《The Dead Poets》10

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I notice Mr. Keating place himself directly in the middle of the room, surrounded by several desks; something I've observed he tends to do before starting one of his ever so interesting spiels.

"Now, going forward we will not be learning about rhyme and meter. No. You will learn to think for yourselves again. You will learn to savour words and language. No matter what anyone tells you, words and ideas can change the world!" He concludes, as I sit amazed.

Although I had only endured school in the form of tutors, I never anticipated one could become so mesmerized in a lesson, simply by a teacher talking. I suppose when a teacher is as passionate about their craft, such as Keating, it allows for the students to become entranced in their words.

"I see that look in Mr. Pitts eye" Keating says, slowly walking up and down the rows of desks, stopping in front of Pitts.

"Like nineteenth century literature has nothing to do with going to business school or medical school, right? And maybe you agree?" He asks pointing to another student, who hesitantly nods slowly.

"We should simply study our Mr. Pritchard and learn our rhyme and meter and go quietly about the business of achieving other ambitions." He states, to which a few students nod.

"Well I have a secret for you. Huddle up." He urges, gesturing for us all to come in close.

"We don't read and write poetry because it's cute. We read and write poetry because we are members of the human race. And the human race is filled with passion. Medicine, law, business, engineering, these are all Nobel pursuits and necessary to sustain life. But poetry, beauty, romance, love, these are what we stay alive for." Mr. Keating says, glancing over the fascinated faces of intrigued students, holding on to his every word.

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"To quote Whitman, "O me, O life of the questions of these recurring, of the endless trains of the faithless, of cities filled with the foolish. What good amid these? O me, O life." He recites the familiar poem I had read at our first Dead Poets meeting.

"The answer?" He asks, not waiting for a response before continuing, "that you are here. That life exists, and identity. That the powerful play goes on, and you may contribute a verse." He finishes, staring rather intently at each one of us.

"What will your verse be?"

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