《英文小说与电影》课程教学资源（书籍文献）追风筝的人英文原版 THE KITE RUNNER.docx

December2001I became what Iam todayat theage of twelve, on a frigid overcast day in the winterof 1975.1remembertheprecisemoment,crouchingbehindacrumblingmudwall,peekingintothealleynear the frozen creek.That was a long time ago,but it's wrong whatthey sayabout the past, I'velearned,abouthowyoucanburyit.Becausethepastclawsitswayout.Lookingbacknow,!realizeIhave been peeking into thatdeserted alley forthe lasttwenty-sixyears.Onedaylast summer,myfriend RahimKhan calledfromPakistan.Heaskedmeto comeseehim.Standinginthekitchenwiththereceivertomyear,Iknewit wasn'tjust RahimKhanonthelineIt wasmypastofunatonedsins.AfterIhungup,Iwentfora walk along Spreckels Lakeon thenorthernedgeofGoldenGatePark.Theearly-afternoonsunsparkledonthewaterwheredozens ofminiature boats sailed, propelled bya crisp breeze.Then Iglanced up and saw a pair ofkites, red withlongbluetails,soaringinthesky.Theydanced highabovethetrees onthewestendofthepark,overthewindmills,floatingsidebysidelikeapairofeyeslookingdownonSanFrancisco,the cityInowcall home.And suddenlyHassan'svoice whispered in myhead:Foryou,athousandtimesover.Hassantheharelippedkiterunner.Isat on a park bench near a willow tree.I thoughtaboutsomething Rahim Khan said justbeforehehung up,almost as an afterthought.There is a wayto begood again.Ilooked upat thosetwinkites.Ithoughtabout Hassan.ThoughtaboutBaba.Ali.Kabul.Ithoughtofthe lifeIhadliveduntil thewinterof1975cameandchangedeverything.Andmademe whatIamtoday.TWOWhen wewerechildren,Hassan and Iusedto climb the poplartrees in thedrivewayofmyfather's houseand annoyour neighborsbyreflecting sunlight into their homes with a shard ofmirror.Wewouldsit across fromeach other ona pairof high branches, our naked feet dangling,ourtrouser pockets filled with dried mulberries and walnuts.Wetook turns with themirror aswe ate mulberries, pelted each other with them,giggling, laughing;I can still see Hassan up onthat tree, sunlight flickering throughthe leaves on his almost perfectly roundface, a face like aChinese doll chiseled from hardwood:hisflat, broad nose and slanting,narrow eyes like bambooleaves,eyes that looked, depending on the light,gold,green,even sapphirelcan still see his tinylow-setearsandthatpointedstubofachin,ameatyappendagethatlookedlikeitwasaddedasamereafterthought.Andthecleft lip,justleftofmidline,wheretheChinesedoll maker'sinstrumentmayhaveslipped;orperhapshehadsimplygrowntiredandcareless

