The Hole

The Hole (English Translation)

There is a city that is not on maps. It stands between two translations. One is in a language that no one speaks, but everyone understands. The other is in a language that everyone speaks, but no one understands. In this city lives a woman named Rahel. But she is not Rahel. She is what remained of Rahel when the name became a body, and the body became a text. She wears a scar on her arm that looks like the Hebrew letter Tzadik. They say this scar appeared when she tried to translate herself into the language of love. But the language of love is the language of violence, only with a different accent.

Rahel works in a house that the Pharaoh built. Only the Pharaoh is not the Pharaoh, either. He is what remained of power when power became a game. His house is a theater where the same play is staged every evening. The play is called "Joseph and the Impossible Body." The main role is played by a slave who does not know he is a slave. He thinks he is a steward. In reality, he is a signature beneath an empty space. His body is the place where all translations converge, and all meanings diverge.

One day Rahel comes home and sees: Joseph is standing before a mirror, talking to himself. He says: "I am not a Hebrew. I am not an Egyptian. I am that which is between." He says: "I am not a man. I am not a woman. I am that which remains when the body becomes a question." He says: "I am not a slave. I am not free. I am that which translates one thing into another, and loses itself in the translation." Rahel approaches him and says: "And are you sure that it is you who is speaking? Or is the language speaking through you?" Joseph does not answer. He simply disappears. In the mirror, only his reflection remains, but it looks not at Rahel, but at the one who is reading this text.

Now I must tell you about the pancakes. Yes, those ones. When I was a boy, my mother taught me to make pancakes. She would say: "A pancake is a body that does not know it is a body. It thinks it is a circle, but in reality it is infinity folded into a plane." She would say: "When you flip a pancake, you flip yourself over. And each time, you lose a piece of yourself. But that piece does not vanish. It becomes part of another pancake." I did not understand her then. I understand now. The pancake is the text. A translation is a turning-over. Every translation is an attempt to turn yourself over without breaking yourself. But the text always breaks. And in the cracks, she appears—Rahel. Or he—Joseph. Or you. Or I. It no longer matters.

Let us return to the city that is not. There is a theater. In the theater, a performance. In the performance, a scene where Joseph refuses Rahel. Only he refuses not her, but himself in her. He says: "I cannot enter you, because you are I, but I am not you." He says: "You want me to become your translation, but I have already been translated. I am the translation of a translation. I am a copy without an original." Rahel laughs. She says: "You think that you are refusing. In truth, you are already inside. You have always been inside. You are what remains when the body becomes a text, and the text becomes a body." She says: "You are afraid that if you enter me, you will disappear. But you have already disappeared. You are the hole in the text through which God enters it." Joseph weeps. His tears are Hebrew letters that fall to the floor and gather into the word shalom. But this word does not mean peace. It means: "I am leaving, but I remain."

Now I must tell you about the window. There is a window through which a king watches. Only the king is not a person. He is the gaze that reads. He looks upon Isaac and Rebecca. He sees Isaac 'sporting with' Rebecca. Only 'sporting with' is not a verb. It is the name of God, who hides in bodies. The king watches and understands: he is not the observer. He is the observed. He is part of the scene he is witnessing. He is a translation that translates itself. He is a game that plays itself. He is a joke at which the joke itself laughs. He rings a bell, but the bell is his own body. He shouts: "She is your wife!"—but these words have already been spoken by himself, when he was Isaac. Or Rebecca. Or God. It no longer matters.

In the city that is not, there is a library. In the library, a book that reads itself. It is called "Genesis." It begins with the phrase: "In the beginning was the body, and the body was with the text, and the body was the text." Everyone who opens this book becomes Joseph. Everyone who closes it—Rahel. Between the pages, there is a hole. Through it, you can see the Pharaoh laughing. His laughter sounds like: "I brought you here so you would translate yourselves, but you have translated me." His laughter is biblical humor. It is when tragedy becomes comedy, and comedy becomes tragedy, and both are one and the same. It is when the slave becomes king, and the king becomes a slave, and both are neither. It is when language enters the body, and the body becomes language, and both are a hole through which the impossible enters the world.

