Dead Poets Society

Medicine, law, banking—these are necessary to sustain life. But poetry, romance, love, beauty? These are what we stay alive for!

because no matter what anyone tells you, words and ideas have the power to change the world

ver heard of him. Sorry.”

“Say, Steve,”

I SOUND MY BARBARIC YAWP OVER THE ROOFS OF THE WORLD.

there is … elegance in mathematics. If everyone wrote poetry, the planet would starve, for God’s sake. But there must be poetry and we must stop to notice it in even the simplest acts of living or we will have wasted much of what life has to offer.

“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.”

“‘I went to the woods because I wished to live deliberately. I wanted to live deep and suck out all the marrow of life.’”

“Being in the club means being stirred up by things. You look about as stirred up as a cesspool.”

“You want me out? Is that what you’re saying?” Todd said angrily.

“No,” Neil said softly. “I want you in. But it means you gotta do something. Not just say you’re in.”

Todd turned angrily. “Listen, Neil, I appreciate your interest in me but I’m not like you,” he insisted. “When you say things, people pay attention. People follow you. I’m not like that!”

“Why not? Don’t you think you could be?” Neil pressed.

“No!” Todd shouted. “Oh, I don’t know. I’ll probably never know. The point is, there’s nothing you can do about it, so butt out, all right? I can take care of myself just fine, all right?”

“Er, no …” Neil said.

“No?” Todd looked astonished. “What do you mean, ‘no’?”

Neil shrugged matter-of-factly and repeated, “No. I’m not going to butt out.”

Neil opened his play and began to read again. Todd just sat and stared at him. “Okay,” Todd said, defeated. “I’ll go.”

“Good.” Neil smiled and continued reading the play.

“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.”

“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!”