12岁的阿富汗富家少爷阿米尔与仆人哈桑情同手足。然而，在一场风筝比赛后，发生了一件悲惨不堪的事，阿米尔为自己的懦弱感到自责和痛苦，逼走了哈桑，不久，自己也跟随父亲逃往美国。

成年后的阿米尔始终无法原谅自己当年对哈桑的背叛。为了赎罪，阿米尔再度踏上暌违二十多年的故乡，希望能为不幸的好友尽最后一点心力，却发现一个惊天谎言，儿时的噩梦再度重演，阿米尔该如何抉择?

故事如此残忍而又美丽，作者以温暖细腻的笔法勾勒人性的本质与救赎，读来令人荡气回肠。

下面就跟小编一起来欣赏双语名著·追风筝的人 The Kite Runner(196)的精彩内容吧！

“It scares me.”
“I know it’s a little scary,” I said, grabbing onto that loose thread of hope. “But you’ll learn English so fast and you’ll get used to--”
“That’s not what I mean. That scares me too, but...
“But what?”
He rolled toward me again. Drew his knees up. “What if you get tired of me? What if your wife doesn’t like me?”
I struggled out of bed and crossed the space between us. I sat beside him. “I won’t ever get tired of you, Sohrab,” I said. “Not ever. That’s a promise. You’re my nephew, remember? And Soraya jan, she’s a very kind woman. Trust me, she’s going to love you. I promise that too.” I chanced something. Reached down and took his hand. He tightened up a little but let me hold it.
“I don’t want to go to another orphanage,” he said.
“I won’t ever let that happen. I promise you that.” I cupped his hand in both of mine. “Come home with me.”
His tears were soaking the pillow. He didn’t say anything for a long time. Then his hand squeezed mine back. And he nodded. He nodded. THE CONNECTION WENT THROUGH on the fourth try. The phone rang three times before she picked it up. “Hello?” It was 7:30 in the evening in Islamabad, roughly about the same time in the morning in California. That meant Soraya had been up for an hour, getting ready for school.
“It’s me,” I said. I was sitting on my bed, watching Sohrab sleep.
“Amir!” she almost screamed. “Are you okay? Where are you?”
“I’m in Pakistan.”

“我很怕。”
“我知道那有点可怕，”我说，抓住那一丝渺茫的希望，“但你很快就可以学会英语，等你习惯了……”
“我不是这个意思。那也让我害怕。可是……”
“可是什么？”他又翻身朝着我，屈起双膝，“要是你厌倦我怎么办呢？要是你妻子不喜欢我怎么办？”
我从床上挣扎起来，走过我们之间的距离，坐在他身边。“我永远不会厌倦你，索拉博。”
我说，“永远不会。这是承诺。你是我的侄儿，记得吗？而亲爱的索拉雅，她是个很好的女人。相信我，她会爱上你的。这也是承诺。”我试探着伸手拉住他的手掌，他稍微有点紧张，但让我拉着。
“我不想再到恤孤院去。”他说。
“我永远不会让那发生。我向你保证。”我双手压住他的手，“跟我一起回家。”
他泪水浸湿了枕头，很长很久默不作声。然后他把手抽回去，点点头。他点头了。拨到第四次，电话终于接通了。铃声响了三次，她接起电话。“喂？”当时在伊斯兰堡是晚上 7点半，加利福尼亚那边差不多是早晨这个时间。那意味着索拉雅已经起床一个小时了，在为去上课做准备。
“是我，”我说。我坐在自己的床上，看着索拉博睡觉。
“阿米尔！”她几乎是尖叫，“你还好吗？你在哪儿？”
“我在巴基斯坦。”