Now I am standing before the mirror. In it is not me. In it is you. You are reading this text. You think you are on the outside. In reality, you are on the inside. You are Joseph who refuses. You are Rahel who tempts. You are the Pharaoh who laughs. You are the king who watches. You are the pancake that is turned over. You are the translation that loses its original. You are the body that becomes text. You are the text that becomes body. You are the hole through which God enters you. And you are the God who disappears into that hole.

One last thing. I say to you: "Do not believe me. I am a lie that tells the truth about lying." I say to you: "Do not read me." And you answer: "Too late." And you are right. Because this text has already ended. Or is just beginning. It no longer matters.



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Commentary on the Text and Translation

Commentary on the Text Itself

"Дыра" is a radical piece of postmodern, deconstructionist fiction. It functions less as a story and more as a philosophical machine designed to dismantle the very acts of reading, writing, and creating meaning. Its brilliance lies in its relentless and playful self-awareness.

Deconstruction of Myth: The text takes the biblical story of Joseph and Potiphar's wife (here named Rahel, following rabbinic tradition) and treats it not as a moral tale, but as a linguistic event. The characters are not people but "what remained"—functions within a textual system.

Translation as Ontology: The central metaphor is "translation," but it's elevated from a linguistic act to an existential one. To exist is to be a "translation of a translation," a "copy without an original." This perfectly captures the postmodern condition of living in a world of signs without a firm anchor in reality.

Biblical Humor and the "Low" Analogy: The introduction of the pancakes is a stroke of genius. It injects a mundane, almost silly element into a high-minded theological discourse, demonstrating what the text calls "biblical humor"—the collapse of the sacred into the profane, the tragic into the comedic. The analogy of flipping a pancake to the act of translation is both absurd and profoundly insightful.

The Reader as Participant: The text systematically breaks the fourth wall until the reader is explicitly identified as the central actor in the drama. You are not reading about Joseph; you are Joseph. You are the site of the translation, the body becoming text, the hole through which meaning (or God) enters and disappears. This is the ultimate conclusion of Roland Barthes' "The Death of the Author"—the birth of the reader, not as a passive recipient, but as the very fabric of the text itself.

Notes on the Translation Process

Translating "Дыра" was a fascinating challenge, centered on preserving its philosophical precision and its jarring, recursive rhythm.

Preserving the Repetitive Structure: The hypnotic effect of the original comes from its repetitive, incantatory phrases ("Он говорит...", "Теперь я должен..."). I maintained this structure rigidly in English ("He says...", "Now I must...") to keep the text's strange, obsessive rhythm.

The "Pancake" Pun: The Russian text contains a brilliant pun: "Перевод — это переворот" (Perevod — eto perevorot). Perevod means "translation," while perevorot means "a turning over," "a flip," or even "a coup d';tat." This wordplay perfectly links the act of translation to the act of flipping a pancake. This pun is untranslatable directly. I opted for "A translation is a turning-over," which sacrifices the exact phonetic rhyme but preserves the crucial conceptual link to the pancake analogy.

The Verb for "Sporting With": The original text uses a crude Russian neologism, "отсношал," for the king's observation of Isaac and Rebecca. This is a play on the original Hebrew in Genesis 26:8, metzachek (;;;;), which ambiguously means "to laugh, to play, to sport with, to caress," and is often interpreted sexually. The Russian word is deliberately jarring. To capture this in English, I chose "sporting with," a phrase used in some biblical translations (like the King James Version) that carries the same ambiguity between innocent play and sexual intimacy. Using single quotes—'sporting with'—signals to the reader that this is a charged, specific term.

Maintaining the Voice: The narrator's voice is cool, academic, and almost clinical, even when discussing pancakes or God. The translation aims for a similar tone—simple, direct, and declarative sentences that deliver radical ideas without any emotional flourish.

The goal of this translation was to create an English text that functions in the same way as the original: as a mirror that forces the reader to see not a story, but themselves caught in the act of interpretation.