#1 on Amazon.com and a New York Times bestseller for 240 weeks
The return of an overwhelming masterpiece that captivated tens of millions of readers worldwide.

* Original novel for the film and Broadway musical [The Kite Runner]
* Selected as a 'Notable Book' by the American Library Association
* 2003 San Francisco Chronicle 'Book of the Year'
* 2003 Entertainment Weekly 'Best Book'

The Kite Runner, a masterpiece by Afghan-born American author Khaled Hosseini, who movingly portrayed Afghanistan's turbulent modern history and the lives of the people living within it, has returned to the world in a revised edition after 12 years.


"The Kite Runner" is a coming-of-age novel that tells the story of Amir, the son of a wealthy merchant, and his servant Hassan, who has a tragic fate. It movingly depicts the protagonist Amir's journey of facing and atonement for the mistakes of his childhood, and finding healing and salvation.
In this work, Khaled Hosseini skillfully weaves together the subtle and awkward themes of war, ethnic conflict, genocide, and religious issues into the story of a boy's coming of age through a complex and turbulent history, creating a beautiful human drama that anyone can read and relate to.

This novel, which captivated the world with its compelling, solid structure and outstanding narrative that intertwines poignant sadness and emotion, rose to the number one spot on Amazon.com's bestseller list in the US and remained on the New York Times bestseller list for over 240 weeks, enjoying absolute love for nearly 20 years.
It was also introduced in over 50 countries around the world, including Korea, Germany, Spain, the Netherlands, Norway, Brazil, and Sweden, and topped the bestseller lists in each country. It was later made into a film of the same name directed by Marc Forster and a Broadway musical, and had a great influence on the popular culture world as a whole.

I became who I am today on a cold, cloudy winter day in 1975.
I was twelve years old at that time.
That day, I was crouching behind a crumbling wall, looking down an alleyway near the frozen city center.
It was a long time ago.
People say you can bury the past, but I've come to realize that's wrong.
Because no matter how much you bury the past, it keeps coming out.
Looking back, I feel like I've been staring down that deserted alley for the past 26 years.
One day last summer, Rahim Han called from Pakistan.
He asked me to come there.
As I stood in the kitchen with the receiver to my ear and answered the phone, I realized it wasn't just Rahim Hanman on the phone.
My past was full of unatoned sins.
--- p.7

I couldn't bear to look at them and turned away.
Something warm was running down my wrist.
I blinked my eyes.
I was still biting my fist.
He was biting his knuckles so hard that blood was flowing out.
Another thing I realized was that I was crying.
As I turned the corner, I heard Asef's rapid, rhythmic murmur.
It was my last chance to make up my mind.
It was my last chance to decide what kind of person I would become.
I could either go into the alley, take Hassan's side, fight, and accept the consequences, as Hassan had done for me in the past, or I could run away.
In the end, I ran away
--- p.120

“Did you steal the money? Hassan, did you steal Amir’s watch?”
Hassan answered in a thin, hoarse voice.
"yes."
That was all there was to it.
I flinched as if I had been slapped in the face.
I almost told the truth.
At that moment, I knew that it was Hassan's final sacrifice for me.
If he had said no, Baba would have believed him.
We all knew that Hassan never lied.
If Baba believed him, he would question me.
I would have to explain myself and eventually my lies would be exposed.
Baba would never forgive me.
Hassan knew the truth.
He knew I saw everything in the alley.
I knew I was standing there and doing nothing.
He knew I had betrayed him.
And yet he was saving me once again, perhaps for the last time.
--- p.162

I took out the Polaroid photo again.
A round face in a photo in the sun.
My brother's face.
Hassan loved me.
He loved me so much that no one could do that to me.
He was now dead.
But a part of him lived on.
Some of them were in Kabul.
While waiting for me.
When I entered the apartment, Rahim Han was praying in the corner of the room.
A black silhouette bowing to the east, its back turned to the blood-red sky.
I waited for him to finish praying.
I said I would go to Kabul.
He said he would go see the American couple in the morning.
He said.
“Amir, I will pray for you.”
--- pp.345~346

I took Sorab's hand.
It was a small hand.
There were calluses.
His fingers moved and intertwined with mine.
I thought back to the Polaroid photos.
In the photo, Sorab was leaning his head on his father's butt and hugging his father's leg.
Both of them were smiling in the photo.
As we crossed the room, the paper hanging from Sorab's ankle jingled.
When we reached the door.
Assef asked from behind us.
“I didn’t say I could take that kid for free, did I?”
I turned around.
“What do you want?”
“There is something unfinished between you and me.
Don't you remember?
--- p.437

I cannot express how sad and devastated I was when I heard that your father had passed away.
I loved him because he was my friend.
At the same time, I loved him because he was a good person.
No, maybe I loved him because he was a great person.
There's something I want you to understand.
It is the fact that good, true good, came from your father's guilt.
Sometimes I think about what he did.
Your father fed the poor on the streets, set up an orphanage, and gave money to his friends in need.
All of it was his way of trying to atone.
I think that's the real salvation.
Guilt leads to good.
I know that God will forgive me in the end.
God will forgive your father, me, and you.
I wish you could do the same.
If possible, forgive your father.
If you want to do that, then forgive me too.
But the most important thing is to forgive yourself.
--- p.461

“Sorab, look carefully.
Let me show you one of the techniques your father used to love.
“It’s a hit-and-run technique.” Sorab’s breathing was getting faster.
The reel in his hand turned.
The tendons of his wrists, scarred with scars, resembled rhubarb strings.
I blinked.
For a moment, the hand holding the rag looked like the hand of a boy with puckered lips.
It looked like a boy's hand with calluses and the corners of his nails falling off.
I was back in the past.
A crow was heard croaking somewhere.
I looked up at the sky.
The park was covered in white snow that had just fallen.
It was a dizzying white light.
My eyes were starting to hurt.
I could smell turnip kurma from somewhere.
It also smelled of dried berries, sour oranges, sawdust, and walnuts.
silence.
Silence in the snow.
The silence was making my ears numb.
Then, from afar, a voice was heard, cutting through the silence, calling us home.
The voice of a person with a limp right leg… … .
I was back in the past.

--- pp.568~569