December 2001 I became what I am today at the age of twelve, on a frigid overcast day in the winter of 1975. 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. After I hung up, I went for a walk along Spreckels Lake on the northern edge of Golden Gate Park. 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. 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 after thought. There is a way to be good again. I looked up at those twin kites. I thought about Hassan. Thought about Baba. Ali. Kabul. I thought of the life I had lived until the winter of 1975 came 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 thosetrees,Italked Hassan intofiring walnutswithhis slingshotattheneighbor'sone-eyed German shepherd.Hassan never wantedto, but if Iasked, really asked, hewouldn'tdenyme.Hassan never denied me anything.And he was deadly with his slingshot.Hassan'sfather, Ali, used to catch us andget mad,oras mad as someone as gentle as Ali couldeverget. He wouldwag hisfingerandwaveus downfromthetree.He would takethemirrorandtelluswhathismotherhadtoldhim,thatthedevilshonemirrorstoo,shonethemtodistract Muslims during prayer.“And he laughs while he does it," he always added,scowling athisson."Yes,Father"Hassanwouldmumble,lookingdownathisfeet.Buthenevertoldonme.Nevertoldthatthemirror, likeshootingwalnutsattheneighbor'sdog,wasalwaysmyidea.The poplar trees lined the redbrick driveway, which led to a pair of wrought-iron gates. They inturnopened intoanextensionofthedrivewayintomyfather'sestate.Thehousesatontheleftsideofthebrickpath,thebackyardat theend ofit.Everyoneagreed thatmyfather,my Baba,had built themost beautifulhousein theWazirAkbarKhandistrict,anewandaffluentneighborhoodinthenorthernpartofKabul.Somethoughtitwastheprettiesthouse in all of Kabul.Abroadentrywayflanked byrosebushes led to thesprawling houseofmarble floors and wide windows.Intricatemosaic tiles, handpicked by BabainIsfahan,coveredthefloorsofthefourbathrooms.Gold-stitchedtapestries,whichBabahadboughtin Calcutta, lined the walls; a crystal chandelier hungfrom the vaulted ceiling.Upstairswasmybedroom,Baba'sroom,andhisstudy,alsoknownas“thesmokingroom,whichperpetually smelled of tobacco and cinnamon.Baba and his friends reclined on black leatherchairsthereafterAlihadserveddinner.Theystuffedtheirpipes--exceptBabaalwayscalled it"fattening the pipe"--anddiscussed their favoritethree topics:politics, business,soccer.SometimesIaskedBabaif Icould sit withthem,but Babawouldstandinthedoorway."Goonnow,"he'd say."This is grown-ups'time.Whydon'tyou go read one of those books of yours?"He'd closethedoor,leave meto wonderwhyit was alwaysgrown-ups'timewithhim.I'dsitbythedoor,kneesdrawntomychest.SometimesIsatthereforanhour,sometimestwo,listeningtotheirlaughter,theirchatter.Theliving room downstairs had a curved wall with custombuiltcabinets.Inside sat framed familypictures:anold,grainyphotoofmygrandfatherandKingNadirShahtakenin1931,twoyearsbefore the king's assassination;theyare standing over a dead deer, dressed in knee-high boots,rifles slungovertheir shoulders.There wasapictureof myparents'weddingnight, Baba dashingin his black suit and my mothera smiling young princess in white. Here was Baba and his bestfriendandbusinesspartner,RahimKhan,standingoutsideourhouse,neitheronesmiling--lam

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. “And he laughs while he does it,” he always added, scowling at his son. “Yes, Father,” Hassan would mumble, looking down at his feet. 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. Upstairs was my bedroom, Baba’s room, and his study, also known as “the smoking room,” which perpetually smelled of tobacco and cinnamon. Baba and his friends reclined on black leather chairs there after Ali had served dinner. They stuffed their pipes-except Baba always called it “fattening the pipe”-and discussed their favorite three topics: politics, business, soccer. Sometimes I asked Baba if I could sit with them, but Baba would stand in the doorway. “Go on, now,” he’d say. “This is grown-ups’ time. Why don’t you go read one of those books of yours?” He’d close the door, leave me to wonder why it was always grown-ups’ time with him. I’d sit by the door, knees drawn to my chest. Sometimes I sat there for an hour, sometimes two, listening to their laughter, their chatter. The living room downstairs had a curved wall with custombuilt cabinets. Inside sat framed family pictures: an old, grainy photo of my grandfather and King Nadir Shah taken in 1931, two years before the king’s assassination; they are standing over a dead deer, dressed in knee-high boots, rifles slung over their shoulders. There was a picture of my parents’ wedding night, Baba dashing in his black suit and my mother a smiling young princess in white. Here was Baba and his best friend and business partner, Rahim Khan, standing outside our house, neither one smiling-I am

