The Kite Runner

by Khaled Hosseini

harelipped

poplar

pelted

loquat

hemorrhaged

leered,

croaking.

eloped.

It was an odd thing to see the stone-faced Ali happy, or sad, because only his slanted brown eyes glinted with a smile or welled with sorrow. People say that eyes are windows to the soul. Never was that more true than with Ali, who could only reveal himself through his eyes.

assailants;

garrulous

veracity

obstinate

chortle

exhilarating

blundering

liability

unwit...

Buzkashi was, and still is, Afghanistan’s national passion.

Coloseum arguement

aficionados,

“If I hadn’t seen the doctor pull him out of my wife with my own eyes, I’d never believe he’s my son.”

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

entourage.

nuances,

trepidation,

Vindication.

sluiced

ulcer.

reticence

conversant

pirouettes

upholstery

But the aptness of the clichéd saying is overshadowed by the nature of the saying as a cliché.

negligent.

“Oh.” He slurped his tea and didn’t ask more; Rahim Khan had always been one of the most instinctive people I’d ever met.

“Thank you,” I said. “Thank you so much.” And I meant it. Now I knew my mother had liked almond cake with honey and hot tea, that she’d once used the word “profoundly,” that she’d fretted about her happiness. I had just learned more about my mother from this old man on the street than I ever did from Baba.

He thinks like a writer, always had

I saw he had put on his broken glasses.

straddling

lunacy,

vitreous

But I hope you will heed this: A man who has no conscience, no goodness, does not suffer. I hope your suffering comes to an end with this journey to Afghanistan.

You had a right to know. So did Hassan. I know it doesn’t absolve anyone of anything, but the Kabul we lived in in those days was a strange world, one in which some things mattered more than the truth.

So he took it out on you instead—Amir, the socially legitimate half, the half that represented the riches he had inherited and the sin-with-impunity privileges that came with them.

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

menial

What had I done, other than take my guilt out on the very same people I had betrayed, and then try to forget it all? What had I done, other than become an insomniac?

asphalt

I had counted them earlier and, surprisingly, found the deck complete. I asked Sohrab if he wanted to play. I didn’t expect him to answer, let alone play. He’d been quiet since we had fled Kabul. But he turned from the window and said, “The only game I know is panjpar.” “I feel sorry for you already, because I am a grand master at panjpar. World renowned.”

I thought of a line I’d read somewhere, or maybe I’d heard someone say it: There are a lot of children in Afghanistan, but little childhood.

I decided the moment was now, right here, right now, with the bright lights of the house of God shining on us. “Would you like to come live in America with me and my wife?” He didn’t answer. He sobbed into my shirt and I let him.