But Dally, heaters kill people! Ya' kill 'em with switchblades to, don'tcha?

You get tough like me and you don't get hurt. You look out for yourself and nothin' can touch you.

I didn't think much about that statement then. But later I would-I still do. I think about it and think about it until I think I'm going crazy.

Greasers will still be greasers and Socs will still be Socs. Sometimes I think it's the ones in the middle that are really the lucky stiffs.

...people get hurt in rumbles, maybe killed. I'm sick of it because it doesn't do any good. You can't win...even if you whip us. You'll still be where you were before- at the bottom. And we'll still be the lucky ones with all the breaks. So it doesn't do any good, the fighting and the killing. It doesn't prove a thing.

I've been thinking about it, and that poem, that guy that wrote it, he meant you're gold when you're a kid, like green. When you're a kid everything's new, dawn. It's just when you get used to everything that it's day. Like the way you dig sunsets, Pony. That's gold. Keep that way, it's a good way to be.

Writer's were supposed to be a litte crazy