One of the reasons why he [Benjamin] takes the translator rather than the poet is that the translator, per definition, fails. The translator can never do what the original text did. Any translation is always second in relation to the original, and the translator as such is lost from the very beginning. He is per definition underpaid, he is per definition overworked, he is per definition the one history will not really retain as an equal, unless he also happens to be a poet, but that is not always the case. (Paul de Man, "Conclusions: Walter Benjamin's The Task of the Translator" in The Resistance to Theory)

Although Kafka showed little interest in exercise as a child, he later showed interest in games and physical activity, as a good rider, swimmer, and rower. On weekends he and his friends embarked on long hikes, often planned by Kafka himself. His other interests included alternative medicine, modern education systems such as Montessori, and technical novelties such as airplanes and film. Writing was important to Kafka; he considered it a "form of prayer". He was highly sensitive to noise and preferred quiet when writing. (https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Franz_Kafka)

Lamenting his inability to write, in an early diary fragment from 1910, Kafka compares himself to Japanese acrobats: the creative ideas he can come up with, he cannot grasp at their root but only imagine and show somewhere in their median state — as if he tried to hold on to a blade of grass that, without roots, only grows from the middle of its stem. Only Japanese acrobats were able to accomplish such an impossible feat, climbing a ladder that does not stably rest on the floor but on the lifted soles of a reclining artist, or one that does not lean against a wall but is suspended in mid-air. Kafka believes he is incapable of performing such precarious balancing acts, in particular since he does not even have someone else’s soles to employ as a platform, however unsteady. Kafka’s writing process indeed strikes an uncertain equilibrium between the private and the public, between the narrative sediments and fragments in his notebooks — a flow of writing constantly modifying and transforming itself — and a desire to publish a “work”. (A Companion to the Works of Franz Kafka edited by James Rolleston)

First Letter,

Writing for me has become a difficult endeavour. Perhaps it’s always been difficult. At the instant you feel that writing becomes hard—and while you feel still that there’s nothing you’re capable of except writing—you think to yourself of a time when writing was more manageable for you, at least compared to now. You may try to console yourself that “your main work was never writing but translation”, but to no avail. Translation for you was always equally hard. You knew from the first moment you began translating that you weren’t a great translator and you would never be one. You tell yourself now “a good translator should be capable of simultaneous interpretation”. You have never been capable of simultaneous interpretation; in essence you never could translate without using the dictionary. Essentially, you have taken the wrong path. You’ve been a misplaced translator—grubbing and struggling with a few articles and a book, by way of trial and error, endlessly making mistakes, translating every sentence to Persian in myriad ways…And then all of a sudden you were filled with the passion of a translator; you weren’t prepared for it. You made a choice, you thought it was a point of no return, and to this day there’s only one choice left for you: to become a teacher-translator, and more than anything you want to prevent anyone else from choosing your path.

It may sound strange, but this is what I am doing at all times. I tell my students not to do the things I’ve done, immediately adding that everyone has to follow their own path of course. I try to provide a map with countless “right paths” crossing each other, never reaching the same destination. And they shouldn’t, they’re all in a forest, a forest of words and signs.

Let me return to writing: I said writing has become a difficult endeavour for me and meanwhile I can’t do anything but write, because I’ve lost the opportunity to engage in any other work. I believe people who turn to writing are in truth those who’ve become unsuccessful or disappointed at other things. But what are the options for a person who’s only capability is writing and yet finds writing onerous? The answer seems straightforward: to write, meaning he or she has to do the hard work. Writing gradually becomes an onerous endeavour. The writer becomes an exile, sentenced to hard labour, exiled from everyday life and it’s day-to-day routines. The writer performs work that is no longer voluntary, but compulsory. All this is still manageable. But then the time comes when you hit that low point, when it becomes impossible to write. What is to be done?

There are three options: to translate, i.e. translate enough to regain the flow of writing, until you have untied your hand and tongue. But what if translating and writing become one and the same? The second option: to write letters. In fact, I believe that true writing—not the so-called technical or professional writing, from the writing of legal documents (as in the case of Kafka) to prescriptions for patients (the case of Chekov)—occurs only through letter writing. And from among all types of letters, from official letters to petitions, only letters that are addressed to friends are instances of true writing. Why does one write a letter to someone? Possibly because there is something in a relationship that appears obscure, an issue that is unsolved or unsolvable, or cannot be discussed because when you look the person in the eye you are lost for words and everything becomes more entangled. A letter is written to raise a problem that has no solution, for if there were, no letter would be written, or for that matter nothing would be written at all. The third option: to write about writing, which I think is the only option left for me. There is also the possible combination of all the three options. Someone who writes is that someone doomed to write. They translate in order to realize his or her compulsory choice. They write letters to explain why writing is an unsolvable question, and so they write endlessly about writing. 

 It is likely you will receive one such letter every week in case you’re in the mood, and have the patience or time for reading it. I’ll share something with you every week. A homeless thought searching for a place to settle, perhaps “the chamber of the vision” of your eyes.*

 June 14, 2017

* Reference to Hafez’ Sonnet no. 34, line 1: “Oh true Beloved, the chamber of vision of my eye is the dwelling of Thine.”