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THE KITE RUNNER by KHALED HOSSEINI Published -December _ I became what I am today at the age of twelve, on a frigid overcast day in the. 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. 'A gripping read and a haunting story of love, loss and betrayal. 'The Kite Runner is told with simplicity and poise, it is a novel of great hidden intricacy and wisdom, like a timeless Eastern tale. 'From the first lines of The Kite Runner, Khaled Hosseini shows how an engaging.

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Kite Runner Ebook

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. Read "The Kite Runner" by Khaled Hosseini available from Rakuten Kobo. Sign up today and get $5 off your first download. The #1 New York Times bestselling. Read "The Kite Runner" by Khaled Hosseini available from Rakuten Kobo. Sign up today and get $5 off your first download. “I sat on a bench near a willow tree.

The classic novel is about an Afghan boy, Amir, who desperately strives towards redemption after betraying his very loyal servant, Hassan. During his journey to gain redemption, Amir understands the pain of regret, how the human mind can drive one to a point where success is the only option. This novel is written in a way that never gives away how it will unfold. As I was reading this novel for the first time, the plot twists changed my perception of the story each time, giving me a sensation of suspense and amazement after each page. The novel talks about religious and other sensitive issues. There are many reoccurring symbols in the book that have a significant meaning to the story such as kites, eyes, smiles and dreams. I highly recommend keeping track of these symbols to improve your understanding of the book further as well as to understand the class of writing Khaled Hosseini showcases. This book is best for readers above grade 9 considering the sensitivity of some topics and the length of the book.

Meanwhile Ahmed states that never betray anyone because deceit is something which never die. It always remain alive and one day it reaches to you. Betrayal is probably the most crushing misfortune a person can experience. When an individual is betrayed by someone he loses his trust from that person first. It mean that the person have lost very important factor in his life.

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Even further beyond any other emotional pain one can feel. It is the worst pain especially given by friend. The person whom you trust a lot. To whom you share your secrets, feelings, desires, wishes and to whom you consider another yourself, and that person when betrays it would very difficult to recover from that shock easily. Ninth grade slays is the second book in The Chronicles of Vladimir Tod by Zec Brewer, in which he highlights the betrayal instinct in human nature.

The plot line of the book was interesting by featuring the main theme of the book. Of all encounters in life, betrayal by a trusted companion is a standout amongst the most hard to hold up under. It incites outrage and discouragement. It was like being left alone in the desert at dusk without water or warmth. It left your mouth dry and will broke.

One moment of betrayal can rock a years- long friendship. Betrayal can take form of isolated, hurtful acts, it can also take a slow release form that is equally painful. According to Shakespeare , mostly friendship is based on pretending.

It all leads you towards hypocrisy. In a friendship where there is a kind ear, and shoulder to incline toward, there is a feeling of wellbeing, liking, and acknowledgment. You don't need to imagine or set up a false cover.

In any case, when a companion betrays you or transforms into your adversary this leaves an open injury in your heart.

Betrayal decay all the establishment of connections. Insightfully, logically, and politically, the Greeks achieved a bewildering level of modernity. We found the center of human instinct in their work. Betrayal repeats all through Greek folklore however its outcomes are once in a while as irate and devastating. In Greek mythology the stories of betrayal are common. The moral lesson often point out the futility for the betrayer. We see in the tragedy Medea by Euripides, which is based upon the myth of Jason and Medea.

After marriage Jason leaves her. The result of this betrayal is a string of tragic events that leads to murder. These ancient stories reveal the basic human instinct and events which cover the universal themes. Another Greek myth that count the element of betray is Atreus and Thyestes, the two brothers and one of them commit the sin of infidelity with his sibling's better half and after that brought up a child with the end goal of murdering his uncle.

In one legend, Theseus, prince of Athens, was sent to Crete to defeat the dreaded Minotaur. Ariadne, little girl of ruler Minos of Crete, fell in love for Theseus and helped him. These Greek myths portray the very nature of human being.

Their subjects deal with the human nature and their lives. They offered significance to the world individuals saw around them. It reveals to us the earth in which mankind lived, the regular marvels they witness.

The more noticeable accept that you had put in the other individual and the more prominent the effect their disloyalty has on you and the more noteworthy the pain you will feel. People need to trust. Trust relieves nervousness, helps lift dejection and makes it conceivable to reliably put intrigue and pleasure in each other.