ababyinthatphotographand Baba isholdingme, lookingtired andgrim.I'm in hisarms,but it'sRahimKhan'spinkymyfingersarecurledaroundThecurvedwall ledintothediningroom,atthecenterofwhichwasamahoganytablethatcould easily sit thirty guests--and,given myfather's tasteforextravagant parties,it did justthatalmosteveryweek.Ontheotherendofthediningroomwasatallmarblefireplace,alwayslitbythe orange glow ofa fire in the wintertime.A large sliding glass door opened intoa semicircular terrace thatoverlooked two acres ofbackyardandrowsofcherrytrees.BabaandAlihadplantedasmall vegetablegardenalongtheeasternwall:tomatoes,mint,peppers,andarowofcornthatneverreallytook.Hassanandiusedtocall it"theWall ofAiling Corn."On the south end of thegarden,in the shadows ofa loquat tree, was the servants'home,amodestlittlemudhutwhereHassanlivedwithhisfatherIt wasthere, in that little shack,that Hassan was born in the winter of 1964,justoneyear aftermymotherdiedgivingbirthtome.IntheeighteenyearsthatIlivedinthathouse,I steppedintoHassanandAli'squartersonlyahandfulof times.When the sun droppedlowbehindthehills andwe were done playingfortheday,Hassan andIpartedways.Iwentpasttherosebushesto Baba'smansion,Hassan tothemud shack where hehad been born, where he'd lived his entire life. I rememberit was spare,clean,dimly lit bya pairofkerosenelamps.There were twomattressesonoppositesidesof theroom,aworn Heratirugwithfrayededges inbetween,athree-legged stool,andawoodentableinthecornerwhereHassandidhisdrawings.Thewallsstoodbare,saveforasingletapestrywithsewn-in beads forming the words_Allah-u-akbar_.Baba had bought itfor Ali on oneof his tripsto Mashad.It was in that small shack that Hassan's mother,Sanaubar,gavebirth to him one coldwinterdayin 1964.While mymother hemorrhagedto death during childbirth, Hassan lost his less than aweekafterhewasborn.LosthertoafatemostAfghansconsideredfarworsethandeath:Sheran offwith a clan of traveling singers anddancers.Hassan nevertalked about his mother,as if she'd never existed.Ialways wonderedif hedreamedabouther,about whatshelooked like,whereshewas.Iwonderedif helongedtomeet

a baby in that photograph and Baba is holding me, looking tired and grim. I’m in his arms, but it’s Rahim Khan’s pinky my fingers are curled around. The curved wall led into the dining room, at the center of which was a mahogany table that could easily sit thirty guests- and, given my father’s taste for extravagant parties, it did just that almost every week. On the other end of the dining room was a tall marble fireplace, always lit by the orange glow of a fire in the wintertime. A large sliding glass door opened into a semicircular terrace that overlooked two acres of backyard and rows of cherry trees. Baba and Ali had planted a small vegetable garden along the eastern wall: tomatoes, mint, peppers, and a row of corn that never really took. Hassan and I used to call it “the Wall of Ailing Corn.” On the south end of the garden, in the shadows of a loquat tree, was the servants’ home, a modest little mud hut where Hassan lived with his father. It was there, in that little shack, that Hassan was born in the winter of 1964, just one year after my mother died giving birth to me. In the eighteen years that I lived in that house, I stepped into Hassan and Ali’s quarters only a handful of times. When the sun dropped low behind the hills and we were done playing for the day, Hassan and I parted ways. I went past the rosebushes to Baba’s mansion, Hassan to the mud shack where he had been born, where he’d lived his entire life. I remember it was spare, clean, dimly lit by a pair of kerosene lamps. There were two mattresses on opposite sides of the room, a worn Herati rug with frayed edges in between, a three-legged stool, and a wooden table in the corner where Hassan did his drawings. The walls stood bare, save for a single tapestry with sewn-in beads forming the words _Allah-u-akbar_. Baba had bought it for Ali on one of his trips to Mashad. It was in that small shack that Hassan’s mother, Sanaubar, gave birth to him one cold winter day in 1964. While my mother hemorrhaged to death during childbirth, Hassan lost his less than a week after he was born. Lost her to a fate most Afghans considered far worse than death: She ran off with a clan of traveling singers and dancers. Hassan never talked about his mother, as if she’d never existed. I always wondered if he dreamed about her, about what she looked like, where she was. I wondered if he longed to meet

