The Kite Runner Khaled Hosseini Reading Level

  Praise for The Kite Runner:

'My top fiction volume . . . marvellous' Joanna Trollope, Books of the Twelvemonth, Observer

'Unforgettable ... extraordinary ... It is so powerful that for a long time after, everything I read seemed bland' Isabel Allende

'A gripping read and a haunting story of dearest, loss and betrayal.

Guaranteed to move even the hardest heart' Independent

'Shattering ... devastating and inspiring' Observer

'The Kite Runner is told with simplicity and poise, information technology is a novel of swell subconscious intricacy and wisdom, like a timeless Eastern tale. It speaks the most harrowing truth about the power of evil, personal and political, and intoxicates, similar a loftier-flying kite, with the power of promise' Daily Telegraph

'Stunning and heartbreaking in its repose intensity ... Hosseini's writing is meticulous and evocative' Guardian

'A marvellous first novel . . . Information technology's an former-fashioned kind of novel that really sweeps you abroad' San Francisco Chronicle

'From the first lines of The Kite Runner, Khaled Hosseini shows how an engaging novel begins - with simple, exquisite writing that compels the reader to plow the page. But Hosseini's novel is more than than just good writing, it is also a wonderfully conjured story that offers a glimpse into an Afghanistan most Americans have never seen and depicts a side of humanity rarely revealed ... for the reader, the ride is exhilarating' Star Tribune

'The Kite Runnerr is powerful and involving' Time Out

'Stunning . . . It is rare that a book is at once so timely and of such high literary quality' Publishers Weekly

'Here is a existent find: a hitting debut . . . a passionate story of betrayal and redemption . . . a searing spectacle of difficult-won personal conservancy. All this, and a rich slice of Afghan culture too: irresistible' Kirkus Reviews

'What's most conspicuous on almost every page of this debut is not linguistic communication, but the shimmer of life. There is no display in Hosseini'south writing, merely expression - a lesson for all budding novelists . . . Hosseini does tenderness and terror, California dream and Kabul nightmare with equal aplomb . . . A carefully built construction of ripping yarn and ethical parable' World and Mail, Canada

'Not but manages to enthrall the reader with its narrative only besides gives an insight into a culture and mindset fashion beyond our own experience' Dublin Evening Herald

'A marvellous read, full of the exoticism of a strange land . . . beautifully written, in a limpid prose that, like all good writing, looks so simple on the page. This is one that I volition reread, maybe more than one time' Irish Examiner

'Balances socio-political commentary with an emotionally powerful narrative' Ink

'It's a Shakespearean beginning to an ballsy tale that spans lives lived across two continents amid political upheavals, where dreams wilt earlier they bud and where a search for a child finally makes a coward into a human . . . rich and soul-searching . . . His globe is a patchwork of the beautiful and the horrific, and the book a sharp, unforgettable taste of the trauma and tumult experienced by Afghanis every bit their country buckled' Observer

'A beautiful novel . . . it ranks among the best-written and about provocative stories of the twelvemonth . . . The Kite Runner is a song in a new key. Hosseini is an exhilaratingly original writer with a gift for irony and a gentle, perceptive heart. His sail might be a place and time Americans are simply commencement to empathize, but he paints his fine art on the page, where information technology is intimate and poignant' Denver Postal service

'His description of Amir's relationship with Hassan is beautifully nuanced, and the moment of Amir's ultimate betrayal is genuinely shocking. It is a passionate story' Literary Review

'Hosseini's stunning debut is a gripping tale of dearest and loss, exile and homeland' Big Outcome

'If you liked The God of Small Things, and then you'll beloved The Kite Runner ... it is fable-like and deals in picturesque absolutes . . . compelling' Prototype

'Combines the tones of memory and nostalgia with a want to recreate a lost world . . . The Kite Runner is reminiscent of those archetype European novellas of innocence bruised by experience' Independent

'Told in a cool, discrete voice that provides a counterpoint to the growing sense of tension which is oftentimes stretched to breaking point as the story unfolds' Times Literary Supplement

