I think he loved us equally, but differently.

My father and I did work for a while at the flea market and there really are rows of Afghans working there, some of whom I am related to.

Nothing good came free. Even love. You paid for all things. And if you were poor, suffering was your currency.

People talk about apathy, especially in developed countries. We're kind of lulled into these tranquil lives, and we are pursuing our own thing and there is so much suffering on a mass scale around the world that you kind of become fatalistic. You might think suffering is inevitable, you kind of lose your sense of moral urgency. But there is always something you can do for someone in the world.

A part of me was hoping someone would wake up and hear, so I wouldn't have to live with this lie anymore. But no one woke up and in the silence that followed, I understood the nature of my new curse: I was going to get away with it.

A sudden happiness catches me unawares. I feel it trickling into me, and my eyes go liquid with gratitude and hope.

For a novelist, it's kind of an onerous burden to represent an entire culture.