Dead Poets Society

wished to live deliberately. I wanted to live deep and suck out all the marrow of life. ”
    God,” Knox wailed, “I want to suck all the marrow out of Chris! I’m so in love, I feel like I’m going to die!”
    You know what the dead poets would say,” Cameron laughed, “‘Gather ye rosebuds while ye may...“
    “But she’s in love with the moron son of my father’s best friend! What would the dead poets say about that?” Knox walked away from the group in despair.
    Neil stood up and headed out. “I gotta get to the tryouts,” he announced nervously. “Wish me luck.“
    “Good luck,” Meeks, Pitts, and Cameron said in chorus. Todd was silent as he watched Neil go.
    “I feel like I’ve never been alive,” Charlie said sadly, as he watched Neil go. “For years, I’ve been risking nothing. I have no idea what I am or what I want to do. Neil knows he wants to act. Knox knows he wants Chris.”
    “Needs Chris? Must have Chris!” Knox groaned. “Meeks,” Charlie said. “You’re the brain here. What do the dead poets say about somebody like me?”
    “The romantics were passionate experimenters, Charles. They dabbled in many things before settling, if ever,” Meeks said.
    Cameron made a face. “There aren’t too many places to be an experimenter at Welton, Meeks.” Charlie paced as the boys considered Cameron’s observation. He stopped and his face lit up. “I hereby declare this the Charles Dalton Cave for Passionate Experimentation.” He smiled. “In the future, anyone wishing entry must have permission from me.”
    “Wait a minute, Charlie,” Pitts objected. “This should belong to the club.”
    “It should, but I found it, and now I claim it. Carpe cavern, boys. Seize the cave,” Charlie countered with a grin.
    “Good thing there’s only one of you around here, Charles,” Meeks said philosophically, while the others looked at each other and shook their heads. The boys had seized the cave, and in it they’d found a home away from Welton, away from parents, teachers, and friends—a place where they could be people they never dreamed they’d be. The Dead Poets Society was alive and thriving and ready to seize the day.
    The boys left the cave reluctantly and got back to campus just in time for practice. “Say, look who’s the soccer instructor,” Pitts said, as they spotted Mr. Keating approaching the field. He was carrying some soccer balls under one arm and a case under the other.
    “Okay, boys, who has the roll?” Keating asked.
    “I do, sir,” a senior student said, handing Keating the class list.
    Keating took the three-page roll and examined it. Answer with, ‘Present,’ please,” he said. “Chapman?”
    “Present.”
    “Perry?” No one answered. “Neil Perry?”
    “He had a dental appointment, sir,” Charlie said.
    “Ummhmm. Watson?” Keating called. No one answered. “Richard Watson absent too, eh?”
    “Watson’s sick, sir,” someone called out.
    “Hmm. Sick indeed. I suppose I should give Watson demerits. But if I give Watson demerits, I will also have to give Perry demerits... and I like Perry. ” He crumpled the class roll and tossed it away. The boys looked on, astonished. “Boys, you don’t have to be here if you don’t want to. Anyone who wants to play, follow me.”
    Keating marched off with the balls and the case in hand. Amazed by his capriciousness, most of the boys followed, talking excitedly among themselves.
    “Sit down now, boys,” Keating instructed when they reached the middle of the field. “Devotees may argue that one game or sport is inherently better than another,” he said, pacing. “For me, the most important thing in all sport is the way other human beings can push us to excel. Plato, a gifted man like myself, once said, Only the contest made me a poet, a sophist, an orator.’ Each person take a slip of paper and line up, single file.”
    Keating passed out slips of paper to the curious students. Then ran up the field, placing a ball ten feet in front of the boy at the head of the long line. Todd Anderson stood listlessly at the rear as Keating shouted out a series of commands.
    “You know what to do... now go!” he called, just as George McAllister walked past the soccer field. McAllister stopped, fascinated, as the first boy stepped out and read loudly from his slip of paper: ‘“Oh to struggle against great odds, to meet enemies undaunted!”‘ He ran and kicked the ball toward the goal,