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.

When the sideline becomes the foundation

There's something quietly honest about how Auster describes this—not as a grand calling or artistic compromise, but as something that simply spilled over. Translation started as a love, a sidebar curiosity about how French poets bent language, and then it became practical necessity. The bills didn't care about his literary aspirations.

What's worth sitting with is how often our "real work" gets subsidized by something else entirely. We tell ourselves there's a hierarchy—the thing we truly want to do, and then the thing that pays. But Auster's account suggests a murkier reality. Translation wasn't a distraction from his writing; it was a way to keep writing possible. By studying how other poets moved through language, he was actually training himself. The money was real and necessary, but so was the invisible education happening alongside it.

This matters now especially, when we're pressured to monetize passion immediately or declare something a failure. Sometimes the most valuable work is the one that keeps you fed while teaching you something you didn't expect to learn. The sideline becomes the foundation.