I love painting and music, of course. I don't know nearly as

Hear the words of Kenneth Koch, poet of wit and wonder, who once declared: “I love painting and music, of course. I don’t know nearly as much about them as I know about poetry. I’ve certainly been influenced by fiction. I was overwhelmed by War and Peace when I read it, and I didn’t read it until I was in my late 20s.” In this reflection he reveals the humility of a true artist, one who knows his chosen field, yet bows with reverence before the power of other arts. For Koch understood that the poet is never made in isolation; he is shaped by the currents of painting, music, and story, and humbled by the majesty of works greater than his own.

The meaning here is profound. Koch admits his love for painting and music, though he does not claim mastery in them. This humility is itself wisdom: to recognize that art is vast, and no single soul can know all its depths. Yet even in his partial knowledge, he allows himself to be influenced, to drink from other wells. And when he encountered Tolstoy’s War and Peace, it struck him not as mere fiction, but as a force overwhelming, altering his sense of what literature could be. This is the heart of his confession: to be an artist is to be open, vulnerable, willing to be astonished.

The ancients knew this truth well. The poet Horace declared that poetry was like painting: some works reward close study, others impress at once. Plato, though cautious of art, admitted that music shaped the soul more powerfully than law. The greatest creators rarely confined themselves. Leonardo da Vinci did not only paint; he designed machines and studied anatomy. Goethe did not only write verse; he studied science and translated the works of others. Koch’s reverence for painting, music, and fiction follows this ancient tradition: the greatest poets are nourished by many arts.

History gives us vivid examples of this influence. T.S. Eliot was profoundly moved by music, especially Beethoven, and his verse carried rhythms akin to symphonies. Ezra Pound looked to Chinese brush painting and drew lessons of clarity and compression for his imagism. And many have been humbled, as Koch was, by Tolstoy’s War and Peace. Even Napoleon himself, whose shadow looms over the novel, once said that to understand the Russian soul was beyond him—yet Tolstoy accomplished it. Koch’s admission of being overwhelmed is thus not weakness but the mark of a true artist: the ability to kneel before greatness.

His words also remind us of the timing of discovery. Koch did not read War and Peace as a young man, but only in his late twenties. And yet it shook him deeply, showing that great works reach us when we are ready. There is no shame in coming late to a masterpiece. The river of art flows continuously, and at any age, one may step into it and be transformed. Koch’s life reminds us that it is not how early we encounter greatness, but how open we are when it arrives.

The lesson for us is clear: cultivate humility before art. Love many forms, even those you do not master. Do not fear being overwhelmed—welcome it, for it is in awe that the spirit grows. Read widely, listen deeply, look carefully. Allow yourself to be influenced, not only by those who write as you do, but by those who paint, who compose, who tell stories in other tongues. Let their mastery enlarge your soul, as Tolstoy enlarged Koch’s.

Practical wisdom flows from this. Set aside time to step beyond your familiar art. If you are a writer, listen to symphonies or study paintings; if you are a painter, read poetry or novels. Seek works that overwhelm you, that humble you, that show you the vastness of human spirit. And when they arrive, do not resist them—let them change you. For the artist who refuses influence remains small, but the one who welcomes awe becomes great.

Thus Kenneth Koch’s words endure as a reminder: the poet must love beyond poetry, must be humbled by greatness, must be open to transformation. Let this truth be passed on—that to be a true creator is not only to make, but to marvel; not only to speak, but to listen; not only to master, but to be overwhelmed. For in that awe, the soul finds its deepest growth, and art finds its eternal strength.