I was always interested in French poetry sort of as a sideline

Hear the words of Paul Auster, who reflects upon the turning of his life’s path: “I was always interested in French poetry sort of as a sideline to my own work, I was translating contemporary French poets. That kind of spilled out into translation as a way to earn money, pay for food and put bread on the table.” In these words is revealed a truth that many who walk the road of art must face: that passion, pursued first for love alone, often becomes intertwined with survival. What begins as devotion to poetry can become, by necessity, a livelihood, a way not only to nourish the soul but to sustain the body.

The ancients knew this paradox well. The rhapsodes of Greece recited Homer not only to keep alive the sacred songs, but to earn their keep as they wandered from city to city. The traveling bards of medieval Europe sang their ballads in courts and taverns, rewarded with coin, bread, or a place by the fire. Thus it has always been: the poet and the artist must live in two worlds, one of inspiration and one of hunger, balancing the flame of art with the practical needs of life. Auster’s journey into translation reminds us that art is never entirely separate from survival—it can spill beyond passion into necessity.

Consider the example of Ezra Pound, who devoted himself to bringing the voices of Provençal troubadours and Chinese poets into English. At first, his translations were born of fascination and admiration, much like Auster’s interest in French poetry. Yet soon, this labor of love became his reputation, his contribution, his way of building a career in letters. Translation, for him as for Auster, was not simply academic—it was bread on the table, the bridge between art and survival.

The origin of Auster’s reflection lies in the struggle of artists everywhere. Few can live on their own words alone, especially at the beginning. The world often offers little wealth to the dreamer, and so the poet must adapt, finding ways to turn their passion into sustenance. Yet here lies the paradoxical gift: by translating others, Auster was deepening his own craft, absorbing rhythms, metaphors, and visions that later enriched his original writing. Necessity became teacher, survival became companion to artistry.

This is why the words are not spoken in bitterness but in honesty. To translate poetry is itself a noble art, demanding humility, precision, and devotion. It is to listen so deeply to another voice that you learn to carry its song into a new tongue without breaking it. In doing so, Auster not only earned his bread but sharpened his ear for his own work. What began as a sideline became both sustenance and discipline, preparing him for the novels and poems that would later carry his name across the world.

The lesson here is clear: never despise the humble labors that support your art. The work that pays for bread may also feed your soul, if you approach it with devotion. Translation, teaching, craftsmanship, even toil outside the sphere of letters—these can all be woven into the fabric of your creativity, if you let them. What matters is not to separate survival from passion, but to allow them to nourish each other. For in truth, all experience—whether born of hunger or of joy—can be refined into art.

Practical steps follow: if you are a writer or artist, do not scorn the side paths. Take up the opportunities that sustain you, but do them with care, with humility, with the awareness that they may teach you more than you know. Read widely, translate if you can, serve other voices, for in doing so, you train your own. And never let the struggle for bread extinguish your devotion to beauty—rather, let it strengthen your resolve, reminding you that art has always lived hand in hand with necessity.

Thus, Paul Auster’s words stand as a reminder: to love poetry is to live with both spirit and hunger. What begins as passion may spill into labor, and what sustains the body may also refine the soul. The poet is always walking between worlds—the world of fire and the world of bread. And it is in this balance, precarious and eternal, that the true voice of art is born.