher with high expectations and some quirky ways—and they weren’t at the point where they appreciated  that. I’m a bit of an acquired taste in that sense, and after only one semester, some were still noticeably wary of  me. The discussion turned to how hard it was to get a first break in the movie business, and someone wanted to  know about the role of luck. Tommy volunteered to answer that question. “It does take a lot of luck,” he said.  “But all of you are already lucky. Getting to work with Randy and learn from him, that’s some kind of luck right  there. I wouldn’t be here if not for Randy.” I’m a guy who has floated in zero gravity. But I was floating even higher that day. I was incredibly appreciative that Tommy felt I helped enable his dreams. But what made it  really special was that he was returning the favor by enabling the dreams of my current students (and helping me  in the process). That moment turned out to be a turning point in my relationship with that class. Because Tommy  was passing it on.”

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