translate this to persian:
Fog everywhere. Fog up the river, where it flows among green aits and
meadows; fog down the river, where it rolls defiled among the tiers of
shipping and the waterside pollutions of a great (and dirty) city. Fog on
the Essex marshes, fog on the Kentish heights. Fog creeping into the
cabooses of collier-brigs; fog lying out on the yards, and hovering in the
rigging of great ships; fog drooping on the gunwales of barges and small
boats. Fog in the eyes and throats of ancient Greenwich pensioners,
wheezing by the firesides of their wards; fog in the stem and bowl of the
afternoon pipe of the wrathful skipper, down in his close cabin; fog
cruelly pinching the toes and fingers of his shivering little ’prentice boy
on deck. Chance people on the bridges peeping over the parapets into a
nether sky of fog, with fog all round them, as if they were up in a
balloon, and hanging in the misty clouds.
So just like that, we have a motif, a recurrent element—in this case an
image, the fog—that will hang around to remind us of a central problem in the
story. Before the chapter’s over, motif will become theme, an idea or attitude
about things, as the fog turns out to be not merely at large in the atmosphere but
in the Court of Chancery (like an American probate court, minus
expeditiousness): in the solicitors and the clerk and the Chancellor as well as in
the air of the place, a miasma of confusion and indolence, of claim and
counterclaim, of unresolved cases hovering like ghosts, like bad dreams, for generations.

THEN, NOT TOO MANY years after the death of Queen Victoria herself, things
changed. Along with linear narrative, hard-driving plot structures, exaggerated
minor characters, and buttoned-up morality, the moderns gave chapters the ax. In
a great many modern novels, chapters are vague affairs, if they appear at all.

So then, are they chapters? As with most things literary, you’ll get debate.
Traditionalists may well say that these aren’t chapters because they don’t go
anywhere, that they lack shape or direction. But they have exactly the right
shape for the novel they inhabit, and their narrative direction, if it can be called
that, is a small version of the novel’s larger narrative direction. They’re not
Dickens chapters, nor James, Fielding, Austen, or Eliot chapters. But I would
argue that they’re just what we want, here, in this novel. In fact, I would argue
that they illustrate the Law of Chapter and Verse: A chapter, as a section that
makes sense for its particular novel, follows no rules but its own.

And it turns out they can be anything. They
can be solid narratives, complete in themselves. They can even be freestanding
stories that make sense out of the context of their novel. They can focus on
single events or on chains of occurrences. They can be impressionistic
renderings or subjective responses to the events of the novel. They can be, in
short, whatever the novelist wants them to be.
Most of all, readers. Chapters provide us with breaks in the reading. Hey,
never discount the dumb stuff. Even when we read straight through huge chunks,
those breaks provide moments to consider the implications of what we’ve just
read, to see how things are fitting together. Chapters tell us what’s important in
the novel, what’s important to the novel. How is it constructed? Does it
emphasize revelation or the withholding of information? Does it prize external
event or internal impression? Is it tight and coherent or loose and rambling?
Chapters help teach us how to read the novel. And we’ll take all the help we can
get.