nicolaisen, names and narratives
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7/26/2019 Nicolaisen, Names and Narratives
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Names and NarrativesAuthor(s): W. F. H. NicolaisenSource: The Journal of American Folklore, Vol. 97, No. 385 (Jul. - Sep., 1984), pp. 259-272Published by: American Folklore SocietyStable URL: http://www.jstor.org/stable/540609.
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7/26/2019 Nicolaisen, Names and Narratives
2/15
W. F. H. NICOLAISEN
Names and Narratives*
IN HIS PRESIDENTIAL
DDRESS
o the
Modern Humanities
Research
Association,
read
at
University
College,
London,
on
January
6, 1978,
the
eminent
Cam-
bridge literary
scholar
Leonard
Forster,
in
contemplating
the
notion
of
"Literary
Studies as
Flight
from
Literature,"
comments on the ebb and
flow
of
scholarly
ashionsand
approaches y
suggesting
that "each
generation
seeks
to
correct the
onesidednessof
its
predecessors,
but
succumbsto its
own
one-
sidedness. This in its
turn becomes
a
gospel"
(Forster
1978:xxii).
In a
later
passage,
he
elaborateson
this theme
by
observing
that,
"What seems
at
first
to be a turn towardshumanconcreteness s in fact seento be a flight into the
abstract-a
flight
from
the
text,
for
attention
to actual
texts
might
endanger
the
doctrine"
(Forster
1978:xxvii).
While
it is
not
my
intention
to
probe
the
distinct
possibility
that much
folklore
study
today
may
be
a
flight
from
folk-
lore,
although
that
possibility
should
not be
rejected
out
of
hand,
the
under-
lying
assumption
of
what
I
wish to
say
is
that texts
matter
more
than doc-
trines,
that as
folklorists
we
must
remain
committed to
folklore
or,
if
necessary,regain
that
commitment,
and
that the
creation,
recovery,
and
con-
frontation of
texts is
by
no
means a
horse
flogged
to
death
by
generations
of
our scholarlyancestors. It is only when we turn our backs on
ideological
squabbles,
genre-mongering
and the
bewildering
assault
of
"barely mutually
intelligible"
(Forster
1978:xxvii)
metalanguages
that
we
can
develop
the
gracious
ntellectual
olerance hat
allows
genuine
methodological
pluralism
n
the
exploration
of
texts,
to
the
enrichment
of our
discipline
and a
fuller
realiza-
tion of
its
potential.
We
must
build
bridges,
not burn
them;
we
must
mediate,
not
divide;
we
must
delight
in the
creativity
of
positive
tensions,
not
pander
o
their
destructive
powers.
We
must
be
agents
of
healing
in an
ailing
world of
minds.
The title
of
my
own
small
contribution
to this
process
is
therefore
more
than an
alliterative
whim.
It
epitomizes,
in
a
way,
a
personal
attempt
at recon-
ciling
those
two areas
of
personal
scholarship
hat
have
held
my
attention
and
*
Presidential
Address,
Annual
Meeting
of the
American
Folklore
Society,
Nashville,
Tennessee,
Oc-
tober
29,
1983.
Journal
of
American
Folklore,
Vol.
97,
No.
385,
1984
Copyright
1984
by
the
American
Folklore
Society
0021-8715/84/3850259-14$1.90/1
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7/26/2019 Nicolaisen, Names and Narratives
3/15
W.
F.
H.
NICOLAISEN
shaped my
thinking
during
the last
30
years
or
so,
and
that,
at
times,
have
seemed to
be without connection or evenantipatheticandincongruent
n
their
principles
and
demands. "Names and
Narratives"
are
products
of
two
of
the
most
essential
speech
acts in the human
repertoire,
hose
of
naming
and narra-
tion.
One,
through
the device
of
identifying
reference,
gives
structure to a
chaotic
world;
the
other,
through story,
creates
pasts
which
inform
the
pres-
ent and
take
the
sting
out of the future.
Homo
nominans
nd homonarranseem
to
be at odds with
each
other
and
yet
strive toward
the same
goal,
respond
to
the same need: the humanism
of
satisfying,
strategic
survival. The
isolating
function of
names,
their
exclusivity
in
contrast
to the
inclusivity
of
words,
and
the storying1revelationof not just believable but indubitablytrue pasts are
perhaps,
after
all,
not
as
incompatible
as
might
seem at first
glance.
And
the
personal,
almost anecdotal
alliteration
of the title
convenientlyforegrounds
an
existential
chaining
that
might prove
examinable n less
personal,
more
general
fashion.
To
exploit
the
examinability
of that linked
relationship
s the
purpose
of this
presentation;
t is not
intended,
and
therefore should
not
be
expected,
to
startle
through
its innovative
fervor but
rather to invite
quiet
reflection
n
reaction
to the
synthesized
distillation
of scattered
houghts
that
I
have,
over
the
years, expressed
n
this
place
and
that,
but
never,
I
fear,
with
persuasive
cohesion. It may not be the "Gospel accordingto St. William," but it is a
kind
of
personal
credo
nevertheless.
"Names
and Narratives"
may,
in the
first
place,
be
safely
andmost
simply
construed
as "names
in
narratives,"
that
is,
onomastic
texts
as
integral,
struc-
turing,
illuminating
webs
within
tory
texts,
and,
as our
concern,
these
names
are
the narrative
responses
of
the
folk-cultural
register;
this
means names
in
folktales,
legends,
ballads,
anecdotes,
jokes, personal
experience
stories,
and
the
like.
Paradoxically,
names,
wherever
they
occur
in such narrative
nviron-
ments,
may
either
be
employed
because
heir
lexical
meaning
s
transparent
nd
therefore
accessible
o
both
storyteller
and
listener or because
of their
ability
to
function
perfectly
well
as
names while
being
meaningless
on
the lexical
level.
When
the latter
is the
case,
their
available
content
variesfrom virtual
empti-
ness
to
generous
characterization,
nd the
degree
of
knowability
and delinea-
tion
of
identity
of
place
or
person
depend
to
a
large
extent
on the
provision
of
such
content.
