Dead Poets Society

crannies and carving their names in the walls. Todd
walked in late, but once they were all assembled, Neil stood and started the
meeting.
    “‘I went to the
woods because I 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