BY THE SAME Writer

A Thousand Splendid Suns

THE KITE RUNNER

Khaled Hosseini

BLOOMSBURY

First published in Great Uk 2003

Copyright (c) 2003 by Khaled Hosseini

This electronic edition published 2009 past Bloomsbury Publishing Plc

The right of Khaled Hosseini to be identified as the writer of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988

All rights reserved. You lot may not copy, distribute, transmit, reproduce or otherwise make available this publication (or whatsoever part of information technology) in any form, or past any ways (including without limitation electronic, digital, optical, mechanical, photocopying, press, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission of the publisher. Any person who does any unauthorised human action in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

Bloomsbury Publishing Plc, 36 Soho Square, London W1D 3QY

A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

ISBN 978-1-40880372-i

www.bloomsbury.com/khaledhosseini

Visit world wide web.bloomsbury.com to find out more about our authors and their books.

ou will find extracts, authors interviews, author events and you can sign up for newsletters to be the first to hear near our latest releases and special offers.

Contents

Acknowledgments

Affiliate ONE

Chapter Ii

Chapter THREE

Affiliate FOUR

Chapter FIVE

Chapter SIX

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER Viii

CHAPTER 9

Affiliate Ten

Affiliate Eleven

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER 13

Affiliate Fourteen

CHAPTER Xv

CHAPTER Xvi

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Chapter EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Chapter Twenty

Affiliate TWENTY-One

CHAPTER Twenty-TWO

CHAPTER Twenty-Iii

CHAPTER 20-4

Affiliate 20-FIVE

A Note ON THE AUTHOR

Khaled Hosseini was born in Kabul, Afghanistan and moved to the United states of america in 1980. His first novel, The Kite Runner , was an international best seller, published in 30-4 countries. His second novel, A Thousand Splendid Suns , was a number 1 bestseller and was published in May 2007. In 2006 he was named a goodwill envoy to the United Nations Refugee Agency. He lives in northern California.

This book is dedicated

to Haris and Farah,

both the noor of my optics,

and to the children of Afghanistan.

Acknowledgments

I am indebted to the post-obit colleagues for their advice, assistance, or support: Dr. Alfred Lerner, Dori Vakis, Robin Heck, Dr. Todd Dray, Dr. Robert Tull, and Dr. Sandy Chun. Thanks also to Lynette Parker of Eastward San Jose Community Law Centre for her advice nigh adoption procedures, and to Mr. Daoud Wahab for sharing his experiences in Afghanistan with me. I am grateful to my dearest friend Tamim Ansary for his guidance and support and to the gang at the San Francisco Writers Workshop for their feedback and encouragement. I want to thank my male parent, my oldest friend and the inspiration for all that is noble in Baba; my mother who prayed for me and did nazr at every stage of this volume's writing; my aunt for buying me

books when I was immature. Thanks become out to Ali, Sandy, Daoud, Walid, Raya, Shalla, Zahra, Rob, and Kader for reading my stories. I want to thank Dr. and Mrs. Kayoumy--my other parents--for their warmth and unwavering support.

I must thank my agent and friend, Elaine Koster, for her wisdom, patience, and gracious ways, equally well as Cindy Spiegel, my corking-eyed and judicious editor who helped me unlock so many doors in this tale. And I would similar to give thanks Susan Petersen Kennedy for taking a chance on this book and the hardworking staff at Riverhead for laboring over it.

Last, I don't know how to thank my lovely wife, Roya--to whose opinion I am addicted--for her kindness and grace, and for reading, rereading, and helping me edit every single draft of this novel. For your patience and agreement, I will e'er love you, Roya jan.

One

December 2001

I became what I am today at the age of twelve, on a frigid overcast twenty-four hours in the winter of 1975. I call back the precise moment, crouching behind a crumbling mud wall, peeking into the aisle nearly the frozen creek. That was a long time ago, just it's wrong what they say about the past, I've learned, about how you lot tin bury information technology. Because the past claws its way out. Looking dorsum now, I realize I have been peeking into that deserted aisle for the last xx-six years.