At one extreme
of this
onomastic
spectrum
stands
he
creature alled
by
such
names
as
"Rumpelstilzchen,"
"Tom
Tit
Tot,"
"Whuppity
Stoorie,"
"Skaane," "Tvester," "Purzinigele," "Mimi Pinson," "Tambutoe,"
"Knirrficker,"
or
"Ekke
Nekkepenn"
in AT 500 "The
Name of
the
Helper"
(Marshall
1973;
Christiansen
1964:6-7;
Hubrich-Messow
1981:20).
His various
bizarre
names
not
only
bear
witness
to
his
other-worldliness,
with
occasional
hints
of his
small
size,
but
also
apparently
guarantee
ack of
detect-
able
identity
and
therefore
promise
nvulnerability:
"Little kens
our
guid
dame
at
hame/That
Whuppity
Stoorie
is
my
name"
(Petrie:1950).
Since
nameless-
ness
is,
under
the
circumstances,
not
permissible
or even
possible,
the
creature
thus
singled
out
through
its unusual
and
seemingly
unknowable
name has
to
260
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7/26/2019 Nicolaisen, Names and Narratives
4/15
NAMESAND
NARRATIVES
keep
the name
alive
hrough
hyming epetition
n its own
quiteseparate
nd
quite
secludedhabitat.
It
is
not foolishness r exultant
self-assurance
hat
makeshim
pronounce
is
name,
therefore
endering
im
vulnerable,
ut
the
necessity
f
keeping
ne's
namealive
hrough
ontinued
sage.Giving
a
name
or
having
a
name s not
enough;
t must also
be
used.
Usage,
n
turn,
invari-
ably
eads o
recognition,
hat nevitable
oncomitant f
identity,
even
when
a
name s
intended o conceal ather han
reveal uch
dentity.Gaining
ccess
o
another
person
throughknowing
his
unknowablename
produces
imitless
power
and,
in terms
of folktale
retribution,
an
mean
complete
destruction:
"in his
anger
he
stamped
with
his
right
foot so hard
that
it
went
into
the
groundabovehisknee,thenhe seizedhis left footwith both handsn sucha
fury
that he
split
n
two,
and
that was
the
end of
him"
(Grimm
1963:62).
t
can
alsomean
disappearance:
Well,
when that
heard
her,
that
gave
an
awful
shriek
and
away
that
flew
in
the
dark,
and she
never
saw
it
any
more"
(Thompson
968:162).
We
exorcizeas
well
as
attract he
forcesof the
other
world
by
knowing
and
pronouncing
heir
names,
always isky,
but when
con-
ducted
properly,
liberating
ndertaking
n
dealings
with
the
numinous.
Thereare
ew
other
stories,
f
any,
that
focus
on a
namewith such
ntensity
and
weavesucha
dense
narrativeroundt.
Knowing
or
not
knowing
names
s
not alwayssucha matterof life anddeath.Indeed, f a recentanalysis f
Schleswig-Holstein
olktales s
anything
o
go by,
half the
folktalesand a
quarter
f
all
folktale
ypes
do
not
contain
any
personal
ames t all
(Hubrich-
Messow
1981).
If
they
do
occur
and
are not in the
"Will,"
"Tom,"
and
"Jack"
category,
hat
s,
if
they
are
not
naming
ypes
without
ndividualizing
them,
their
exical
meaning
requently
efers
o
outward
characteristics,
ike
"Snow
White,"
"Katie
Woodencloak,"
"Cinderella,"
"One-Eye,"
"Two-Eyes,"
and
"Three-Eyes,"
"Tom
Thumb,"
"Goldmarie"
and
"Pechmarie,"
"Hold-up-Mountain,"
"Oak-twister,"
"Boots,"
"Green
Feather,""Yellow Feather"and "BlackFeather,""Little Red
Riding-
Hood,"
"Esben-Ash-Rake,"
Dornrdschen,"
nd
so on. In
several f
these
instances,
he
name
erves
s a
linguistic
loak hat
provides
emporary
isguise
but
hides
the real
identity.
This is
particularly
oticeablen
versions
of AT
510B
n
which the
female
protagonist,
while
nameless s
a
princess,
ears he
nameof
the
rough
and
unbecoming
oat she
has to
wear
as a
fugitive
rom
persecution;
he
consequently
as to
live
out
her
new
coat-given
dentity
by
being
relegated
o
do the
most
menialtasks.
One
cannotbe
a
princess
or
beautiful r
both
when
one
bears
humble
or
even
uglynames uchas "Katie
Woodencloak,"
"Donkey
Skin,"
"All-kinds-of-fur,"
Cap
o'
Rushes,"
"Ruuchklaas,"
or
"Catskin."
Such
folktale
characters,
specially
protag-
onists,
wear
their
names
s
well
as
their
clothes,
whether
permanently
r
tem-
porarily
nflicted
with
them.
Their
names
auntand
teaseat
times,
n
contra-
diction o
their
normal
projecting
unction.
What is
particularly
oteworthy
here s
that,
like
the
revealing
et of
names
mentioned arlier
nd
others
ike
them,
these
concealing
ames
more
often
than not
serveas
the
titles of
the
stories n
which
they
occur.In
this
eponymous
ole,
they
are
only
matched
y
261
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7/26/2019 Nicolaisen, Names and Narratives
5/15
W. F. H. NICOLAISEN
the
ubiquitous
"Jack"
and
his
counterparts
n other
languages
and
cultures,
with
the
difference hat
"Jack"
does
not
individualize
but rather"is
the folk-
tale hero
par
excellence of our
western
folk-narrative radition"
(Nicolaisen
1978:32).
He is
infinitely
adaptable
nd fulfills
whateverrole
the
story
or
story-
teller
has
in
mind
for
him,
since he
survives
n
the
selective
realizationof
his
multiple
traits.
