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How is writing related to a world-view? Is poetry for all? Would we lose ourselves without poetry? Is schooling against nature and awareness? What kind of thinking impedes convention?
Tom Schulman: Dead Poets Society
Excerpts from the script of Peter Weir's movie, Dead Poets Society
Page 3
THE BOYS are staring at the pictures, sobered by what Keating is saying.
KEATING 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! However, if you get very close, boys, you can hear them whisper. Go ahead, lean in. near it? (loud whisper) 'Carpe Diem, lads. Seize the day. Make your lives extraordinary. -
[...] KEATING This is battle, boys. War! You are souls at a critical juncture. Either you will succumb to the will of hoi polloi [Greek, "the many"] and the fruit will die on the vine--or you will triumph as individuals. It may be a coincidence that part of my duties are to teach you about Romanticism, but let me assure you that I take the task quite seriously. You will learn what this school wants you to learn in my class, but if I do my job properly, you will also learn a great deal more. You will learn to savor language and words because they are the stepping stones to everything you might endeavor to do in life and do well. A moment ago I used the term 'hoi polloi.' Who knows what it means? Come on, Overstreet, you twirp. (laughter) Anderson, are you a man or a boil?More laughter. All eyes are on Todd. He visibly tenses all over. He cannot bring himself to speak. He shakes his head jerkily "no.'. Meeks raises his hands and speaks:
MEEKS The hoi polloi. Doesn't it mean the herd?
Cf. Wordsworth's Lines & Strange fits of passion - Cf. Rilke, Letter to a Young Poet | Plato, Whom are we talking to? | Kierkegaard, My work as an author | Emerson, Self-knowledge | Gibson - McRury, Discovering one's face | Emerson, We differ in art, not in wisdom | Joyce, Portrait of the Artist
