The sentences I write have their roots in song and poetry, and

In the realm of art and writing, there exists a profound truth that Colm Tóibín speaks to with clarity: “The sentences I write have their roots in song and poetry, and take their bearings from music and painting, as much as from the need to impart mere information, or mirror anything. I am not a realist writer, even if I seem like one.” In these words, Tóibín captures the essence of what it means to create not merely for the purpose of recording the world, but to transform it—to see the world not as it is, but as it could be, through the lens of art. His work is a reminder that the writer is not just a chronicler but a creator, drawing inspiration from the deep wells of other arts, and in doing so, offering a reflection of reality that is both deeply personal and universally evocative.

Consider the ancient poets who, like Tóibín, did not simply mirror the world around them, but rather reshaped it. Homer was not concerned with realism in the modern sense, but with capturing the essence of human experience through the grand, epic tales of the gods and heroes. In the Iliad and the Odyssey, Homer did not simply write down events as they happened; he elevated them to the sublime, imbuing his characters with a sense of destiny and larger-than-life qualities. Homer’s words were not mirrors, but windows to a higher understanding of the human condition, expressed through poetry, song, and the arts of theatre. The act of storytelling was not just about the factual or the real; it was about creating something that could resonate with the eternal truths of the human soul.

Tóibín’s statement also evokes the timeless connection between writing and music. Just as Homer’s epics were meant to be sung, not read, song and poetry have always been intertwined. Walt Whitman, one of the greatest poets of the American tradition, understood this deeply. His poetry, especially in Leaves of Grass, has a rhythmic quality that mirrors the musicality of the song—the beats, the pauses, and the repetitions. Whitman’s verse flows like a melody, full of intensity, emotion, and freedom. It is this musical quality in writing that Tóibín refers to when he says that his sentences take their bearings from music and painting. Writing, like music, has a rhythm, a cadence, a melody, and those who are attuned to it can hear the music in the words, as Whitman did, as Tóibín does.

In the same vein, painting has always had a profound influence on writers. The ancient Greeks, who prized both literature and art, understood this connection well. Plato and Aristotle both discussed the ways in which visual arts and literature could communicate truths about the world, each in their own language. Michelangelo, whose works in the visual arts defined the Renaissance, also understood that his sculptures and paintings were forms of storytelling. The physicality of his figures, their expression, their posture, spoke not only of the human body but of the soul within it. In the same way, Tóibín’s work draws not just from the world of literature but from the visual arts—finding inspiration in the play of light, color, and form that a painter brings to a canvas. For Tóibín, the art of writing is not confined to words alone but draws upon a much broader creative landscape.

Tóibín’s assertion that he is “not a realist writer, even if I seem like one,” speaks to a deeper truth about the purpose of art. Realism, as a movement, sought to capture life as it truly was—warts and all. But Tóibín, like the great modernists, understands that writing is not just about recording the real world. It is about transforming it, about presenting it through the artistic lens of the writer, much like a painter might choose to represent the world in the brushstrokes of impressionism or abstract art. The artist does not simply show us what is; they show us what it could be, what it feels like, what it means. Tóibín’s work, like Virginia Woolf’s or James Joyce’s, does not confine itself to realism but embraces the subjectivity and the deeper, often unspoken, truths of the human experience.

This approach teaches us that true art does not simply reproduce the world around us; it transforms it. Tóibín invites us to understand that poetry is not merely a representation of facts; it is an interpretation, an act of creation in which the artist brings their own soul into the work. This is a powerful reminder for any writer or artist—do not seek merely to mirror the world around you. Seek instead to engage with it, to transform it through the lens of your own unique vision. Whether in painting, music, or literature, art should reflect the world, but it should also shape it, illuminate it, and offer something new—something that resonates deeply within the hearts of those who encounter it.

So, in your own creative life, whether you write, paint, or engage in any form of artistic expression, remember that you are not simply a mirror of the world. Like Tóibín, seek to transform it. Draw your inspiration from song, from painting, from all the arts, and allow your work to speak not only of the world as it is, but of the world as it could be. Embrace your subjectivity, your vision, and let it shine through your work. In doing so, you will not only create but also reimagine, and your art will resonate with the timeless truths of the human spirit.