His
versatility
and almost
slipperymany-sidedness
o
not
permit
"Jack"
to
appear
unaccompanied
s
a titular
hero;
in
each
instance
his
name is
amplifiedby
a
character
rait,
a
task to
be
done,
a
reference o
antagonists,
the
summary
of an
action,
the
indication of a
location,
and
so on.
"Jack"
as a
name here
no
longer
denotes but shares
with words their
connotative
poten-
tial. Nevertheless,it alsogives us, like realnames,the kindof onomasticfocus
which,
through
the
severe condensation of its
associations,
integrates,
delimits,
and releases textual
patterns
in
narrative
gestures helpful
to
story-
tellers and their audiences.
Despite
these
more
sophisticated
byplays,
however,
lexically
transparent
names such as the ones
discussed exhaust themselves in
comparatively simple
narrative
functions,
mainly through
their
capacity
to
orient,
to
texture,
and
to contrast.
It
may,
at first
glance,
seem
inconsistent,
surprising,
or
even
perverse
hat
names
play
a
much
more
important
role in narrativeswhen
they
are
seman-
ticallyopaqueand when theirlexicalmeaningis not at stake. It is in theirvery
interchangeability
hat
they
serve
narrativesbest and demonstrate
their
true
role.
Let
me cite some
examples
rom the stories n
song.
The
ballad hat Fran-
cis
James
Child
included
in
his canon of
English
and
Scottish
Popular
Ballads
as
No.
81 has been
given
the title
"Little
Musgrave
and
Lady
Barnard"
(Child
1965:242-260).
In its
many
variants,
the
name
of the illicit lover
is
compara-
tively
stable
in
its
phonological
core,
with variations
ranging
from
"Musgrave,"
"Mousgrove,'
"Musgray,"
"Massgrove,"
"Mossgrey,"
"Mousgray," "Munsgrove," "Mushiegrove," "Musgove,"
via
"MacGroves,"
"McGrover,"
"Grover,"
"McGrew,"
"Magrue,"
"Lagrue,"
"Magrove"
and
"LaGrove,"
to
the
reinterpreted
inary
"Matha
Grove,"
"Mathe
rove,"
"Massy
Groves,"
"Matthy
Groves,"
"Matty
Groves,"
"Mathew
Grove,"
"Mat
Groves,"
"Moth
Grone,"
"Ned
Grove,"
"Mose
Groves,"
"Mattha
Grow,"
"Marshal
Grones,"
"Maddy
Gross" and
their
ilk
(Child
1965:242-260;
Bronson
1959-72:267-315;
Nicolaisen
1981:30).
It
appears
o
be
quite legitimate,
therefore,
to select
a
name
form
such as
"Musgrave"
for the first
half
of the title since all
other
names are clearlyetymologicalcognates or derivatives,despite their strange
reshapings,
in
attempts
to
conform with
other well-known
names or
name
structures,
or
to
inject
some
sort
of
meaning
into
the
lexically
meaningless,
he
semantically
opaque.
The choice
of "Lord
Barnard"
as the
name
of the cuck-
olded and
bloodily
revengeful
husband
is,
apart
from its
antiquity,
less
straightforward,
when
one
goes beyond
such obvious
variations
as
"Barnett,"
"Barnet,"
"Burnett,"
"Barnaby,"
"Barnabas,"
"Barlibas,"
"Barney,"
"Barnswell"
or even
"Bengwill,"
"Banner,"
"Benner" and
"Vanner,"
to
unrelated
versions such
as
"Daniel,"
"Dannel,"
"Donald,"
"Darnel,"
262
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7/26/2019 Nicolaisen, Names and Narratives
6/15
NAMESAND NARRATIVES
"Darnell,"
"Diner,"
"Arnold,"
"Orland," "Arnol,"
"Allen,"
"Vanover,"
"Valley"
and
even
"Thomas."
The
point
that I am
trying
to make
(and
my
excuse for these
long
lists of
names)
is that it is almost
irrelevantwhat
the chosen
name is as
long
as it
fits
rhythmically,
has,
in the
perspectives
of
singers
and
listeners,
the
appropriate
aristocratic
ssociations,
and
can be filled with the
right
kind of content.
That
it
might
be
possible
for the balladscholar o construct out of these variations
a
genealogical
chart useful in the
reconstructionof
the
family
tree of
Child 81
is
not
important
in this
context,
since our current concern is with the
ways
in
which
these
names
function
in
the
ballad
story,
that
is,
with their
narrative
role. This
role,
I
would
claim,
is fulfilled
whether
Little
Musgravesleepswith
Lady
Barnard,
Little
Mossgrey goes
to bed with
Lady
Barnabas,
Matthy
Groves crawls into the sheets
with
Lady
Arnold,
little
Ned Grove deceives
Lord
Valley,
or
young
McGrew
enjoys
the
nightly
company
of
Lady
Banner
during
her
husband's
absence. The
onomastic device works
successfully
because t
produces
he
intended
degree
of
pseudo-historicityby
proclaiming
a
past
as
true,
at least while the
performance
of the ballad
lasts,
through
the
plausibility
of
narration.
Naturally,
this
principle
does not
just
apply
to the names
of
characters n
ballads but also to the names of ballad locations. Thus, in the same Child
ballad,
it is of no
consequence
whether the
places
to
which the absent
ord has
gone
can be
identified
(Dundee,
England,
St.
James's
Castle,
Newcastle,
Ken-
tucky)
or
not
(Hampshire
Court,
Convention,
Redemption,
indemption,
con-
demsion).2
What is of
essential
significance
s
that the
absent
ord-whether
at
King Henry's
court in
London,
in the
very
north
of
Scotland,
in
Dundee,
in
some
foreign
land,
at
sea,
at convention or
redemption,
or
elsewhere-should
be far
enough away
to
give
the
secret lovers
at least a
night's
respite,
and
yet
close
enough
to be
warned and
fetched
by
a
determined,
fast-running
page
beforedawn breaks.These namesand even theirunnamed
equivalents
serve as
persuasive tructuring
devices
that do not
remove
the
troublesome
husbandto
a
particular
place
in order to
convince
audiences
through
historicity
but rather
to a
conveniently
distant location
that invites
duplicity
while
threatening
discovery
and
revenge.
