Carpe Diem Dead Poets Society Quotes 소설 & 이야기

A tribute: Lady Bana’s Poem: “Life is a thread we weave in storms, Stitching dreams through quiet forms. We rise, we fall, we burn, we freeze, We beg for time, but Time won't cease. Death is not the end, my friend, Just a bend where echoes blend. You go where silence drinks the light, Beyond our reach, beyond our sight. But I, who stay, must wear the pain, A sword of loss, a crown of rain. Farewell, my sword, my foolish warrior, The game is now on, and I must fight to avenge.”

The deserted sidewalks she’d jogged on only that morning were now packed with pedestrians, corporate types and students on their way to another day of drudgery, depending on what their faces, pinched or otherwise indicated. As Camille joined the masses, becoming just another faceless stranger in the crush of bodies, she pondered on a Machiavelli quote she sometimes turned to when she did not want to think about work, or family, or anything really. Make no small plans for they have no power to stir the soul.

But when the final moon rises, Our souls will hunt together again. "I found the traditional street poetry in the old neighborhood archives before the war destroyed the library," I muttered, watching his eyes track the etched letters. "I didn't know many verses, but this was the only one that felt right for people who were taken before their time. I wanted them to have something permanent." Cassius didn't move. He stood over the root like an iron statue, his breathing the only sound on the entire hill.

New message. A photo of our cemetery, time-stamped five minutes ago. Fresh dirt disturbed. A shovel in frame. Under it, three words. DIG HIM UP.

Shekau's voice seeped in through the gaps in the wall of my thoughts I had been engrossed in, hauling my sight back to where he now sat on the stone bench. "A young man once quoted, 'I love it when people dig their own graves as it saves me so much time'," he began in a reverential tone, sucking violently on the already shrunken stick that still remained fixed in his mouth despite the gradual loss of its solidity. I couldn't determine who faced worse, the gaunted stick that was subject to the putrid and foul odour rising from the pits of his decayed and ramshackled mouth or myself as I beyond doubt faced verdict as the words fell from Shekau's lips.

But as I looked at it for one last time, I could feel that rush slow down. I knew it would eventually fade away, but what’d stay with me will be these exceptional memories. I got to know this word ‘carpe diem’ very late… but if I ever want to look for the meaning of it, I will always come looking for the Xenon academy and especially Archer and his chamber. Finally, I had completed my formal education. My second life started with me having a lot of regrets, and now it’s at a point of having no regrets about the way I lived again.

I decide to confide in him. “Secrets. We’ve both been keeping secrets from each other,” I say. “There are no secrets that time does not reveal,” he quotes. “Who said that?” I ask. “Jean Racine. He was a French poet. I used to read his work when I was younger,” he explains. “It’s like every time we take one step forward, we take another two steps back,” I sigh. “We can’t get to a place where we’re both happy.” Thaddeus finds a pebble next to him and throws it as far as he can. It lands on the edge of the pond.

She asks, lost in his eyes, lost in the soft sensation of his touch. "I'm scared of an ending Even a happy one. I never finish a sentence Cause I fear you will not be there to answer. I never end a thought Cause I fear you will not be in the next one. I never feared death Cuse I thought I am imortal. But you, my love Are poison for the Gods." He whispers the poem in her ear like the rest of the world is not supposed to hear the words, like the wind is not supposed to carry them anywhere else. They are just for her.

He raised his glass. "To the deadies who refuse to stay dead. May you survive what's coming. Or at least die spectacularly." We raised our glasses. "To survival."

“Come on, just a sip.” “Oh…no.” I insist. “Yeah…I want to… feel this ‘feeling’ sober. I guess you could say that.” I finish as I gesture at the gravestones around us. “Nothing gets people recognising their mortality like the dead and dying.” He utters before taking a swig. “So, how do you deal with this?” “‘This’ as in existential depression?” “No!” I chuckle slightly. Have we ever had such a light conversation before? It feels good.