Take a photo of a barcode or cover
sarashadman 's review for:
Dead Poets Society
by N.H. Kleinbaum
Unpopular opinion:
The book was better than the movie.
Dear Creator, please, oh please, help me to get my voice out, for I can never speak clearly about things I'm too passionate about. Okay, here we go...
Schools — in my third world country and in your first world country, are intoxicating. Schools suffocate teenagers and cut their wings. Teenagers clench at the sight of logic, lore, and reason. Those poor, poor teenagers clasp music, art, and literature even if they're miles away. All they seek is a glance. Like having a sip after running 3 miles. Oh, wait, but it's different; they have been running ALL their righteous life for a glimpse of light.
Hands, pointing fingers come. Let ME show you where the light is coming from. Science and facts, child. Scrutiny and analysis.
Dear Mr. Keating,
I thank you for reminding me trampling little hearts of passion and excitement, of love and desire is what I am to keep my hands clean of.
Screw their disciplinary, smothering treatments. Screw their punishments.
Screw their pointing fingers.
You, Mr. Roald Dahl, and Mr. Charles Dickens keep teaching me about the principles of evolving into a decent teacher.
I thank you. A quadrillion times.
The book was better than the movie.
Dear Creator, please, oh please, help me to get my voice out, for I can never speak clearly about things I'm too passionate about. Okay, here we go...
Schools — in my third world country and in your first world country, are intoxicating. Schools suffocate teenagers and cut their wings. Teenagers clench at the sight of logic, lore, and reason. Those poor, poor teenagers clasp music, art, and literature even if they're miles away. All they seek is a glance. Like having a sip after running 3 miles. Oh, wait, but it's different; they have been running ALL their righteous life for a glimpse of light.
Hands, pointing fingers come. Let ME show you where the light is coming from. Science and facts, child. Scrutiny and analysis.
Dear Mr. Keating,
I thank you for reminding me trampling little hearts of passion and excitement, of love and desire is what I am to keep my hands clean of.
Screw their disciplinary, smothering treatments. Screw their punishments.
Screw their pointing fingers.
You, Mr. Roald Dahl, and Mr. Charles Dickens keep teaching me about the principles of evolving into a decent teacher.
I thank you. A quadrillion times.