"Lord
Arnold has
gone
to the
Hampshire
Court,
King
Henry
for
to
see"
sings
one
narrator,
"Lord
Dannel's
gone
to
Kentucky,
King
Georgie
for
to
view"
sings
another
(Nicolaisen
1982:209-210).
Despite
their
differences,
both
singers
provide
their
ballad
versions with
the
kind of
geography
that
is
neededto
put
their
narrativesn
their
places,
so
to
speak,
and
to
give
them
the
sort of
onomastic
underpinning
hat
silences he
doubters
and
reassures he
believers.
Whereas
Child
81
ostensively,
almost
ostentatiously,
proclaims
n
its title
a
story
of
human
conflict
molded
in
the
age-old
triangular
ashion
(and
is
there-
fore
less
concerned
with a
sense of
place
than
with a
sense of
social
constella-
tions
and
their
infraction),
there
are
several
other
ballads
hat
either link
their
protagonists
with
particular
places
or
have
nothing
but
place-names
n
their
titles.
These
include
such
ballads
as
"The
Braes o'
Yarrow"
(Child
214),
263
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7/26/2019 Nicolaisen, Names and Narratives
7/15
W. F. H.
NICOLAISEN
"Rare Willie Drowned
in
Yarrow"
(Child
215),
"John
of
Hazelgreen"
(Child 293),
"The Lads of
Wamphray" (Child 184),
"The
Wife
of
Ushers
Well"
(Child 79),
or the
martially
oriented "Battle of Otterburn"
(Child
161),
"Battle of Harlaw"
(Child
163),
or "Flodden
Field"
(Child
168).3
In
these
instances,
and
others
like
them,
the
ballad
story
is
strongly
linked with
the
places
referredto both
in
the title and often over and
over
again
in
the
ballad text.
In
some of
them that connection is so
strong
that
the
names
in
question
are
repeated
n stanzaafter stanza
and
thus,
after
melody,
refrain,
and
rhyme,
become the most
repetitive
element in the
unfolding
of the
narrative,
reinforcing
a
definite
sense of location
through
that
very
repetition,
whether
simplyor incrementally.That the intention hereis not, as has sometimesbeen
suggested
(Richmond
1946),
to "lend
credibility"
to the
singers'
tales,
except
for the
most
local
or
regional
of audiences
who
have
a
close
acquaintance
with
the
topography
of
their
ballads,
becomes obvious when one
considers
hat
the
majority
of
ballad
singers
and listeners does
not
know
exactly
where
these
places
are
and
what
they
look
like.
When this
happens,
two
majorchanges
can
occur
with
completely
different
results.
The
first
possibility
s that
place-names,
bereft
of their
denotativefunc-
tion
and
without real
geographical
significance,
can,
as structural
elements,
enter the most formulaicof all formulaicballadlanguage, the refrain.In this
process,
virtually meaninglessnames-meaningless,
that
is,
both
lexically
and
onomastically-unselfconsciously
take their
place
beside,
or
take the
place
of,
nonsense
syllables.
Their
presence
becomes
especially
notable,
perhaps
even
perplexing,
since
the refrain
has
such an
important
role
in
the
singer-audience
relationship
n
an actual
performance,
n
addition
to
its
formal,
morphological
function:
There
were
two sisters
in ae
bow'r,
Edinbrough, dinbrough;
There
were
two
sisters in ae bow'r
Stirling or
ay;
There
were
two
sisters
in ae
bow'r,
There came
a
knight
to be their
woor,
Bonny
Saint
Johnston
tands
upon
Tay.
[Bronson 1959]
No
one
would
claim that this
tripartite
refrain,
which
is of course
repeated
within
every
stanza,
somehow
mimics
a
journey
from the Scottish
capital
via
Stirling to Perth. The three place-nameshere serve without any semantic
burden
and
provide
the audience
with
familiar
but near-nonsense
ound
se-
quences
in their nonnarrative
participation
n the ballad
performance.
The
other,
diametrically
opposite
consequence
of
the semantic
emptying
of
place-names
hat
outside
the ballad
world
have
very
full
onomastic
meaning
is
the creation
of
a
new
toponymic
iconography
(Nicolaisen
1974),
a
filling
of
new wine
into
old
bottles,
a
kind of
linguistic
transfusion.
As a
result,
it
does
indeed
no
longer
matter
where
exactly
these
places
are
and what
they
look
264
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7/26/2019 Nicolaisen, Names and Narratives
8/15
NAMES
AND
NARRATIVES
like;
we
can smoothour furrowed
rowsbecausewe do not need
pictures
f
the real
Yarrow,
he
real
Wamphray,
he real
Harlaw,
wherever
nd
whatever
they
may
be.
They
are
now the
ballad-Yarrow,
he
ballad-Wamphray,
nd he
ballad-Harlaw;
ndwe do not carewhetherUshersWell andBinnorie
eally
exist
or
not,
for fiction
and
reality
areno contrastsn the
topography
f the
ballad.
ScarletTown
has more
reality
n its fictionthan
most
places
of com-
parable
ize canmuster
n the actualworld.
The RiverYarrowhad ittle fame
until
the
ballad
ang
of
manly
ombat
and
subsequent
ereavementn its braes
or of a
drowning ragedy
n its
waters.
In
"BonnyBabyLivingstone"
Child
222)
the
(real)
place-names
Auchingour"
nd
"Glenlion"havebecome
ym-
bolsfor thekidnapper'serritorywhichthegirl, forgoodreason,s noteager
to enter. "Annan
Water,"
in the
moving
ballad
of
that
title,
ceases
o
be
simply,
or
altogether,
he Scottish iver
hat
rises
nearHartfellMountain
n
the Peeblesshire
order,
and
after
lowing
south for
49
miles
through
Dum-
friesshire nd
having
received
he
tributary
waters
of
Evan,
Moffat,Kinnel,
Dryfe,
and
Milk,
enters
he
Solway
Firth,
one and
three-quarter
iles
below
the town of Annanwhich
itself
was
namedafter he watercourse.
