Khaled Hosseini Quotes

Some days, I listen to that clock ticking in the hallway. Then I think of all the ticks, all the minutes, all the hours and days and weeks and months and years waiting for me. All of it without you. And I can’t breathe then, like someone’s stepping on my heart. I get so weak. So weak I just want to collapse somewhere.

There is a way to be good again...

As far as I know, he never asked where she had been or why she had left and she never told. I guess some stories do not need telling.

I will follow you to the ends of the world.

I would give them (aspiring writers) the oldest advice in the craft: Read and write. Read a lot. Read new authors and established ones, read people whose work is in the same vein as yours and those whose genre is totally different. You've heard of chain-smokers. Writers, especially beginners, need to be chain-readers. And lastly, write every day. Write about things that get under your skin and keep you up at night.

It was the kind of love that, sooner or later, cornered you into a choice: either you tore free or you stayed and withstood its rigor even as it squeezed you into something smaller than yourself.

It was only a smile, nothing more. It didn't make everything all right. It didn't make ANYTHING all right. Only a smile. A tiny thing. A leaf in the woods, shaking in the wake of a startled bird's flight. But I'll take it. With open arms. Because when spring comes, it melts the snow one flake at a time, and maybe I just witnessed the first flake melting. - Amir

And that's the thing about people who mean everything they say. They think everyone else does too.

"Love was a damaging mistake and its accomplice,hope, a treacherous illusion".

For you, a thousand times over

Perhaps this is just punishment for those who have been heartless, to understand only when nothing can be undone.

Human behavior is messy and unpredictable and unconcerned with convenient symmetries.

I don't know what this feather means, the story of it, but I know it means he was thinking of me. For all these years. He remembered me.

I didn't remember what month that was, or what year even. I only knew the memory lived in me, a perfectly encapsulated morsel of a good past, a brushstroke of color on the gray, barren canvas that our lives had become.

Gone.
Vanished.
Nothing left.
Nothing said.