1 twenty-four hour period last summertime, my friend Rahim Khan called from Pakistan. He asked me to come up encounter him. Standing in the kitchen with the receiver to my ear, I knew it wasn't merely Rahim Khan on the line. Information technology was my past of unatoned sins. After I hung upwards, I went for a walk along Spreckels Lake on the northern edge of Aureate Gate Park. The early-afternoon sun sparkled on the water where dozens of miniature boats sailed, propelled by a well-baked breeze. Then I glanced up and saw a pair of kites, crimson with long blueish tails, soaring in the heaven. They danced high in a higher place the copse on the west end of the park, over the windmills, floating side by side like a pair of eyes looking down on San Francisco, the city I now call habitation. And suddenly Hassan's voice whispered in my head: For you, a g times over. Hassan the harelipped kite runner.

I sat on a park bench near a willow tree. I thought about something Rahim Khan said only earlier he hung up, nigh as an afterthought. There is a way to be good again. I looked up at those twin kites. I thought about Hassan. Thought nearly Baba. Ali. Kabul. I thought of the life I had lived until the winter of 1975 came along and changed everything. And made me what I am today.

TWO

When we were children, Hassan and I used to climb the poplar trees in the driveway of my father's house and badger our neighbors by reflecting sunlight into their homes with a shard of mirror. We would sit across from each other on a pair of high branches, our naked feet dangling, our trouser pockets filled with stale mulberries and walnuts. We took turns with the mirror as nosotros ate mulberries, pelted each other with them, giggling, laughing. I can nonetheless come across Hassan upwards on that tree, sunlight flickering through the leaves on his well-nigh perfectly round confront, a face like a Chinese doll chiseled from hardwood: his apartment, broad olfactory organ and slanting, narrow eyes like bamboo leaves, eyes that looked, depending on the light, gold, green, even sapphire. I tin can still see his tiny low-set ears and that pointed stub of a chin, a meaty appendage that looked like it was added as a mere afterthought. And the cleft lip, just left of midline, where the Chinese doll maker's instrument may have slipped, or mayhap he had simply grown tired and careless.

Sometimes, upward in those trees, I talked Hassan into firing walnuts with his slingshot at the neighbour'south 1-eyed German shepherd. Hassan never wanted to, merely if I asked, really asked, he wouldn't deny me. Hassan never denied me anything. And he was deadly with his slingshot. Hassan's father, Ali, used to grab us and go mad, or every bit mad equally someone equally gentle as Ali could ever get. He would wag his finger and wave united states of america down from the tree. He would accept the mirror and tell united states of america what his mother had told him, that the devil shone mirrors too, shone them to distract Muslims during prayer. "And he laughs while he does it," he ever added, scowling at his son.

"Yes, Father," Hassan would mumble, looking down at his anxiety. But he never told on me. Never told that the mirror, like shooting walnuts at the neighbour's domestic dog, was always my idea.

The poplar trees lined the redbrick driveway, which led to a pair of wrought-fe gates. They in turn opened into an extension of the driveway into my father's estate. The firm sabbatum on the left side of the brick path, the backyard at the stop of information technology.

Everyone agreed that my father, my Baba, had built the most beautiful house in the Wazir Akbar Khan district, a new and flush neighborhood in the northern part of Kabul. 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 past 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 bedchamber, Baba's room, and his written report, too known equally "the smoking room," which perpetually smelled of tobacco and cinnamon. Baba and his friends reclined on blackness leather chairs there after Ali had served dinner. They stuffed their pipes--except Baba always chosen it "fattening the pipe"--and discussed their favorite three topics: politics, concern, soccer. Sometimes I asked Baba if I could sit with them, but Baba would stand in the doorway. "Get on, at present," he'd say. "This is grown-ups' fourth dimension. Why don't you go read i of those books of yours?" He'd close the door, leave me to wonder why it was e'er grown-ups' time with him. I'd sit by the door, knees drawn to my chest. Sometimes I sabbatum there for an hour, sometimes two, listening to their laughter, their chatter.