Although
its
quick
idesmake t a
dangerous
iver,
often
resulting
n
the kindof
tragedy
that
the ballad
story
narrates,
his initial
appropriateness
s
no
longer
ap-
plicable.Perhapst neverwas,forperformancesf thisballad ave o beunder-
stood
not as the balladistic
ecounting
f
a
particular
rowning,
but as
the
presentation
n narrative
ong
of the
death
of the lover
trying
o
reach
his
be-
loved
from
whom
he is
separated.
ust
as
the
fast-flowing
iver
becomes he
symbol
or the
separating
bstacle,
o
"Annan
Water,"
as the name
of
that
river,
akeson the role
of
metaphor
n this
context,
heightened
n the
worldof
ballad
olk
belief
by
the
roaring
f
the water
kelpy-not only
a
metaphor
or
the
painfulphysical
eparation
f
two
lovers,
but also
of
the human
ragedy
thatbefallswhen one
of
the two
attempts
o reduce hat
separation
n the face
of
adversity.
AnnanWater s the
unbridged
iver
hat
keeps
wo
lovers
apart,
when
togetherness
s what
they
needmost
of all
for their
physical
alvation.
No wonder hat the refrain
ings
n
powerful,
challenging
epetition:
And
wae
betide
ye,
Annan
Water,
This
night
that
ye
are a
drumlie
river
For over thee I'll
build a
bridge,
That
ye
never more true love
may
sever.
Ironically,reven
symptomatically
nd
perhapsortunately,
hename"An-
nan Water" has a
major
variant in
"Allan Water"
in other
versions
of
the
same
ballad,
a
name
attached
o
severalrivers on the
actualScottish
map,
each
with its
own
characteristics,
very
different from
the Annan
and from
each
other. On
the
map
of
ballad
country,
however,
both
"Allan" and
"Annan"
serve
the
same
iconographic
function and
play
the same
semantic role of
the
river as
dividing
boundary
and fateful
separation
nviting
parted
overs to
fatal
attempts
at
reunion.
Beyond
all
this,
it is a
symbol
for
everything
that
divides,
265
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7/26/2019 Nicolaisen, Names and Narratives
9/15
W. F. H.
NICOLAISEN
separates
nd
disrupts,
a
poignant
eminderhat all is not well in
this
world
and that
so
much that is broken
and fractured till has to
be healed.
Either
namehelpsto narrate hat conditionandto rehearsets tragicconsequences.
Leaving
he
ballad
map
behind,
wish
to
takeus
to
legend ountry
ince t is
best
suited
to
show that
there s
an even more essential
onnection
etween
namesandnarratives
hanthe
focusing
presence
f the former n
the latteror
the
structuring,
conographic
orce of
onomastic tems
in
narrative nviron-
ments. The text
within
the text has
other,
even
more
mportant
imensions.
What I have
n
mind
s the
by
no
means
evolutionary
bservation
hat
stories
createnames
and
names
reate tories.Our
compendia
f
legends
re ull of in-
stances
of both
kinds,
especially
f the
story-creatingower
of
names.That
our actual
maps
alsocontain
many
namesthat are the resultsof stories s
perhaps
ess
well knownbut
ust
as
easily
demonstrated. ere
s
a
Scottish x-
ample
hat
firstmade
me
aware
of the
compatibility
f
my
own dual nterests
in folkloreand
names:
A lowland
sentry,
who had
been
stationed
at the
head
of the Pass of
Killiecrankie,
irst knew
the result of
the battle
[of
Killiecrankie
on
July
27th,
1689]
by
seeing
a
party
of
Highlanders
rushing
down
upon
him. He
ran before
them and
when
they
were
overtaking
him,
and
had
ac-
tually
wounded
him in the
shoulder,
he
leapt
across the River
Garry
where the
gorge
is nar-
rowest
and
so
escaped,
for
they
dared not
leap
after him.
The
place
is called the
"Soldier's
Leap,"
and
every
visitor
to the
pass
has a look at it. The soldier lived
many
years
afterwards
and was
employed
by
General
Wade who
began
to make
roads
in the
Highlands
thirty-five
years
later. The soldier often told
his
story
and showed
the
wound
he received n
the
moment
of
the
leap. [Nicolaisen 1968]
As one
who
has stood
exactly
where
the
commentator
magines
"every
visitor
o the
pass"
to
stand,
can
verify
both
the
location nd
he name. also
know
that
insteadof
onlylooking
at the
chasm,
most
visitors,
myself
nclud-
ed,
tendto
contemplate,
r evendiscusswith
others,
whether hewounded
soldier-whose
name
s
given
as DonaldMacBean
n
certain raditions-could
have
umped
t
in
his weakened
ondition,
and,
if
he
did,
whether
we would
be able
to imitate
his feat.
I
also know that
many
similar
tories
havecreated
many
similar
place
names
lsewhere,
rom
McGregor's eap
n
Perthshire
nd
the
Tinker's
Loup
n
Kirkcudbrightshire
o
Brady'sLeap
n
Ohio,
and that
personal
xperience
arratives
nd
egendary
ccounts
re,
as
happens
o
often,
hard o
separate
n
the
analysis
f thesestories.
Not
that this
in
any
way
in-
validatesheevidence.Far rom t. Whethermemoraterfabulate,he stories
in
question
arebehind he
names
n
question,
and
there
s little doubt
that
a
motif
such
as
F1071,
"Prodigious
ump,"
is
in a
large
number
of
these
in-
stances
esponsible
or the
name
of the location
at
whichthe
event
s
supposed
to
havetaken
place.
What
is
significant
s that
in all these
examples
arrative
preceded
ame,
he
speech
ct
of narration
ame
before
he
speech
ct
of nam-
ing.
As a
result,
the
place-name
as
become
a
crystallization
f
the
narrative,
almost
a
shorthand
or
story,
and
by
situating
his
story
on the
map
among
other
names
t has
given
it
a
topographic
dentity
hat
amounts o
veracity.
