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she held her breath, and in her head, counted seconds. She pretended that for each second she didn’t breathe, God would grant her another day

Khaled Hosseini

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Khaled Hosseini
Age: 59
Born: 1965
Born: March 4
Medical Writer
Novelist
Physician
Physician Writer
Writer
Cabool
Held
Breathe
Pretended
Second
Counted
Head
Grant
Another
Grants
Didn
Seconds
Would
Breath
Breaths

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and yet she was leaving the world as a woman who had love and been loved back. she was leaving it as a friend, a companion, a guardian. a mother. a person of consequence at last.
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In the coming days and weeks, Laila would scramble frantically to commit it all to memory, what happened next. Like an art lover running out of a burning museum, she would grab whatever she could--a look, a whisper, a moan--to salvage from perishing to preserve. But time is the most unforgiving of fires, and she couldn't, in the end, save it all.
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Life is a train, get on board.
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There are so many orgizations that do amazing work. I represent not only my own foundation, but the UN Refugee Agency, which has been around since 1951, and has helped 30 million refugees around the world.
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For many people in the west, Afghanistan is synonymous with the Soviet war and the Taliban. I wanted to remind people that Afghans had managed to live in peaceful anonymity for decades, that the history of the Afghans in the twentieth century has been largely pacific and harmonious.
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Children aren't coloring books. You don't get to fill them with your favorite colors.
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I wondered if that was how forgiveness budded not with the fanfare of epiphany, but with pain gathering its things, packing up, and slipping away unannounced in the middle of the night.
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People learned to live with the most unimaginable things.
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By then The Kite Runner had become quite successful and I found myself in a position that I had always dreamed of my whole life, which was to write for a living.
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I suspect the truth is that we are waiting, all of us, against insurmountable odds, for something extraordinary to happen to us.
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Laila has moved on. Because in the end she knows that’s all she can do. That and hope.
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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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Men are easy,' he said, fingers tapping on his mahogany desk. 'A man's plumbing is like his mind: simple, very few surprises. You ladies, on the other hand...well, God put a lot of thought into making you.
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You changed the subject. From what? The empty-headed girls who think you're sexy. You know. Know what? That I only have eyes for you.
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In Kabul, hot running water had been like fathers, a rare commodity.
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The short of it is, as an aspiring writer, there is nothing as damaging to your credibility as saying that you don't like to read.
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A stubborn ass needs a stubborn driver
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cruelty and benevolence are but shades of the same colour.
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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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People say that eyes are windows to the soul.
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