The Kite Runner

I brought Hassan’s son from Afghanistan to America, lifting him from the certainty of turmoil and dropping him in a turmoil of uncertainty.

classical ghazal by Ustad Sarahang.

There is a way to be good again.

The generation of Afghan children whose ears would know nothing but the sounds of bombs and gunfire was not yet born.

That Hassan would grow up illiterate like Ali and most Hazaras had been decided the minute he had been born, perhaps even the moment he had been conceived

“Remember, Amir agha. There’s no monster, just a beautiful day.” How could I be such an open book to him when, half the time, I had no idea what was milling around in his head? I was the one who went to school, the one who could read, write. I was the smart one. Hassan couldn’t read a first-grade textbook but he’d read me plenty. That was a little

That was the thing with Hassan. He was so goddamn pure, you always felt like a phony around him.

That was the thing about kite flying: Your mind drifted with the kite.

that, I believe, is what true redemption is, Amir jan, when guilt leads to good.