266
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7/26/2019 Nicolaisen, Names and Narratives
10/15
NAMES
AND NARRATIVES
Since the name is attachedto such and such a
place,
the
past
must have
been
the
way
the
story
tells
it. The
name,
in
addition
to
other narrative unctions
in
this context, takes on the role of verification,of
precisely
ocating
the truth.
The
exact
opposite
happens
when names
are not the resultsbut the cause
of
stories,
when narratives re created o
interpret
or
reinterpret
otherwise
mean-
ingless
onomastic
items,
a
process
which used to
be called somewhat
con-
descendingly"folk-etymology,"
but which is
really
a
linguistic aspect
of
that
urge
so
prominently
displayed
n
the folk-cultural
register
of
coming
to
terms
with
the
meaningless
or
accounting
for
something particularly
dd and out of
the
ordinary.
In
doing
so,
secondary
toponymic
reinterpretation
requently
employs a device not found in primarynaming processes:the intentionalor
chance utterance
of a
person,
often
of
different
ethnic
or
cultural
origin
(Nicolaisen
1977b).
Two
examples
of
this
very
extensive
genre
must suffice.
The
first concerns the
name "Menan" in Idaho:
In
the
early days
of SnakeRiver
Valley
settlement the
mosquitos
were as
big
as
eagles
and were
often
reported
to
have carried
people
away
from their farms. One
day
near dusk a farmerwas
working
in
a field near the
present
site of
Menan,
Idaho,
and was
picked up
by
a
passing
mos-
quito.
The farmercalled for
help
to his wife and she
quickly
ran and
got
his
rifle.
As she was
aiming
the rifle to shoot the
large
insect out of the air she heard her husbandcall, "Don't
shoot,
it's
me,
Nan." So the
place
has
always
been known as
Menan.s
The second
story
narrates
an
incident that is
supposed
o have
been
respon-
sible for the
coining
of
the
name
"Perth
Amboy"
in
New
Jersey,
which is said
to have
got
its
name when the
Earl
of
Perth
first
came to
Amboy.
Residents,
Indians,
and officialswent down to the shore
to
greet
him.
Being
a
Scot,
Perth
wore
the kilt. When he came
ashore,
the Indian
chief took one
long,
hard ook
at the kilt and those
knobby
knees
and
exclaimed,
"Perth
am
girl "
"No,"
the Earl
replied,
"Perth am
boy"
(Quimby
1969:257).
Tall
tale and
cultural
put-down
here
serve
not
only
to
provide
semantic
transparency
where
only
opacity
exists,
but
also to
cope
with
a
puzzlesome,
sometimes
threatening, past;
despite
their
brevity,
their
local
narrative
enter-
tainment value
(and
their
humorous
appeal
s
decidedly
ocal)
lies
precisely
n
these
characteristics.
Occurring singly,
they may
not
be
great
stories to
excite
the
student
of
folk
narrative,
hey
may
not lead to the
kind
of
etymology
that
satisfies
he historical
linguist,
but
they
are
valuable
pointers
to
an
age-old
nar-
rativetradition,the full force and societal role of which undoubtedlydeserve
much
greater
scholarly
attention than
they
have
received so
far.
As
a
body,
they
help
us to
understand
what makes the folk
laugh,
especially
at the
expense
of
the
stranger.
Also,
together
with
their
much more
serious
counterparts,
they
reveal
names
to
be
strong
originating
forces
in
the
creationof
stories
(see
Nicolaisen
1976,
1977a).
In
folktale,
ballad
and
legend,
dicta
such as
narrare
necesse st
and
nominare
ecesse
st
become
virtually
synonymous,
while
life's
meaning
and
purpose
are
entrusted to
both.
If one
were to be
solely
interested
n
the
embedding
of
names in
narratives
267
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7/26/2019 Nicolaisen, Names and Narratives
11/15
W. F. H. NICOLAISEN
and
ts
many
andmanifold
mplications,
his
might
not
havebeena
badcon-
cluding
sentence,
but there
s
to be
one
furtherarea
of
concern hat I would
like to
explore
briefly,
even if it takesus
beyond
he narrow onfinesof our
alliterative
opic.
The
reason s
that
I cannotthink
of
names,
cannotcom-
prehend
heir
meaning
and
unction,
without
thinking
of
individuality,
nd
I
cannot
ully
substantiate
nd
legitimize
my very genuine
plea
for a
renewed
commitment
o
folklore exts
without at
the same
time
advocating
new
awareness
f
the
inviolability
f all
individual
exts
and,
above
all,
of all in-
dividual
narrators,
rtisans,
radition
earers,
ctive
andcreative
gents
n
the
realm
of folk culture.
What this
alsomeans
s
that,
when
thus
perceived,
he
deliberateinkingof namesandnarratives, f individual toryteller ndin-
dividual
erformance
reating
n ndividual
ext,
raises
question
hat
hasbeen
on
my
mind
for a
long
time
andto which
I want to
drawattention.
f I fre-
quently
use the
term
"artisan,"
t
is because
am
ooking
or a term
o
depict
the creative
rtist,
n
both verbal
andnonverbal
ontexts,
andbecause
agree
with
Walter
Benjamin
1968)
that
storytelling
elongs
o
the
age
of
the
ar-
tisan.
The
intellectual
ilemma
hat we
have nherited
as ts
roots
n two
funda-
mentally
ery
different
iews
of
craft
and
olk
culture,
or while
the
ideaof
ar-
tisanshiprcraftsmanshipasalways mpliedndividualkillsandoneperson's
pair
of
hands,
he
notion
of "folk"
has
conjured
p
almost
nvariably
n
mage
of
community,
of
group,
of lack
of
individuality,
versince
t was
first
ntro-
duced
nto the
English
anguage
lmost
a
century
and
a half
ago.
Tradition,
that
key ingredient
n so
much
folk cultural
activity,
has been
equated
with
communal
reation
and
re-creation
n an
atmosphere
f
anonymity,
and
the
emphasis
has
been
on
the
transmission
f
knowledge,
customs,
and
beliefs
through
uch
anonymous
hannels
n an almost
mystical
ashion.