her.Didheachefor her,the waylached forthemotherIhad nevermet?One day,wewerewalkingfrommyfathershousetoCinemaZainabforanewIranianmovie,takingtheshortcutthroughthe military barracks nearIstiqlal MiddleSchool--Baba hadforbidden usto take thatshortcut,buthewasinPakistanwithRahimKhanatthetime.Wehoppedthefencethatsurroundedthebarracks,skipped overa little creek, and broke into the open dirtfield whereold,abandonedtanks collected dust.Agroupof soldiers huddled in the shadeofoneof thosetanks,smokingcigarettes and playingcards.One ofthem saw us,elbowed theguy nexttohim,andcalled Hassan."Hey,you!"he said."Iknowyou."We had neverseen himbefore.He wasa squatlyman witha shaved head and black stubble onhisface.Thewayhegrinnedatus,leered, scared me."Justkeep walking,"Imuttered toHassan."You!The Hazara! Look at me when I'm talking to you!"the soldier barked. He handedhiscigarette to the guy nextto him, made a circle with the thumb and indexfinger ofone hand.Poked themiddlefingerofhis otherhand throughthecircle.Poked it inandout.Inand out."knew your mother, did you knowthat?Iknew her real good.Itook herfrombehind by thatcreekoverthere."The soldiers laughed.One of them madea squealing sound.Itold Hassan to keep walking, keepwalking."What a tight little sugary cunt shehad!" the soldier was saying,shaking hands with theothers,grinning. Later, in the dark,after the movie had started, Iheard Hassan next to me, croaking.Tears were sliding down his cheeks.I reached across myseat, slung myarm aroundhim,pulledhimclose.Herested hishead on myshoulder."Hetookyoufor someoneelse,"Iwhispered."Hetookyouforsomeoneelse."I'm told no one was really surprised when Sanaubareloped.People_had_raised their eyebrowswhen Ali, a man whohad memorized the Koran,married Sanaubar,a woman nineteen yearsyounger,abeautifulbutnotoriouslyunscrupulous womanwho lived upto her dishonorablereputation.Like Ali,she wasa Shi'a Muslimandan ethnic Hazara.She wasalso his firstcousinand thereforea naturalchoice for a spouse. But beyond those similarities, Ali and Sanaubarhadlittle incommon,leastofall theirrespectiveappearances.WhileSanaubar'sbrilliantgreeneyesandimpishfacehad,rumorhasit,temptedcountlessmenintosin,Alihadacongenitalparalysisof his lowerfacial muscles,a condition thatrendered him unableto smileand lefthim

her. Did he ache for her, the way I ached for the mother I had never met? One day, we were walking from my father’s house to Cinema Zainab for a new Iranian movie, taking the shortcut through the military barracks near Istiqlal Middle School-Baba had forbidden us to take that shortcut, but he was in Pakistan with Rahim Khan at the time. We hopped the fence that surrounded the barracks, skipped over a little creek, and broke into the open dirt field where old, abandoned tanks collected dust. A group of soldiers huddled in the shade of one of those tanks, smoking cigarettes and playing cards. One of them saw us, elbowed the guy next to him, and called Hassan. “Hey, you!” he said. “I know you.” We had never seen him before. He was a squatly man with a shaved head and black stubble on his face. The way he grinned at us, leered, scared me. “Just keep walking,” I muttered to Hassan. “You! The Hazara! Look at me when I’m talking to you!” the soldier barked. He handed his cigarette to the guy next to him, made a circle with the thumb and index finger of one hand. Poked the middle finger of his other hand through the circle. Poked it in and out. In and out. “I knew your mother, did you know that? I knew her real good. I took her from behind by that creek over there.” The soldiers laughed. One of them made a squealing sound. I told Hassan to keep walking, keep walking. “What a tight little sugary cunt she had!” the soldier was saying, shaking hands with the others, grinning. Later, in the dark, after the movie had started, I heard Hassan next to me, croaking. Tears were sliding down his cheeks. I reached across my seat, slung my arm around him, pulled him close. He rested his head on my shoulder. “He took you for someone else,” I whispered. “He took you for someone else.” I’m told no one was really surprised when Sanaubar eloped. People _had_ raised their eyebrows when Ali, a man who had memorized the Koran, married Sanaubar, a woman nineteen years younger, a beautiful but notoriously unscrupulous woman who lived up to her dishonorable reputation. Like Ali, she was a Shi’a Muslim and an ethnic Hazara. She was also his first cousin and therefore a natural choice for a spouse. But beyond those similarities, Ali and Sanaubar had little in common, least of all their respective appearances. While Sanaubar’s brilliant green eyes and impish face had, rumor has it, tempted countless men into sin, Ali had a congenital paralysis of his lower facial muscles, a condition that rendered him unable to smile and left him