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CHAPTER THREE! ( UNDERSTANDING POETRY. )
THE NEXT MORNING, all Joan could think about was her excitement for Keating's class. She had never had a teacher like him. All the other staff members were so mundane and stern, Keating was full of passion and unpredictability.
When block four, English, finally rolled around, she excitedly took her seat in his classroom. Mr. Keating sat at his desk at the front of the room and opened a book.
"Ladies and gentlemen, open your text to page twenty-one of the introduction. Mr. Perry, will you read the opening paragraph of the preface, entitled 'Understanding Poetry'?"
Neil flipped through his book and began reading in a clear voice. "Understanding Poetry, by Dr. J. Evans Pritchard, Ph.D. To fully understand poetry, we must first be fluent with its meter, rhyme, and figures of speech. Then ask two questions: One, how artfully has the objective of the poem been rendered, and two, how important is that objective. Question one rates the poem's perfection, question two rates its importance. And once these questions have been answered, determining a poem's greatest becomes a relatively simple matter."
Mr. Keating stepped up to the chalkboard and prepared to draw something.
"If the poem's score for perfection is plotted along the horizontal of a graph, and its importance is plotted on the vertical, then calculating the total area of the poem yields the measure of its greatness," Neil continued.
Keating started to draw a graph on the board, demonstrating this point. Most of the other students (not Charlie, he seemed to be enthralled in his own drawings) and Joan, began to copy down the graph.
"A sonnet by Byron may score high on the vertical, but only average on the horizontal. A Shakespearean sonnet, on the other hand, would score high both horizontally and vertically, yielding a massive total area, thereby revealing the poem to be truly great. As you proceed through the poetry in this book, practise this rating method. As your ability to evaluate poems in this matter grows, so will - so will your enjoyment and understanding of poetry." Neil set the book down and took off his glasses. Keating turned away from the chalkboard with a smile.
"Excrement. That's what I think of Mr. J. Evans Pritchard. We're not laying pipe, we're talking about poetry," Keating said calmly.
Joan looked down at your work in confusion before scribbling it out and looking back up at Mr. Keating.
"I mean, how can you describe poetry like American Bandstand? I like Byron, I give him a 42, but I can't dance to it." Classmates chuckled around her. She noticed that Charlie now appeared to be interested in the class. If Keating could get Charlie interested, he must be a god.
"Now I want you to rip out that page," Keating said.
What? Rip out a textbook page? What kind of teacher tells you to rip out a textbook page? It seemed the rest of the class was thinking the same thing, they all looked at him like he had gone mad.
"Go on, rip out the entire page," he urged. "You heard me, rip it out. Rip it out!"
Joan heard a tear and turned around to see that Charlie was holding up his disembodied page.
"Thank you, Mr. Dalton. Gentlemen, tell you what, don't just tear out that page, tear out the entire introduction. I want it gone, history. Leave nothing of it. Rip it out. Rip! Begone J. Evans Pritchard, Ph.D. Rip, shred, tear. Rip it out. I want to hear nothing but ripping of Mr. Pritchard." Keating exclaimed.
As he said this, she too tore out the pages. Pretty soon, the sound of pages ripping filled the entire classroom.
"We'll perforate it, put it on a roll! It's not the bible, you're not going to go to hell for this. Go on, make a clean tear, I want nothing left of it." Keating strolled over to his room.
Cameron seemed to be the only one who was still hesitating. "We shouldn't be doing this!" he whispered to Neil beside him.
"Rip, rip, rip!" Neil shouted, making Cameron turn back to his book.
Joan shared an excited grin with Violet, ripping ferociously. She felt something hit the back of her head. Confused, she looked down to see a paper ball at her feet. She turned around to look for the source of it and saw Charlie staring straight at her with a smug grin. She raised an eyebrow at him before tossing a paper ball of her own at his forehead. Charlie was preparing another ball when Mr. McAllister burst into the room.
"What the hell is going on here?" He shouted. Everyone quieted down immediately.
Charlie discreetly popped the paper ball into his mouth, trying to appear innocent.
"I don't hear enough rips!" Mr. Keating appeared at the front of the class with a trash can.
"Mr. Keating," Mr. McAllister said.
"Mr. McAllister," Keating smiled good-naturedly.
"I'm sorry. I- I didn't know you were here," Mr. McAllister said.
"I am," Mr. Keating smiled again.
Joan grinned at Mr. McAllister's awkwardness. "So you are. Excuse me," he nodded. Mr. McAllister slowly backed out of the classroom. She felt another paper ball hit her head.
"Aw, Charlie don't tell me this is the one you just put in your mouth," she groaned, kicking the ball away. He just shrugged, with another amused smirk on his face. She tossed two more paper balls at him, one of them missed by a couple feet which earned some subsequent teasing from Charlie.
"Keep ripping! This is a battle, a war. And the casualties could be your hearts and souls," Keating continued loudly.
Mr. Keating held out a basket, walking down the aisles. When Keating reached Charlie, Joan was relieved to see him spit out a wad of paper into the trash. Good, I didn't get the spitball.
"Thank you, Mr. Dalton. Armies of academics going forward, measuring poetry. No, we will not have that here. No more of Mr. J. Evans Pritchard. Now in my class, you will learn to think for yourselves again. You will learn to savour words and language. No matter what anybody tells you, words and ideas can change the world. I see that look in Mr. Pitt's eye, like nineteenth-century literature has nothing to do with going business school or medical school. Right? Maybe. Mr. Hopkins, you may agree with him, thinking 'Yes, we should simply study our Mr. Pritchard and learn our rhyme and meter and go quietly about the business of achieving other ambitions.' I have a little secret for ya. Huddle up. Huddle up!" Keating crouched in the middle of the room.
Pitts smiled and shook his head, "Who, me?"
"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 noble pursuits, and necessary to sustain life. But poetry, beauty, romance, love, these are what we stay alive for. To quote from 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? Answer: that you are here. That life exists, and identity. That the powerful play goes on, and you may contribute a verse. That the powerful play goes on and you may contribute a verse." Keating paused. The class remained silent as everyone internalized the words. Keating directed his gaze to Todd, who Joan could now identify.
"What will your verse be?"
AUTHOR'S NOTE. ❪⋆࿐໋𝒄𝒂𝒓𝒑𝒆𝒅𝒊𝒆𝒎. ❫
Hi! I loved writing this chapter because it is one of my favourite scenes in the movie. Anyways I just wanna say thank you for reading my book! If anyone is still reading at this point, I just want to let you know that you are beautiful and Charlie loves you as do I.