Forsome
un-
fathomable
eason,
his
perception
ascontinued
o
dominate
he
thinking
of
many
olklorists
venwhen
they
themselvesavebeen
engaged
n the
study
of
the tale
repertoires
f
individual
torytellers
r
of the
corpus
of
songs per-
formed
by
individual
ingers.
For
example,
out
of the
318
separately
n-
nounced
papers
t the
1983 American
olklore
Society
annual
meeting,
only
15,
according
o title
and
summary,
ppear
o deal
with individual
olk
artisans
of
all kinds.
That
s
fewer
han
ive
percent
f
the total
In
addition,
here
has
developed,
ver
the
years,
a hierarchical
erception
f
"folkness"
as a level
of
culture
and
of whole
homogeneous
olk societies
xisting
on that
level.
It is inevitablehatsucha stratifiediew of cultureeadsnot onlyto anar-
tificial
eparation
f
the
layers
nvisaged
ut
also
to an
unwarranted
erpetua-
tion
of
their
supposed
xistence
under
all conditions.
But it is difficult
o
see
how
such
a
hierarchical
tratification,
r
any
kindof stratification
or that
mat-
ter,
can
be
maintained
hen
the
focus
s on individual
uman
beings
and
heir
demonstrable
iversity
nstead
f
on
the
unity
of
theirbehavioral
esponses.
n-
deed,
with
this
kind
of
emphasis,
he
model
of
rigid
cultural
ayering
ot
only
becomes
nadequate
ut
rather
ontradicts
bservable
acts,
or
nobody
behaves
on
the
so-called
"folk
level"
(or
any
other
level)
all the
time,
nor
is
there
268
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7/26/2019 Nicolaisen, Names and Narratives
12/15
NAMESAND
NARRATIVES
anybody
whose
behavior s
never
of
the folk-culturalkind. This
is not
because
we
flit from
one cultural evel
to
another
almost
arbitrarily
nd
unpredictably
but rather
because,
in the absencef levels, we
respond
to
particular
ituations,
under
particular
circumstances,
n the
presence
of
particularpersons,
in
dif-
ferent
manners,
in the kind of
appropriate
responses
that
sociologists
and
sociolinguists
have
termed
"registers"-and
the
folk-cultural
register
s one
of
them
(Nicolaisen
1980a).
The
degree
of
frequency
and
intensity
to which
peo-
ple
respond
n
particular
egisters
varies
from
person
to
person,
from
locale
to
locale,
from
historical circumstance to historical
circumstance. Some
in-
dividuals
may
behave
like "folk"
on
most
occasions,
others
may hardly
ever
respond
in
the folk-cultural
register.
Most
of us
probably
fall
somewhere be-
tween these two extremes.
Assuming,
then,
that
it
is
possible
to
discern
peculiar
olk-cultural
qualities
and to differentiate hem from
other modes of
behavior-the
primitive,
the
normative,
the
sophisticated,
et us
say-what
is it
that
folk-cultural
responses
have
in
common and what makes
them
attractiveand
appropriate
nder cer-
tain
circumstances?
Speculatively,
I would
suggest
the
following
criteria.
In
the
broadest
sense,
they
allow for
individual
expression
within
the
framework
of
tradition,
thus
injecting
an
element of
variety
into a
process
of
repetition.
Put somewhat differently,the folk-culturalresponse providesa challengefor
individuationwhile at
the same time
supplying
the
shelter of social
bonding.
Naturally,
such
opportunity
would not
be
offered
through
definitive
texts,
mass-produced
drugs,
prefabricated
ouses,
syndicated
columns,
and the
like.
The
folk-cultural
response
s
also
almost
invariably
a
direct
one,
making
use of
whatever is
readily
availableand at
hand,
not
searching
or its
ingredients
n
faraway
places.
The
folk-cultural
response
offers the
expected
but-and this is
important-
while
shunning
startling
and
disconcerting
innovation,
leaves
room
for
judiciousimprovementandpersonalcreativity.It favors the statusquo,
prefers
circumscribed
individuality
o total
conformity
or
anarchic
haos,
shuns
eccen-
tricity
but
has room for
foolishness
and
wisdom;
it
lays
great
store
by
the
ac-
cumulated
common
sense of
generations
though
refracted
through
individual
prisms
and
takes
a
few
measuredrisks
within an
overall
atmosphere
of
securi-
ty.
In folk
culture
audacity
never
outstrips sagacity.
Tradition
prevails
but
not
without
change,
continuity
creates
balance
and
yet
there is
disruption,
some-
times
disconcerting,
sometimes
refreshing,
sometimes
both;
repetition
never
becomes
boring,
community
and
individual are
at
ease
with
each
other.
Perhaps
the
question
why
folk-cultural
responses
are
considered
attractive
and
appropriate
under certain
circumstances
inds at
least
one
answer in
these
definitions of
what
folk
culture
ideally-and,
I
believe,
also
practically-is.
The
reasons
for
the
continued
choice of
such
responses
are at
least
partially
embedded
n
what
that
choice
speaks
to: the
need for
self-expression
within a
predictable
and
comfortable
context;
the
desire for
acceptability
without
slavish,
imitative
conformity;
the
creative
urge
that
is
satisfiedto
be
fulfilled
within the
patterns
and
demands
of
tradition;
the
provision
of
identity
in
the
269
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7/26/2019 Nicolaisen, Names and Narratives
13/15
W. F. H.
NICOLAISEN
present
through
conscious
links
with the
past;
the
orientation
through
folk-
cultural
symbols
below and
beyond
the level
of
daily experience.
I therefore
take the
phenomena
of folk culture to be
expressions
of the tension and in-
terplay
between
individual
and
society,
between
variationand
repetition,
be-
tween
isolated
self and communal
other.
Tradition,
in
this
process,
guides
and
safeguards
ontinuity
in a
world
of
change
without
restraining
or
jeopardizing
individual
ingenuity.
