Dead Poets Society

by N.H. Kleinbaum

“Gather ye rosebuds while ye may, Old time is still a flying: And this same flower that smiles today, Tomorrow will be dying.”

“One day, hard as it is to believe, each and every one of us is going to stop breathing, turn cold, and die!” He paused dramatically. “Stand up,” he urged the students, “and peruse the faces of the boys who attended this school sixty or seventy years ago. Don’t be timid; go look at them.” The boys got up and walked to the class pictures lining the honor-room walls. They looked at faces of young men, staring out at them from the past. “They’re not that different than any of you, are they? Hope in their eyes, just like yours. They believe themselves destined for wonderful things, just like many of you. Well, where are those smiles now, boys? What of the hope?” The boys stared at the photos, their faces sober and reflective. Keating walked swiftly around the room, pointing from photo to photo. “Did most of them not wait until it was too late before making their lives into even one iota of what they were capable? In chasing the almighty deity of success, did they not squander their boyhood dreams? Most of those gentlemen are fertilizing daffodils now! However, if you get very close, boys, you can hear them whisper. Go ahead,” he urged, “lean in. Go on. Hear it? Can you?” The boys were quiet, some of them leaned hesitantly toward the photographs. “Carpe Diem,” Keating whispered loudly. “Seize the day. Make your lives extraordinary.”

One reads poetry because he is a member of the human race, and the human race is filled with passion! Medicine, law, banking—these are necessary to sustain life. But poetry, romance, love, beauty? These are what we stay alive for!

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

“Why do I stand here?” he asked. “To feel taller?” Charlie suggested.

“If you’re sure about something,” he said as they slowly returned to their seats, “force yourself to think about it another way, even if you know it’s wrong or silly. When you read, don’t consider only what the author thinks, but take time to consider what you think. “You must strive to find your own voice, boys, and the longer you wait to begin, the less likely you are to find it at all.

“And don’t limit poetry to the word. Poetry can be found in music, a photograph, in the way a meal is prepared—anything with the stuff of revelation in it. It can exist in the most everyday things but it must never, never be ordinary. By all means, write about the sky or a girl’s smile, but when you do, let your poetry conjure up salvation day, doomsday, any day. I don’t care, as long as it enlightens us, thrills us and—if it’s inspired—makes us feel a bit immortal.”

Neil wouldn’t kill himself! He loved living!”

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