I dream that my son will grow up to be a good person, a free person. I dream that someday you will return to revisit the land of our childhood. I dream that flowers will bloom in the streets again and kites will fly in the skies.
You see, General Sahib, my father slept with his servant's wife, and she bore him a son named Hassan. Hassan is dead now. That boy sleeping in the other room is Hassan's son. He's my nephew. That's what you tell people when they ask. And one more thing, General Sahib: you will never again refer to him as "a Hazara boy" in my presence. He has a name, and it's Sohrab.
The citizens of Kabul were skeletons now. Skeletons selling naswar in the night market, skeletons drinking cups of strong tea, skeletons playing cards in the moonlight. They greeted me as I passed, teeth clacking together in their jaws. "Salaam, brother," they said. "Welcome home."
Who are we in this complicated world?
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.
There is only one sin, only one. And that is theft. Every other sin is a variation of theft....When you kill a man, you steal a life. You steal his wife's right to a husband, rob his children of a father. When you tell a lie, you steal someone's right to the truth. When you cheat, you steal the right to fairness.
War doesn't negate decency. It demands it, even more than in times of peace.
All this talk of sinning is making me thirsty.
Fuck the Russia!
I wish Hassan had been with us today. That would make him happy.
[about the mullahs] I piss on the beards of those self-righteous monkeys.
Instead of being a doctor and saving lives, my son wants to make up stories.
Afghanistan is the land of the Pashtuns. We're the real Afghans, not this flat-nosed Hazara. His people pollute our homeland. They dirty our blood. If idiots like you and your father hadn't taken these people in, we'd be rid of them.
You are among peers. Everyone here is a storyteller.
Afghani people and Pakistani people, they are like brothers. Muslims have to help Muslims.
Pakistan Taxi Driver
They call this area Afghan Town. Sometimes it feels like Peshawar is a suburb of Kabul.
Hassan: [Talking about a story Amir wrote] Why did he kill his wife?
Amir: Because he would cry and his tears would turn into pearls.
Hassan: But why didn't he smell an onion?
Amir: Would you eat dirt if I asked you to do that?
Hassan: If you would ask it I would.
Hassan: But you would not ask that, would you?
Amir: Of course not.
Hassan: I like Charles Bronson. Maybe someday we'll go to Iran.
Hassan: Maybe we'd see him somewhere. I could get his autograph.
Amir: Charles Bronson's not Iranian.
Hassan: He's not? So why does he speak Farsi with an Iranian accent?
Amir: Baba, have you ever thought about getting new servants?
Baba: Why would I ever want to do that?
Amir: [already regretting it] I guess you wouldn't. It was just a question.
Baba: I grew up with Ali. My father took him in, he loved Ali like his own son. 40 years Ali's been with my family. 40 goddamn years. And you think I'm just going to throw him out? I've never laid a hand on you, Amir, but you ever say that again... You bring me shame. And Hassan... Hassan's not going anywhere. Do you understand? I SAID, DO YOU UNDERSTAND?!
Baba: Are you ready for your birthday present?
Hassan: Is it a drawing book?
Hassan: A toy gun?
Baba: Where are you from?
Dr. Starobin: I grew up in Michigan. Came out here for medical school. Once you get used to that California sunshine...
Baba: But your family?
Dr. Starobin: My family? We're originally from Russia.
[Baba shoves him away, and is next seen with an Arabic doctor]
Baba: My son, the college graduate.
Amir: It's just community college.
Baba: It's college. And someday, Dr. Amir!
Rahim Khan: You should come home.
Amir: Home? I don't think now's such a good time.
Rahim Khan: It is a very bad time, but you should come. There is a way to be good again, Amir agha.
Soraya: What do you see?
Amir: The rest of my life.
Amir: Do you remember what these streets smelled like in the old days?
Amir: Lamb kabob.
Assef: You want my advice? Run away. That's what you do best.
Amir: Not without Sohrab.
Assef: You want him? Take him. [shoves Sohrab at him] Of course, I did not say you could have him for free. [hits Amir]