Dead Poets Society

I’ve gotten all A’s and...”
    “Did you really
think I wouldn’t find out? ‘My niece is in a play with your son,’ Mrs. Marks
says. ‘You must be mistaken,’ I say. ‘My son isn’t in a play.’ You made a liar
out of me, Neil. Now you will go to rehearsal tomorrow and tell them you are
quitting.”
    “Father, I have one
of the main parts,” Neil explained. “The performance is tomorrow night. Father,
please...”
    Mr. Perry’s face was
white with rage. He moved toward Neil, pointing his finger. “I don’t care if
the world is coming to an end tomorrow night, you are through with that
play! Is that clear? IS THAT CLEAR?“
    “Yes, sir.” It was
all Neil could force himself to say.
    Mr. Perry stopped.
He stared long and hard at his son. “I’ve made great sacrifices to get you
here, Neil. You will not let me down.”
    Mr. Perry turned and
stalked out. Neil stood still for a long time, then, walking to his desk, he
started pounding on it, harder and harder until his fists went numb and tears
began rolling down his cheeks.
     
    Later that evening,
all of the society pledges sat together in the Welton dining hall, except Neil,
who said he had a headache. They appeared to be having difficulty eating, and
old Dr. Hager approached their table, eyeing the boys suspiciously.
    “Mr. Dalton, what is
wrong, son?” he asked. “Are you having trouble with your meal?”
    “No, sir,” Charlie
replied.
    Hager watched the
boys. “Misters Meeks and Overstreet and Anderson, are you normally
left-handed?” Hager asked after a moment.
    “No, sir.”
    “Then why are you
eating with your left hands?”
    The boys looked at
each other. Knox spoke for the group. “We thought it would be good to break old
habits, sir,” he explained.
    “What is wrong with
old habits, Mr. Overstreet?”
    “They perpetuate mechanical
living, sir,” Knox maintained. “They limit your mind. “
    “Mr. Overstreet, I
suggest you worry less about breaking old habits and more about developing good
study habits. Do you understand?” he said firmly.
    “Yes, sir.”
    “That goes for all
of you,” Hager said, looking at the table of boys. “Now eat with your correct
hands.”
    The boys obeyed. But
once he moved away, Charlie switched hands and began eating with his left hand
again. One by one, the others followed.
    Finally Neil came to
the dining room and walked over to their table. He looked solemn and upset.
“You okay?” Charlie asked.
    “Visit from my
father,” Neil said.
    “Do you have to quit
the play?” Todd asked.
    “I don’t know,” Neil
said.
    “Why don’t you talk
to Mr. Keating about it, Charlie suggested.
    “What good will that
do?” Neil asked glumly.
    Charlie shrugged.
“Maybe he’ll have some advice. Maybe he’ll even talk to your father.”
    “Are you kidding?”
Neil laughed shortly. “Don’t be ridiculous.”
    In spite of Neil’s
objections, the boys insisted that Mr. Keating might be able to help Neil solve
his problems. After dinner they walked to the teacher’s quarters on the second
floor of the dorm-Todd, Pitts, and Neil stood outside Keating’s door. Charlie
knocked.
    “This is stupid,”
Neil protested.
    “It’s better than doing
nothing,” Charlie said. He knocked again, but no one came to the door.
    “He’s not here.
Let’s go,” Neil begged.
    Charlie tried the
door knob, and the door clicked open. “Let’s wait for him,” Charlie said as he
walked into Keating’s room.
    “Charlie! Nuwanda!”
the others called from the hall. “Get out of there!” But Charlie refused to
come out, and after a few minutes of talking and pleading the others gave into
their curiosity and entered Keating’s room.
    The small space was
empty and lonely looking. The boys stood around uncomfortably, shifting on
their feet. “Nuwanda,” Pitts whispered. “We shouldn’t be in here!”
    Charlie ignored him
and got up to look around the room. A small blue suitcase stood on the floor by
the door. A few books, some pretty tattered looking, lay on the bed. Charlie
walked to the desk and picked up a framed picture of a beautiful girl who
looked to be in her twenties. “Whoa, look at her!” he whistled. Lying next to
the picture was a half-written letter. Charlie picked up the paper and read:
“‘My darling Jessica: It’s so lonely at times without you... bla bla bla. All I
can do to put myself at ease is study your beautiful picture or close my eyes
and imagine your radiant smile—but my