The Outsiders

by S.E. Hinton

I’m not saying that either Socs or greasers are better; that’s just the way things are.

His eyes are dark brown—lively, dancing, recklessly laughing eyes that can be gentle and sympathetic one moment and blazing with anger the next.

Why did the Socs hate us so much? We left them alone.

But I was still lying and I knew it. I lie to myself all the time. But I never believe me.

I thought he might be dead; surely nobody could be beaten like that and live.

It seems like we’re always searching for something to satisfy us, and never finding it.

It seemed funny to me that the sunset she saw from her patio and the one I saw from the back steps was the same one. Maybe the two different worlds we lived in weren’t so different. We saw the same sunset.

“I could fall in love with Dallas Winston,” she said. “I hope I never see him again, or I will.”

He should never yell at Soda. Nobody should ever holler at my brother. I exploded.

It was plain to me that Darry didn’t want me around. And I wouldn’t stay if he did. He wasn’t ever going to hit me again.

Things gotta get better, I figured. They couldn’t get worse. I was wrong.

Maybe people are younger when they are asleep.

Socs were just guys after all. Things were

rough all over, but it was better that way. That way you could tell the other guy was human too.

We couldn’t get along without him. We needed Johnny as much as he needed the gang. And for the same reason.

Sixteen years on the streets and you can learn a lot. But all the wrong things, not the things you want to learn. Sixteen years on the streets and you see a lot. But all the wrong sights, not the sights you want to see.

Don’t you ever feel sorry for us. Don’t you ever try to give us handouts and then feel high and mighty about it.”

Greasers may not have much, but they have a rep. That and long hair. (What kind of world is it where all I have to be proud of is a reputation for being a hood, and greasy hair?

But that was the last time I’d ever drink. I’d seen too much of what drinking did for you at Johnny’s house.

I had it then. Soda fought for fun, Steve for hatred, Darry for pride, and Two-Bit for conformity. Why do I fight? I thought, and couldn’t think of any real good reason. There isn’t any real good reason for fighting except self-defense.

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

I knew he would be dead, because Dally Winston wanted to be dead and he always got what he wanted.

You know a guy a long time, and I mean really know him, you don’t get used to the idea that he’s dead just overnight.