The Enduring Spell of ‘The Outsiders’
S. E. Hinton’s 1967 coming-of-age novel credited teenagers with a rich interior life. Here, a tribute to the book that created young adult fiction as we know it today.
By Lena Dunham
IT WAS FRESHMAN year of college and I fancied myself someone, well, fancy. Someone who loved fancy books and fancy men. Fancy bags and fancy restaurants. I was working overtime to appear unfazed, and it was moving along about as smoothly as the Sochi Olympics. Across the Intro to Genealogy classroom sat a boy who looked like a man but was, by virtue of being 19, still a boy — dark hair and dark eyes, a denim jacket so stiff it looked starched. He barely spoke but knew all the answers, while I spoke all the time and knew none.
I was leaving in the spring, transferring to a school that my mother considered more “academically rigorous,” and it was my soon-to-be-outta-here sense of abandon that allowed me to approach him one day after class: “Hey, did you know you look like the lead singer of the Cure?”
He looked at me quizzically. “Who’s that?” he asked. I stuttered — the fact was, I didn’t actually know. I’d seen a photo of Robert Smith in another kid’s dorm room and wasn’t expecting to be questioned, but instead to receive the kind of insider approval that usually accompanied a display of hipster knowledge. (This was the privilege of not having to consider the consequences of any action, great or small, that is endemic to upper-middle-class white girls everywhere.) I stammered: “Your hair is … I mean, your faces both kind of look …” He stared.
I changed tactics.
“I’m transferring,” I haughtily informed him.
“Oh, are you?” He jutted his chin out toward me: “O.K., then … stay gold, Ponyboy.”