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He knew I'd seen everything in that alley, that I'd stood there and done nothing. He knew that I'd betrayed him and yet he was rescuing me once again, maybe for the last time.

Khaled Hosseini

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Khaled Hosseini
Age: 59
Born: 1965
Born: March 4
Medical Writer
Novelist
Physician
Physician Writer
Writer
Cabool
Lasts
Rescuing
Last
Alley
Everything
Alleys
Nothing
Betrayed
Done
Stood
Time
Knew
Seen
Maybe

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Children aren't coloring books. You don't get to fill them with your favorite colors.
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some stories don't need telling
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I returned to Afghanistan because I had a deep longing to see for myself how people lived, what they thought of their government, how optimistic they were about the future of their homeland.
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Mostly, though, I dream of good things...I dream that flowers will bloom in the streets..again and music will play in the...houses and kites will fly in the skies.
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If there was a God, he'd guide the winds, let them blow for me so that, with a tug of my string, I'd cut loose my pain, my longing.
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You’re not going to cry, are you? - I am not going to cry! Not over you. Not in a thousand years.
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But then it passed, as all things do.
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At last, she makes her choice. She turns around, drops her head, and walks toward a horizon she cannot see. After that, she does not look back anymore. She knows that if she does, she will weaken.
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On a high mountain I stood, And cried the name of Ali, Lion of God.O Ali, Lion of God, King of Men, Bring joy to our sorrowful hearts.
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Writing for me is largely about rewriting.
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Writing fiction is the act of weaving a series of lies to arrive at a greater truth.
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One time, when I was very little, I climbed a tree and ate these green, sour apples. My stomach swelled and became hard like a drum, it hurt a lot. Mother said that if I'd just waited for the apples to ripen, I wouldn't have become sick. So now, whenever I really want something, I try to remember what she said about the apples.
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People in the countryside carry a sense of dignity. They wear it, don't they? Like a badge? I'm being genuine.
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There will be no floating waway. There will be no other reality tonight.
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After all, life is not a Hindi movie.
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One could not count the moons that shimmer on her roofs, Or the thousand splendid suns that hide behind her walls.
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I found myself sitting at the computer, and I thought I was going to write a kind of simple nostalgic story about two boys and their love of kite fighting. But stories have a will of their own, and this one turned out to be this dark tale about betrayal, loss, regret. The short story which was about 25 pages long sat around for a couple of years.
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It turned out that, like Satan, cancer had many names.
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I guess some stories do not need telling.
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She was the trembler of knees, the spiller of teacups.
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