Robert Frost once remarked, “Poetry is what gets lost in translation,” and many literary people find translation to be a near-impossible task. 

I can feel that all the “translation” more or less is kind of violence. Behind the language, the culture. Behind the sentences, the individuals. Behind the words, the emotion. Behind the blank space, the currents. If the “original one” is a flower, then translation is cutting the flower from its roots and putting it into a vase (A totally different environment). When Moa read this, she said "Or translation as a seed that is planted in a different soil, and thus grows into a different kind of flower, but still a kind of flower?" I like this idea. 

I’m living in translation. Not only translating between my mother language and English, but also between texts and images, even between images and images. And in this case, I believe everyone is living in translation. 

My classmates come from different countries all over the world, and none of us has English as our mother tongue. How lucky we are, we all have our private secret language. This is a very interesting environment for me, I became very brave and started thinking deeply about languages and translation.