Dead Poets Society Read Online Free PDF

the Byron poem.
    Neil continued reading. “‘As you proceed through the poetry in this book, practice this rating method. As your ability to evaluate poems in this manner grows, so will your enjoyment and understanding of poetry.’”
    Neil stopped, and Keating waited a moment to let the lesson sink in. Then Keating grabbed onto his own throat and screamed horribly. “AHHH-HGGGGG!!” he shouted. “Refuse! Garbage! Pus! Rip it out of your books. Go on, rip out the entire page! I want this rubbish in the trash where it belongs!”
    He grabbed the trash can and dramatically marched down the aisles, pausing for each boy to deposit the ripped page from his book. The whole class laughed and snickered.
    “Make a clean tear,” Keating cautioned. “I want nothing left of it! Dr. J. Evans Pritchard, you are disgraceful!” The laughter grew, and it attracted the attention of the Scottish Latin teacher, Mr. McAllister, across the hall. Mr. McAllister came out of his room and peeked into the door window as the boys ripped the pages from their books. Alarmed, he pulled open the door and rushed into Keating’s room.
    “What the …” McAllister said, until he spotted Keating holding the trash can. “Sorry, I didn’t think you were here, Mr. Keating.” Baffled and embarrassed, he backed out of the room and quietly closed the door.
    Keating strutted back to the front of the room, put the trash can on the floor and jumped into it. The boys laughed louder. Fire danced in Keating’s eyes. He stomped the trash a few times, then stepped out and kicked the can away.
    “This is battle, boys,” he cried. “War! You are souls at a critical juncture. Either you will succumb to the will of academic hoi polloi, and the fruit will die on the vine—or you will triumph as individuals.
    “Have no fear, you will learn what this school wants you to learn in my class; however, if I do my job properly, you will also learn a great deal more. For example, you will learn to savor language and words because no matter what anyone tells you, words and ideas have the power to change the world. A moment ago I used the term ‘hoi polloi.’ Who knows what it means? Come on, Overstreet, you twerp.”
    The class laughed. “Anderson, are you a man or a boil?” The class laughed again, and everyone looked at Todd. He tensed visibly, and, unable to speak, jerkily shook his head. “No.”
    Meeks raised his hand. “The hoi polloi. Doesn’t it mean ‘the herd’?”
    “Precisely, Meeks,” Keating said. “Greek ‘for the herd.’ However, be warned that when you say ‘ the hoi polloi,’ you are actually saying, ‘the the herd,’ indicating that you, too, are hoi polloi!”
    Keating grinned wryly, and Meeks smiled. The teacher paced to the back of the room. “Now Mr. Pitts may argue that nineteenth-century literature has nothing to do with business school or medical school. He thinks we should study our J. Evans Pritchard, learn our rhyme and meter, and quietly go about our business of achieving other ambitions.”
    Pitts smiled and shook his head. “Who, me?” he asked.
    Keating slammed his hand on the wall behind him, and the sound reverberated like a drum. The entire class jumped and turned to the rear. “Well,” Keating whispered defiantly. “I say—drivel! 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 quote from Whitman:
          “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!”
    Keating paused. The class sat silent, taking in the message