The Outsiders

And I finally began like this: When I stepped out into the bright sunlight from the darkness of the movie house, I had only two things on my mind: Paul Newman and a ride home . . .

and this time it didn’t hurt

Tell Dally it’s worth it.

Dally didn’t die a hero. He died violent and young and desperate, just like we all knew he’d die someday.

Nobody would write editorials praising Dally. Two friends of mine had died that night: one a hero, the other a hoodlum.

He was dead before he hit the ground. But I knew that was what he wanted, even as the lot echoed with the cracks of shots, even as I begged silently—Please, not him . . . not him and Johnny both—I knew he would be dead, because Dally Winston wanted to be dead and he always got what he wanted.

“Stay gold, Ponyboy. Stay gold . . .” The pillow seemed to sink a little, and Johnny died.

“I am a greaser,” Sodapop chanted. “I am a JD and a hood. I blacken the name of our fair city. I beat up people. I rob gas stations. I am a menace to society. Man, do I have fun!”

I don’t like to hear women get sworn at, even if they deserve it.

Years of living on the East Side teaches you how to shut off your emotions. If you didn’t, you would explode. You learn to cool it.