When I get home and people ask me,'Hey, Hoot, why do you do it, man? What are you? Some kind of war junkie? I won't say a goddamn word. Why? They won't understand. They won't understand why we do it. They won't understand that it's about the men next to you. And that's it. That's all it is.

My reason teaches me that land cannot be sold. The Great Spirit gave it to his children to live upon. So long as they occupy and cultivate it, they have a right to the soil. Nothing can be sold but such things as can be carried away

The path to glory is rough, and many gloomy hours obscure it. May the Great Spirit shed light on your path, so that you may never experience the humility that the power of the American government has reduced me to. This is the wish of a man who, in his native forests, was once as proud and bold as yourself.

You know, a friend of mine asked me before I got here... it was when we were all shipping out. He asked me, 'Why are you going to fight somebody else's war? What, do y'all think you're heroes?' I didn't know what to say at the time, but if he asked me again, I'd say no. I'd say there's no way in hell. Nobody asks to be a hero. It just sometimes turns out that way.

The white men despise the Indians, and drive them from their homes. But the Indians are not deceitful. The white men speak bad of the Indian, and look at him spitefully. But the Indian does not tell lies; Indians do not steal. An Indian, who is as bad as the white men, could not live in our nation; he would be put to death, and eat up by the wolves.

If you treat a sick child as an adult and a sick adult as a child, it usually works out pretty well.

How smooth must be the language of the whites, when they can make right look like wrong, and wrong like right.