Dead Poets Society

you
as a cynic,” Keating said, sipping a cup of tea.
    “Not a cynic, my
boy,” McAllister said knowingly. “A realist! Show me the heart unfettered by
foolish dreams, and I’ll show you a happy man!” He chewed a bite. “But I will
enjoy listening to your lectures, John,” McAllister added. “I’ll bet I will.”
Keating grinned with amusement. “I hope you’re not the only one who feels that
way,” he said, glancing at several of the boys from the junior class who were
seated nearby.
    The boys all turned
as Neil Perry walked quickly into the dining room and sat down with them.
    “You guys won’t
believe this!” he said, puffing breathlessly. “I found his senior annual in the
library.” Neil looked toward Keating, who was engaged in animated conversation
with Mr. McAllister at the teacher’s table. He opened the annual and read:
‘“Captain of the soccer team, editor of the annual, Cambridge-bound, Man most likely
to do anything, Thigh man, Dead Poets Society.’”
    The others tried to
grab the old annual. “Thigh man?” Charlie laughed, “Mr. K. was a hell-raiser.
Good for him!”
    “What is the Dead
Poets Society?” Knox asked, as he leafed through the book of old photos of
Keating’s Welton class.
    “Any group pictures
in the annual?” Meeks asked.
    “Not of that,” Neil
said, as he studied the captions. “No other mention of it.”
    Neil looked through
the annual as Charlie nudged his leg. “Nolan,” he hissed. As the dean approached,
Neil passed the book under the table to Cameron, who immediately handed it over
to Todd, who looked at him questioningly, then took it.
    “Enjoying your
classes, Mr. Perry?” Nolan asked as he paused at the boys’ table.
    “Yes, sir, very
much,” Neil said.
    “And our Mr.
Keating? Finding him interesting, boys?”
    “Yes, sir,” Charlie
said. “We were just talking about that, sir.”
    "Good,” Nolan
said approvingly. “We’re very excited about him. He was a Rhodes scholar, you
know.” The boys smiled and nodded.
    Nolan walked to
another table. Todd pulled out the annual from under the table and leafed
through on his lap as he finished lunch.
    “I’ll take the
annual back,” Neil said to Todd, as they got up to leave the dining room.
    “What are you going
to do with it?” Todd asked hesitantly.
    “A little research,”
Neil said, smiling smugly.
    After classes, Neil,
Charlie, Meeks, Pitts, Cameron, and Todd headed back to the dorm together. They
spotted Mr. Keating, wearing his sport coat and a scarf, walking across the
lawn with an arm full of books.
    “Mr. Keating?” Neil
called after him. “Sir? O Captain! My Captain?” Keating stopped and waited for
the boys to catch up with him. “What was the Dead Poets Society, sir?” Neil
asked. For a split second, Keating’s face reddened. “I was just looking in an
old annual,” Neil explained, “and...” I
    “Nothing wrong with
research,” Keating said, regaining his composure.
    The boys waited for
him to say more. “But what was it?” Neil pressed.
    Keating looked
around to make sure that no one was watching. “A secret organization,” he
almost whispered. “I don’t know how the present administration would look upon
it, but I doubt the reaction would be favorable.” His eyes scanned the campus
as the boys held their breaths. “Can you boys keep a secret?” They nodded
instantly. “The Dead Poets was a society dedicated to sucking the marrow out of
life. That phrase is by Thoreau and was invoked at every meeting,” he
explained. “A small group of us would meet at the old cave, and we would take
turns reading Shelley, Thoreau, Whitman, our own verse—and the enchantment of
the moment let it work its magic on us.” Keating’s eyes glowed, recalling the
experience.
    “You mean it was a
bunch of guys sitting around reading poetry?” Knox asked, bewildered.
    Keating smiled. “Both
sexes participated, Mr. Overstreet. And believe me, we didn’t simply read... we
let it drip from our tongues like honey. Women swooned, spirits soared... gods
were created, gentlemen.”
    The boys stood
silent for a moment. “What did the name mean?” Neil asked. “Did you only read
dead poets?”
    “All poetry was
acceptable, Mr. Perry. The name simply referred to the fact that, to join the
organization, you had to be dead.”
    “What?” the boys said in
chorus.
    “The living were
simply pledges. Full membership required a lifetime of apprenticeship. Alas,
even I’m