THE KITE RUNNER by KHALED HOSSEINI Published -December _ I became what We used the advance I had received for my novel to pay for it. Get this from a library! The kite runner. [Khaled Hosseini] -- Twelve-year old Amir is desperate to win the approval of his father and resolves ot win the local. Read The Kite Runner eBook onlie. The book is wrote by.
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This content was uploaded by our users and we assume good faith they have the permission to share this book. If you own the copyright to this book and it is. The first Afghan novel to be written in English, The Kite Runner tells a sweeping As emotionally gripping as it is tender, The Kite Runner is an unusual and. Read "The Kite Runner" by Khaled Hosseini available from Rakuten Kobo. The #1 New York Times bestselling debut novel that introduced Khaled Hosseini to.
Amir in the beautiful house his father built, filled with marble, gold, tapestries and mosaics; Hassan in the modest mud hut in the servants' quarters. The two are inseparable, and when twelve-year-old Amir is desperate to win the local kite-fighting tournament, his loyal friend promises to help him.
But neither boy can predict what will happen to Hassan that afternoon — as the kites soar over the city — and how it will change their lives forever. Fiction Literature. Publication Details Publisher: Bloomsbury Publishing Publication Date: Some thought it was the prettiest house in all of Kabul.
A broad entryway flanked by rosebushes led to the sprawling house of marble floors and wide windows. Intricate mosaic tiles, handpicked by Baba in Isfahan, covered the floors of the four bathrooms. Gold-stitched tapestries, which Baba had bought in Calcutta, lined the walls; a crystal chandelier hung from the vaulted ceiling. Upstairs was my bedroom, Baba's room, and his study, also known as "the smoking room," which perpetually smelled of tobacco and cinnamon.
Baba and his friends reclined on black leather chairs there after Ali had served dinner. They stuffed their pipes--except Baba always called it "fattening the pipe"--and discussed their favorite three topics: politics, business, soccer. Sometimes I asked Baba if I could sit with them, but Baba would stand in the doorway.
Why don't you go read one of those books of yours? I'd sit by the door, knees drawn to my chest. Sometimes I sat there for an hour, sometimes two, listening to their laughter, their chatter. The living room downstairs had a curved wall with custom-built cabinets.
Inside sat framed family pictures: an old, grainy photo of my grandfather and King Nadir Shah taken in , two years before the king's assassination; they are standing over a dead deer, dressed in knee-high boots, rifles slung over their shoulders.
There was a picture of my parents' wedding night, Baba dashing in his black suit and my mother a smiling young princess in white.
Here was Baba and his best friend and business partner, Rahim Khan, standing outside our house, neither one smiling--I am a baby in that photograph and Baba is holding me, looking tired and grim. I'm in his arms, but it's Rahim Khan's pinky my fingers are curled around.
The curved wall led into the dining room, at the center of which was a mahogany table that could easily sit thirty guests--and, given my father's taste for extravagant parties, it did just that almost every week. On the other end of the dining room was a tall marble fireplace, always lit by the orange glow of a fire in the wintertime.
A large sliding glass door opened into a semicircular terrace that overlooked two acres of backyard and rows of cherry trees.
Baba and Ali had planted a small vegetable garden along the eastern wall: tomatoes, mint, peppers, and a row of corn that never really took. Hassan and I used to call it "the Wall of Ailing Corn.
It was there, in that little shack, that Hassan was born in the winter of , just one year after my mother died giving birth to me. In the eighteen years that I lived in that house, I stepped into Hassan and Ali's quarters only a handful of times.
When the sun dropped low behind the hills and we were done playing for the day, Hassan and I parted ways. I went past the rosebushes to Baba's mansion, Hassan to the mud shack where he had been born, where he'd lived his entire life. I remember it was spare, clean, dimly lit by a pair of kerosene lamps. There were two mattresses on opposite sides of the room, a worn Herati rug with frayed edges in between, a three-legged stool, and a wooden table in the corner where Hassan did his drawings.
The walls stood bare, save for a single tapestry with sewn-in beads forming the words Allah-u-akbar. Baba had bought it for Ali on one of his trips to Mashad. It was in that small shack that Hassan's mother, Sanaubar, gave birth to him one cold winter day in While my mother hemorrhaged to death during childbirth, Hassan lost his less than a week after he was born.
Lost her to a fate most Afghans considered far worse than death: She ran off with a clan of traveling singers and dancers. Hassan never talked about his mother, as if she'd never existed. I always wondered if he dreamed about her, about what she looked like, where she was. I wondered if he longed to meet her.
Did he ache for her, the way I ached for the mother I had never met? One day, we were walking from my father's house to Cinema Zainab for a new Iranian movie, taking the shortcut through the military barracks near Istiqlal Middle School--Baba had forbidden us to take that shortcut, but he was in Pakistan with Rahim Khan at the time. We hopped the fence that surrounded the barracks, skipped over a little creek, and broke into the open dirt field where old, abandoned tanks collected dust.
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