Achmed Abdullah

“ Tell me, my son. You know this great land and its quaint customs. In writing a little note to a mouse-haired woman, would it be thought graceful to employ the beautiful Afghan term of endearment, 'Blood of my Liver'? ”

“ My father had never before been to America. He had been educated in Europe in the good old days when it was still fashionable for Afghan princes and Hindu Rajahs to know the difference between the teachings of Spencer and those of Comte, and to prefer a hirsute German professor's latest philosophic extravaganzas to the ancient, solid wisdom of the Vedas and of Moslem doctors. ”

“ I lied to him. (I studied the art of lying in Kashmere, the home of deceits.) I do not think that my father believed me. (He, I forgot to say, had also studied the art of deceit in Kashmere.)
OF course I danced with “her” ... my hostess. For she could dance. The rhythm of her lithe body reminded me of Petrarch twanging his melancholy lute in the gardens of Vaucluse. And, as we swung together to the cadences of the latest Argentine tango, I was mentally composing verses to her in my native Persian. I am somewhat of a poet in my own modest way. ”