todd: i will not join the dead poets society. there is nothing that can change my mind. im not friends with the other people there. i dont want to read. its literally everything i dont like and dont want to be involved in packed into one secret club. and there is nothing that can make it tolerab-
neil, pretty: what if you didnt have to read and we shared longing gazes filled with love :)
todd, a useless gay: omg what if i didn’t have to read and we shared longing gazes filled with love <333 carpe diem !!
Sometimes, just sometimes, in the late hours of night, Todd and Neil will stay up and just talk. The nights when it’s just a little too quiet and they both know that neither of them are asleep. They’ll just stare at the ceiling and talk and talk until one of them closes their eyes and sleep finally takes hold.
“What do you think you’ll do?” Todd asks, arms crossed over his chest. “When you get out of here.”
It’s a question that avoids the truth. They’re aware of the things Neil is expected to do. They know the path ahead of him, laid out meticulously by his father. But he’s felt so free lately that maybe just once, it’s not a crime to imagine what could be.
So he rambles. He thinks about Shakespeare productions he’d love to be in, The Tempest, Twelfth Night. People he wishes he could meet. He wants to talk to actors, writers, directors, just to be in their presence. To know what it’s like to succeed in what you love. He talks about the places he’d like to visit, maybe Greece, or France, maybe even London. Mr. Keating talks about London a lot. Talks about his wife. He loves hearing about it, thinking of the vastness of the world, how much broader it is than the rust colored walls of Welton. Worlds that could swallow him up. Worlds where he could be insignificant, for once, and it would feel like relief.
“We’d go everywhere. It’d be amazing.”
Neil is taken aback by that. He thinks back to Greece, back to France, London. When did he start picturing Todd next to him? No, in his head, not once was he alone. There Todd is, waiting to crush Neil in a hug after his shows. There he is, eyes gleaming as Neil introduces him to his favorite writers. There he is gazing at landmarks and breathing in the lack of stuffy classrooms or exam papers. Why is it that Neil can’t picture a future without Todd?
“Yeah,” is all Neil can whisper back. The ceiling refocuses above him, the visions of faraway blue skies fading into obscurity. The only thing in his vision that stays is Todd. Next to him, always. He ventures a look towards the other side of the room.
Todd is staring dreamily at the ceiling still. Neil’s vision is beautiful. He wants to be caught in it forever.
“I can’t wait,” he says quietly.
Neil’s heart aches. He looks back to the ceiling. He sees Todd knelt down in the Notre Dame square, laughing at the endlessly cooing pigeons at their feet. They’re happy. Our future, Neil thinks, letting his eyelids drift closed. I can’t wait to take you with me.
on the subject of dead poets society. imagine you are a teenage boy living in the 50s who goes to a very traditional formal conservative boys school and who has never been taught to express himself at all, let alone through art, and is pretty much ignorant of the nuances of poetry, and then on the first day of junior year your new english teacher takes you all out to stare at a trophy case for ten minutes, mutters some shit about "seizing the day", and then is like ok go write a poem it's due next class and you have to recite it in front of everyone :) have fun! for your first fucking homework assignment of the year. and he doesn't even show you any examples of good poetry or the various forms poetry comes in. and you're all sitting there in your stupid gay little study group like what's a pentameter
Me: *having a nice day*
My brain: Notice how the hue of dead poets society shifts from warm/golden tones to cool/blue tones after Neil's death because he was the only character who was so full of life and hope and his death layers the whole setting with not only grief but also with a sense of cold hopelessness
Me: what the fuck, dude-
It’s four in the morning, but I’m just thinking about how in “The Catcher in The Rye” J.D. Salinger said, “The mark of a immature man is that he wants to die nobly for a cause while the mark of a mature man want to live humbly for one,”
and how in “The Secret History” Donna Tartt said “I think he felt the need to make a noble gesture, something to prove to us and to himself that it was in fact possible to put those high cold principles which Julian had taught us to use. Duty, piety, loyalty, sacrifice. I remember his expression in the mirror as he raised the pistol to his head. His expression was one of rapt concentration, of triumph, almost, a high diver rushing to the end of the board; eyes tight, joyous, waiting for the big splash.”
And I’m crying because I somehow convinced myself that he was okay, because well— YOU KNOW HENRY, THE STOIC BASTARD,- and I convinced myself like the rest of the group that he did it for Camilla and Charles. but maybe it was because he was losing it, he was losing his fucking mind, maybe, perhaps,- because of the guilt, or something else entirely. Maybe he was afraid of himself. Remember what he told Richard? How powerful and amazing he felt after commuting those murders? He probably wanted to do it again, and that frightened him, imagining what may become of him. And he just wanted out. He just wanted to keep his friends safe and not get anyone in trouble, or make Charles anymore insane and mad at him or Francis anymore tired and restless or Julian anymore disappointed￼￼ and heartbroken. So yes, he did do it for Camilla and Charles and his friends, but also because he was scared, afraid of himself.
Don’t know if this makes any sense at all it’s literally 430AM and I finished the essay I had to write and am bored because I have insomnia so I just over thinking things
Anyways it doesn’t matter, I’m going to go cry myself to sleep now because I can’t do this I love him so much aahhHSHSHSBAJNSNDN
i have to write an essay about a book i read and i chose dead poets society, naturally. now i struggle with this bc how am i meant to do this without talking about the blatant queer subtext in one of the most implicitly queer media sources i enjoy