Hosseini nu scrie neapărat bine. Eu cred că îşi concepe cărţile pe câteva puncte cheie, momente puternice din roman care au siguranţa percutării cititorului, apoi umple spaţiul dintre ele cu realităţi afgane, descrieri de personaje şi locuri, toate executate corect, dar nespectaculos pentru că greutatea cărţilor lui nu stă în stil, ci în acel fragment-pumnal care vine să ne zguduie prin dezvăluirea unei bucăţi crude de existenţă.
Dar duioşia scrisului lui Khaled Hosseini nu poate fi contestată:
"When I was a little girl, my father and I had a nightly ritual. After I’d said my twenty-one Bismillahs and he had tucked me into bed, he would sit at my side and pluck bad dreams from my head with his thumb and forefinger. His fingers would hop from my forehead to my temples, patiently searching behind my ears, at the back of my head, and he’d make a pop sound – like a bottle being uncorked – with each nightmare he purged from my brain. He stashed the dreams, one by one, into an invisible sack in his lap and pulled the drawstring tightly. He would then scour the air, looking for happy dreams to replace the ones he had sequestered away. I watched as he cocked his head slightly and frowned, his eyes roaming side to side, like he was straining to hear distant music. I held my breath, waiting for the moment when my father’s face unfurled into a smile, when he sang, Ah, here is one, when he cupped his hands, let the dream land in his palm like a petal slowly twirling down from a tree. Gently, then, so very gently – my father said all good things in life were fragile and easily lost – he would raise his hands to my face, rub his palms against my brow and happiness into my head."
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