He lives in northern California. This book is dedicated to Haris and Farah, both the noor of my eyes, and to the children of Afghanistan. Acknowledgments I am indebted to the following colleagues for their advice, assistance, or support: Todd Dray, Dr.

Robert Tull, and Dr. Sandy Chun. Daoud Wahab for sharing his experiences in Afghanistan with me. I am grateful to my dear 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 father, 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 book's writing; my aunt for downloading me books when I was young. I want to thank Dr. 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, as well as Cindy Spiegel, my keen-eyed and judicious editor who helped me unlock so many doors in this tale.

And I would like to thank 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 understanding, I will always love you, Roya jan. ONE December I became what I am today at the age of twelve, on a frigid overcast day in the winter of I remember the precise moment, crouching behind a crumbling mud wall, peeking into the alley near the frozen creek. That was a long time ago, but it's wrong what they say about the past, I've learned, about how you can bury it. Because the past claws its way out.

Looking back now, I realize I have been peeking into that deserted alley for the last twenty-six years.

One day last summer, my friend Rahim Khan called from Pakistan. He asked me to come see him. Standing in the kitchen with the receiver to my ear, I knew it wasn't just Rahim Khan on the line. It was my past of unatoned sins. The early-afternoon sun sparkled on the water where dozens of miniature boats sailed, propelled by a crisp breeze.

Then I glanced up and saw a pair of kites, red with long blue tails, soaring in the sky. They danced high above the trees 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 home.

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And suddenly Hassan's voice whispered in my head: For you, a thousand times over. Hassan the harelipped kite runner. I sat on a park bench near a willow tree.

I thought about something Rahim Khan said just before he hung up, almost as an afterthought. There is a way to be good again. I looked up at those twin kites. I thought about Hassan. Thought about Baba. I thought of the life I had lived until the winter of 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 annoy 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 dried mulberries and walnuts. We took turns with the mirror as we ate mulberries, pelted each other with them, giggling, laughing. I can still see Hassan up on that tree, sunlight flickering through the leaves on his almost perfectly round face, a face like a Chinese doll chiseled from hardwood: I 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 perhaps he had simply grown tired and careless. Sometimes, up in those trees, I talked Hassan into firing walnuts with his slingshot at the neighbor's one-eyed German shepherd.

Hassan never wanted to, but if I asked, really asked, he wouldn't deny me. Standing in the kitchen with the receiver to my ear, I knew it wasn't just Rahim Khan on the line.

It was my past of unatoned sins. The early-afternoon sun sparkled on the water where dozens of miniature boats sailed, propelled by a crisp breeze. Then I glanced up and saw a pair of kites, red with long blue tails, soaring in the sky. They danced high above the trees 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 home.

The Kite Runner by Khaled Hosseini (ebook)

And suddenly Hassan's voice whispered in my head: For you, a thousand times over. Hassan the harelipped kite runner. I sat on a park bench near a willow tree. I thought about something Rahim Khan said just before he hung up, almost as an afterthought.

There is a way to be good again. I looked up at those twin kites. I thought about Hassan. Thought about Baba. I thought of the life I had lived until the winter of 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 annoy 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 dried mulberries and walnuts. We took turns with the mirror as we ate mulberries, pelted each other with them, giggling, laughing. I can still see Hassan up on that tree, sunlight flickering through the leaves on his almost perfectly round face, a face like a Chinese doll chiseled from hardwood: his flat, broad nose and slanting, narrow eyes like bamboo leaves, eyes that looked, depending on the light, gold, green, even sapphire.

I 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 perhaps he had simply grown tired and careless. Sometimes, up in those trees, I talked Hassan into firing walnuts with his slingshot at the neighbor's one-eyed German shepherd. Hassan never wanted to, but 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 catch us and get mad, or as mad as someone as gentle as Ali could ever get. He would wag his finger and wave us down from the tree. He would take the mirror and tell us what his mother had told him, that the devil shone mirrors too, shone them to distract Muslims during prayer. But he never told on me. Never told that the mirror, like shooting walnuts at the neighbor's dog, was always my idea. The poplar trees lined the redbrick driveway, which led to a pair of wrought-iron gates.

They in turn opened into an extension of the driveway into my father's estate. The house sat on the left side of the brick path, the backyard at the end of it. Everyone agreed that my father, my Baba, had built the most beautiful house in the Wazir Akbar Khan district, a new and affluent 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 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.

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