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Executive Times |
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2005 Book Reviews |
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The Kite
Runner by Khaled Hosseini |
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Rating:
••• (Recommended) |
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Click on
title or picture to buy from amazon.com |
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Soars The Kite
Runner is a superb debut novel by Khaled Hosseini. Finely written, Hosseini
creates vivid characters and reveals the transformations in their lives in Here’s
an excerpt, from the beginning of
Chapter Six, pp. 48-55 Winter. Here is what I do on the
first day of snowfall every year: I step out of the house early in the
morning, still in my pajamas, hugging my arms against the chill. I find the
driveway, my father’s car, the walls, the trees, the rooftops, and the hills
buried under a foot of snow. I smile. The sky is seamless and blue, the snow
so white my eyes burn. I shovel a handful of the fresh snow into my mouth, listen to the muffled stillness broken only by the
cawing of crows. I walk down the front steps, barefoot, and call for Hassan to come out and see, Winter was every kid’s
favorite season in And kites, of course.
Flying kites. And running them. For a few unfortunate
kids, winter did not spell the end of the school year. There were the
so-called voluntary winter courses. No kid I knew ever volunteered to go to
these classes; parents, of course, did the volunteering for them. Fortunately
for me, Baba was not one of them. I remember one kid, Ahmad, who lived across
the street from us. His father was some kind of doctor, I think. Ahmad had
epilepsy and always wore a wool vest and thick black-rimmed glasses—he was
one of Assef’s regular victims. Every morning, I
watched from my bedroom window as their Hazara servant
shoveled snow from the driveway, cleared the way for the black Opel. I made a point of watching Ahmad and his father get
into the car, Ahmad in his wool vest and winter coat, his schoolbag filled
with books and pencils. I waited until they pulled away, turned the corner,
then I slipped back into bed in my flannel pajamas. I pulled the blanket to
my chin and watched the snowcapped hills in the north through the window.
Watched them until I drifted back to sleep. I loved wintertime in Every
Winter, districts in As with any war, you had to ready
yourself for battle. For a while, Hassan and I used
to build our own kites. We saved our weekly allowances in the fall, dropped
the money in a little porcelain horse Baba had brought one time from But it quickly became apparent
that Hassan and I were better kite fighters than
kite makers. Some flaw or other in our design always spelled its doom. So
Baba started taking us to Saifo’s to buy our kites.
Saifo was a nearly blind old man who was a moochi by profession—a shoe repairman. But
he was also the city’s most famous kite maker, working out of a tiny hovel on
Jadeh Maywand, the
crowded street south of the muddy banks of the The kite-fighting
tournament was an old winter tradition in One time, a bratty Hindi
kid whose family had recently moved into the neighborhood told us that in his
hometown, kite fighting had strict rules and regulations. “You have to play
in a boxed area and you have to stand at a right angle to the wind,” he said
proudly. “And you can’t use aluminum to make your glass string.” Hassan and I looked at each other. Cracked
up. The Hindi kid would soon learn what the British learned earlier in the
century, and what the Russians would eventually learn by the late 1980s: that
Afghans are an independent people. Afghans cherish custom but abhor rules.
And so it was with kite fighting. The rules were simple: No rules. Fly your
kite. Cut the opponents. Good luck. Except that wasn’t all.
The real fun began when a kite was cut. That was where the kite runners came
in, those kids who chased the windblown kite drifting through the
neighborhoods until it came spiraling down in a field, dropping in someone’s
yard, on a tree, or a rooftop. The chase got pretty fierce; hordes of kite
runners swarmed the streets, shoved past each other like those people from
Spain I’d read about once, the ones who ran from the bulls. One year a
neighborhood kid climbed a pine tree for a kite. A branch snapped under his
weight and he fell thirty feet. Broke his back and never walked again. But he
fell with the kite still in his hands. And when a kite runner had his hands
on a kite, no one could take it from him. That wasn’t a rule. That was
custom. For kite runners, the most
coveted prize was the last fallen kite of a winter tournament. It was a
trophy of honor, something to be displayed on a mantle for guests to admire.
When the sky cleared of kites and only the final two remained, every kite runner
readied himself for the chance to land this prize. He positioned himself at
a spot that he thought would give him a head start. Tense muscles readied
themselves to uncoil. Necks craned. Eyes crinkled. Fights broke out. And when
the last kite was cut, all hell broke loose. Over the years, I had seen
a lot of guys run kites. But Hassan was by far the
greatest kite runner I’d ever seen. It was downright eerie the way he always
got to the spot the kite would land before the kite did, as if he had
some sort of inner compass. I remember one overcast
winter day, Hassan and I were running a kite. I
was chasing him through neighborhoods, hopping gutters, weaving through
narrow streets. I was a year older than him, but Hassan
ran faster than I did, and I was falling behind. “Hassan!
