The subject matter of the stories on the surface... there seem

Kenneth Koch, poet of playfulness and master of layered meanings, once observed: “The subject matter of the stories on the surface… there seem to be a number of stories about travel.” At first glance, these words appear simple, almost casual, as though he were commenting merely on what lies plainly before the eye. Yet beneath their surface—like the very stories he speaks of—rests a deeper truth: that travel is never only about movement through space. It is a metaphor for the soul’s journey, the unfolding of life itself, the endless search for meaning carried in the vessel of a tale.

The ancients knew this well. The greatest stories they left us were indeed about travel—The Odyssey, the wanderings of Aeneas, the pilgrimages of Herodotus, even the mythic voyages of Jason and the Argonauts. But though these tales told of seas and ships, of storms and strange lands, their deeper currents flowed through the struggles of identity, loyalty, longing, and homecoming. Koch’s words remind us that stories about travel are never just about roads and rivers; they are about the movement of the heart through trials and transformations.

On the surface, then, a story may seem simple: a man goes from one city to another, a woman journeys across a sea, a family leaves their homeland in search of better fortunes. But as Koch teaches us, this surface conceals depths. Every journey is a mirror of human longing, the endless tension between departure and return, between discovery and belonging. The surface shows the road; the depth shows the soul walking upon it.

History gives us clear illustrations. Consider the Pilgrims of Canterbury, whose travels were but the frame for Chaucer’s great tales. Each traveler’s story was not only a pastime for the road but a revelation of who they were, what they longed for, what they feared. The travel was literal, yes, but it was also a pretext for the exploration of the human condition. Just so, Koch’s insight reveals the dual nature of storytelling: what appears as travel outward is always also a journey inward.

His words also contain a gentle warning: that readers who see only the surface miss the greater gift. To read a travel story merely as a record of distances covered is like gazing at the sea and never sensing its depth. To grasp the truth of literature, one must look beyond the surface—to see in Odysseus not only a sailor but every human torn between duty and desire, to see in Aeneas not only a refugee but the eternal builder of futures from ruins. Koch’s wisdom is that the surface of travel stories conceals universes of human meaning.

The lesson, then, is radiant: look beneath the surface of stories, and beneath the surface of life. Every journey you hear, every tale told by another, is more than facts and paths. It is an allegory of love, of hope, of endurance. Do not dismiss the simple narrative of travel as mundane, for within it often lies the drama of the soul seeking its true home.

Practically, this means cultivating attentiveness as both reader and listener. When a friend recounts a trip, hear not only the names of cities but the undertone of longing in their voice. When you read stories, notice what lies unspoken beneath the map of events. And when you tell your own journeys, recognize that you are not only describing places—you are revealing yourself.

Thus, Kenneth Koch’s words echo like the wisdom of the ancients: on the surface, the stories may be about travel, but beneath, they are about life itself. The wise reader, like the wise traveler, will not be content with what lies on the surface but will plunge deeper, discovering in every road walked a reflection of the eternal human journey.