There
is
a
toughness
and
a
persistence
about
folk
culture
from
which
even the most
independently-minded
escape
only
with
difficulty.
Yet-and this
is the
fascinating
miracle
of all
folk
cultures-the
filter
of
individuality,
of
creative
identity, of recognizablepersonality, preventsthe productsof tradition from
becoming
faceless
and
interchangeable.
Naturally,
the extent
to
which
ar-
tisans,
both the
highly
competent
ones and
those whose
competence
is
less
developed,
explore
their
individual
freedom
or
cling
to traditional
bondage
varies
from
person
to
person.
In
May,
1978,
I had the
good
fortune
to
collect,
from
severaldescendants
f
old Council
Harmon
(1803-1896),
versions
of AT
1535
"The Rich and
the
Poor
Peasant,"
which
in
the
narrative radition
of
Beech
Mountain,
North
Carolina,
usually
goes
under
the
title of
"The
Heifer
Hide"
(Nicolaisen
1980b). In the courseof my recordings,I alsonotedwith greatinterestthe dif-
ferent
attitudes
that
the various
storytellers,
all
of them
related
to
each
other,
had
toward
their
stories
and
their
sources,
and I found
it
instructive
that,
for
example,
Ray
Hicks
and
Hattie
Hicks,
both
great-great-grandchildren
f old
"Counce,"
expressed
hat attitude
n
diametrically
pposite
ways.
Ray,
when
he
had finished
his
story,
asked
me
if
I had
noted certain
details.
When
I told
him
that I
had,
he
informed
me
with
great pleasure
hat
these
were
small
addi-
tions that
he himself
had
added
to the
story
as he had
heard
t
from his
grand-
father,
in
order
to
make it his own.
Hattie,
on the other
hand,
insisted
on tell-
ing
me severaltimes that her version was
exactly
as she had heard t from her
father-it
was
her
father's
story,
not her own.
The
contrasts,
therefore,
could
not have
been
greater,
but
the
important
thing
is that there
is room
for both
attitudes,
and
many
in
between,
in the
folk-cultural
register.
No
other
cultural
register
offers
that kind
of
symbiosis,
that
kind
of
opportunity
to
be
personal
and
yet
to
have the
exposure
that such
individualitybrings
mediated
by
the
shelter
of
the
group.
We
have,
in
this
brief
survey,
traveled
quite
a distance rom
Rumpelstiltskin,
Tom Thumb,
and
Donkey Skin,
via
"Little
Musgrave
and
Lady
Barnard,"
Redemption,
Usher's
Well,
Annan
Water,
The
Soldier's
Leap
and Perth
Am-
boy,
to
Ray
and
Hattie
Hicks
and
"The Heifer
Hide."
We have
encountered,
on the
way,
names
as
the
point
of
a
story,
names
as
narrative
ondensation
and
focus,
names
as cloaks
and
disguises,
names
as
structuring
devices,
names
as
verbal
cons,
names
as
metaphors,
names
as
truthful
ocation
of the
past,
names
as
the
result
of a
story,
names
as
narrative
auses,
names
as
individualizing
and
integrating
forces
(see
Ruberg 1982),
names
as texts
and
as texts
within
texts,
and
names
of
individual
storytellers.
270
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14/15
NAMESAND
NARRATIVES
Whatever
their role
and
function,
whatever their
semantic status
and
onomastic
intent,
these
names
have
given
us
access
to
narrative
morphology,
structure,
and constraintsin a
very
special,
perhaps
even
unexpected
way.
Above
all,
they
have
helped
us
to
reestablish
he narrative
ext
as a
window
on
the
past
and its
narration
as
the
true
creation of
that
past.
There are
as
many
true chunks
of
past
as there are stories
told as true. The
alliterative
speech
acts
of
naming
and
narrating
have,
I
hope,
revealed hemselves
as
reconcilable win
approaches
o
human
individuality
n
its
enmeshings
with that
past.
Perhaps
they
even
encourage
a
vision of
the
study
of
folklore as
a
flight
toward
folklore,
for
despite
some
recent rumors to
the
contrary,
the last
I
heard
of
it,
there are still cascadesof texts out there and klondikes of folklore. I wish us
luck
with them.
Snip, snip,
snover,
My
story
is
over.
Notes
I
am
ndebted
or this term
o
John
A.
Robinson
1981).
I also ind
much
refreshing
ew
thinking
n
several
mportant
spects
f folk
narrative,
nd
especially
n
what
she terms
"groupsagas,"
n
Gillian
Bennett 1983).
2
For
a
full
range
of suchnames
ee
W. F. H. Nicolaisen
1982).
Some of the
points
made n
the
following
are
anticipated
n
that article.
3I
havediscussedhese
n more
detail
n
"Place-Names
n
Traditional allads"
Nicolaisen
973).
This
sectionof
my essay
s built on
that article.
4
From he
singing
of Mrs.
Margaret
MacArthur,Marlboro,
Vermont.
5
From he
Folklore
Archive n
BrighamYoung
University.
References
Cited
Benjamin,
Walter
1968
The
Storyteller.
In
Illuminations,
ed. Hannah
Arendt.
Translated
by
Harry
John.
New York:
Harcourt,
Brace and World.
Bennett,
Gillian
1983
"Rocky
the
Police
Dog"
and Other Tales:
Traditional
Narrative
n
an
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al
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Language
3:1-19.
Bronson,
Bertrand H.
1959-72 The
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versity
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James
1965 The English and Scottish PopularBallads.5 vols. Reprinted, New York: Dover.
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Th.,
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1964
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Leonard
1978
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15/15
W. F.
H.
NICOLAISEN
Marshall,
Howard
Wight
1973 "Tom Tit Tot"-A
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500-The
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W. F. H.
1968 The
Prodigious Jump:
A
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the
Relationship
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Folklore
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Placenames.In
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Festschriftfir Kurt
Ranke zur
Vollen-
dung
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1973
Place-Names
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AT
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W. M.
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1981 Personal Narratives Reconsidered.
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Uwe
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1968
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