Wait!” I yelled, my breathing hot and ragged. He whirled around,
motioned with his hand. “This way!” he called before dashing around another
corner. I looked up, saw that the direction we were
running was opposite to the one the kite was drifting. “We’re losing it! We’re
going the wrong way!” I cried out. “Trust me!” I heard him
call up ahead. I reached the corner and saw Hassan
bolting along, his head down, not even looking at the sky, sweat soaking
through the back of his shirt. I tripped over a rock and fell—I wasn’t just
slower than Hassan but clumsier too; I’d always
envied his natural athleticism. When I staggered to my feet, I caught a
glimpse of Hassan disappearing around another
street corner. I hobbled after him, spikes of pain battering my scraped
knees. I saw we had ended up on a
rutted dirt road near ‘What are we doing here?”
I panted, my stomach roiling with n a u sea. He smiled. “Sit with me, Amir agha.” I dropped next to him, lay on a thin patch of snow, wheezing. ‘You’re
wasting our time. It was going the other way, didn’t you see?” Hassan popped a mulberry in his mouth. “It’s
coming,” he said. I could hardly breathe and he didn’t even sound tired. “How do you know?” I said. “I know.” “How can you know?” He turned to me. A few sweat beads
rolled from his bald scalp. “Would I ever lie to you, Amir
agha?” Suddenly I decided to toy with him a
little. “I don’t know. Would you?” “I’d sooner eat dirt,” he said with a
look of indignation. “Really? You’d do that?” He threw me a puzzled look. ‘Do what?” “Eat dirt if I told you to,” I said. I
knew I was being cruel, like when I’d taunt him if he didn’t know some big
word. But there was something fascinating—albeit in a sick way—about
teasing Hassan. Kind of like when we used to play
insect torture. Except now, he was the ant and I was holding the magnifying
glass. His eyes searched my face for a long
time. We sat there, two boys under a sour cherry tree, suddenly looking, really
looking, at each other. That’s when it happened again: Hassan’s face changed. Maybe not changed, not
really, but suddenly I had the feeling I was looking at two faces, the one I
knew, the one that was my first memory, and another, a second face, this one
lurking just beneath the surface. I’d seen it happen before—it always shook
me up a little. It just appeared, this other face, for a fraction of a
moment, long enough to leave me with the unsettling feeling that maybe I’d
seen it someplace before. Then Hassan blinked and
it was just him again. Just Hassan. “If you asked, I would,” he finally
said, looking right at me. I dropped my eyes. To this day, I find it hard to
gaze directly at people like Hassan, people who mean
every word they say. “But I wonder,” he added. “Would you
ever ask me to do such a thing, Amir agha?” And, just like that, he had thrown at me his own
little test. If I was going to toy with him and challenge his loyalty, then
he’d toy with me, test my integrity. I wished I hadn’t started
this conversation. I forced a smile. “Don’t be stupid, Hassan.
You know I wouldn’t.” Hassan returned the smile. Except his didn’t
look forced. “I know,” he said. And that’s the thing
about people who mean everything they say. They think everyone else does
too. “Here it comes,” Hassan said, pointing to the sky. He rose to his feet and
walked a few paces to his left. I looked up, saw the
kite plummeting toward us. I heard footfalls, shouts, an
approaching melee of kite runners. But they were wasting their time. Because
Hassan stood with his arms wide open, smiling,
waiting for the kite. And may God—if He exists, that is—strike me blind if
the kite didn’t just drop into his outstretched arms. The
magic of this childhood disappears shortly after this scene, and becomes a
distant memory when war strikes the country. On each page of The Kite
Runner, the characters develop, the plot twists, and the search for
forgiveness and redemption becomes intense. All in all, this is a fine debut
novel. Steve Hopkins,
April 23, 2005 |
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Buy The Kite
Runner @ amazon.com |
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ã 2005 Hopkins and Company, LLC The recommendation rating for
this book appeared in the May 2005
issue of Executive Times URL for this review: http://www.hopkinsandcompany.com/Books/The
Kite Runner.htm For Reprint Permission,
Contact: Hopkins & Company, LLC • E-mail: books@hopkinsandcompany.com |
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