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I find that reading a book is a conversation. A few pages into A Thousand Splendid Suns, I have settled into the conversation as if we were in a cafe, warming up for a whole afternoon unencumbered by an agenda.

Different from others I’ve enjoyed, for sure, but I like this person’s voice: it is simple and direct, without too many metaphors and innuendos, but poetic in its own way.

This book is telling me a story and I feel no need to interrupt with my own, to disengage and return to my own reality.

It has an unassuming air, as if telling this story is so easy anyone can do it. But the easiest to read is the hardest to write: it requires a skillful pen to weave characters and plots so organically that events flow naturally, motives are clear, people and places become more than puppets against a backdrop. To create a world so seamless that there is no window back into the real world, no space to remember that the rice is boiling over, bedtime was hours ago, the coffee has gone cold.

Looks like this book is going to make me cry in the end.

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