Dead Poets Society

door and rushed into Keating’s room.
    “What the...” McAllister said, until he spotted Keating holding the trash can. “Sorry, I didn’t think you were here, Mr. Keating.” Baffled and embarrassed, he backed out of the room and quietly closed the door.
    Keating strutted back to the front of the room, put the trash can on the floor and jumped into it. The boys laughed louder. Fire danced in Keating’s eyes. He stomped the trash a few times, then stepped out and kicked the can away.
    “This is battle, boys,” he cried. “War! You are souls at a critical juncture. Either you will succumb to the will of academic hoi polloi, and the fruit will die on the vine—or you will triumph as individuals.
    “Have no fear, you will learn what this school wants you to learn in my class; however, if I do my job properly, you will also learn a great deal more. For example, you will learn to savor language and words because no matter what anyone tells you, words and ideas have the power to change the world. A moment ago I used the term hoi polloi. Who knows what it means? Come on, Overstreet, you twerp.”
    The class laughed. “Anderson, are you a man or a boil?” The class laughed again, and everyone Í looked at Todd. He tensed visibly, and, unable to speak, jerkily shook his head. “No.”
    Meeks raised his hand. “The hoi polloi. Doesn’t it mean the herd?”
    “Precisely, Meeks,” Keating said. “Greek for ‘the herd.’ However, be warned that when you say ‘the hoi polloi,’ you are actually saying, ‘the the herd,’ indicating that you, too, are hoi polloi!”
    Keating grinned wryly, and Meeks smiled. The teacher paced to the back of the room. “Now Mr. Pitts may argue that nineteenth-century literature has nothing to do with business school or medical school. He thinks we should study our J. Evans Pritchard, learn our rhyme and meter, and quietly go about our business of achieving other ambitions.”
    Pitts smiled and shook his head. “Who, me?” he asked.
    Keating slammed his hand on the wall behind him, and the sound reverberated like a drum. The entire class jumped and turned to the rear. “Well,” Keating whispered defiantly. “I say—drivel! One reads poetry because he is a member of the human race, and the human race is filled with passion! Medicine, law, banking—-these are necessary to sustain life. But poetry, romance, love, beauty? These are what we stay alive for!
    “I quote from Whitman:

    “O me! O life! of the questions of
    these recurring,
    Of the endless trains of the faithless, of cities fill’d with the foolish, …
    What good amid these, O me, O life?
    Answer
    That you are here—That life exists and identity,
    That the powerful play goes on, and you may contribute a verse.”

    Keating paused. The class sat silent, taking in the message of the poem. Keating looked around again and repeated awestruck, “That the powerful play goes on, and you may contribute a verse.’”
    He stood silent at the back of the room, then slowly walked to the front. All eyes were riveted on his impassioned face. Keating looked around the room. “What will your verse be?” he asked intently.
    The teacher waited a long moment, then softly broke the mood. “Let’s open our texts to page 60 and learn about Wordsworth’s notion of romanticism.”

Chapter 6

    McAllister pulled out a chair next to Keating at the teachers dining table and sat down. “Mind if I join you?” he asked, as he plopped his huge frame into the seat and signaled to a waiter for service.
    “My pleasure,” Keating smiled. He looked out at the room filled with blazer-clad boys eating lunch.
    “Quite an interesting class you had today, Mr. Keating,” McAllister said sarcastically.
    Keating looked up. “Sorry if I shocked you. ”
    No need to apologize,” McAllister said as he shook his head, his mouth already filled with the mystery meat of the day. “It was quite fascinating, misguided though it was.”
    Keating raised his eyebrows. “You think so?” McAllister nodded. “Undeniably. You take a big risk encouraging them to be artists, John. When they realize that they’re not Rembrandts or Shakespeares or Mozarts, they’ll hate you for it.”
    “Not artists, George,” Keating said. “You missed the point. Free thinkers.”
    “Ah,” McAllister laughed, “free thinkers at seventeen!”
    “I hardly pegged you as a cynic,” Keating said, sipping a cup of tea.
    “Not a cynic, my boy,” McAllister said