The living room downstairs had a curved wall with custom-built cabinets. Within saturday framed family unit pictures: an old, grainy photo of my grandfather and King Nadir Shah taken in 1931, two years earlier the king's assassination; they are standing over a dead deer, dressed in articulatio genus-loftier boots, rifles slung over their shoulders. There was a picture of my parents' wedding dark, Baba dashing in his black adjust and my female parent a grinning young princess in white. Here was Baba and his best friend and concern partner, Rahim Khan, standing outside our house, neither one grinning--I am a baby in that photograph and Baba is holding me, looking tired and grim. I'yard in his arms, but information technology'southward 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 down 30 guests--and, given my begetter'due south sense of taste for extravagant parties, it did simply that most every week. On the other end of the dining room was a tall marble fireplace, always lit past the orangish 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 minor 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."

On the south terminate of the garden, in the shadows of a loquat tree, was the servants' home, a modest little mud hut where Hassan lived with his father.

Information technology was there, in that footling shack, that Hassan was born in the winter of 1964, only one year later my mother died giving nascency to me.

In the eighteen years that I lived in that business firm, I stepped into Hassan and Ali's quarters only a handful of times. When the sunday dropped depression behind the hills and we were done playing for the day, Hassan and I parted ways. I went past the rosebushes to Baba'due south mansion, Hassan to the mud shack where he had been built-in, where he'd lived his entire life. I remember it was spare, clean, dimly lit by a pair of kerosene lamps. In that location were two mattresses on opposite sides of the room, a worn Herati rug with frayed edges in between, a 3-legged stool, and a wooden tabular array in the corner where Hassan did his drawings. The walls stood bare, save for a single tapestry with sewn-in chaplet forming the words Allah-u-akbar. Baba had bought information technology for Ali on one of his trips to Mashad.

Information technology was in that pocket-sized shack that Hassan'southward mother, Sanaubar, gave birth to him one cold winter day in 1964. While my female parent hemorrhaged to death during childbirth,

Hassan lost his less than a week after he was built-in. Lost her to a fate most Afghans considered far worse than expiry: She ran off with a association of traveling singers and dancers.

Hassan never talked well-nigh his female parent, every bit if she'd never existed. I e'er wondered if he dreamed about her, virtually what she looked like, where she was. I wondered if he longed to encounter her. Did he ache for her, the way I ached for the female parent 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 billet near Istiqlal Heart School--Baba had forbidden united states to take that shortcut, only he was in Pakistan with Rahim Khan at the time. Nosotros 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. A group of soldiers huddled in the shade of one of those tanks, smoking cigarettes and playing cards. I of them saw us, elbowed the guy side by side to him, and chosen Hassan.

"Hey, you!" he said. "I know you."

Nosotros had never seen him before. He was a squatty man with a shaved head and blackness stubble on his confront. The way he grinned at us, leered, scared me. "Just continue walking," I muttered to Hassan.

"You! The Hazara! Look at me when I'm talking to y'all!" the soldier barked. He handed his cigarette to the guy next to him, fabricated a circle with the thumb and index finger of one manus. Poked the middle finger of his other hand through the circle. Poked it in and out. In and out. "I knew your female parent, did you know that? I knew her real good. I took her from behind by that creek over there."

The soldiers laughed. Ane of them made a squealing sound. I told Hassan to keep walking, continue walking.

"What a tight little sugary cunt she had!" the soldier was maxim, shaking hands with the others, grinning. Later, in the night, after the movie had started, I heard Hassan next to me, croaking. Tears were sliding down his cheeks. I reached beyond my seat, slung my arm around him, pulled him close. He rested his head on my shoulder. "He took you for someone else," I whispered. "He took you for someone else."

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