On The Naming Of Names
This is one of those infamous Theory-of-Knowledge type webpages on which I can spend unconscionable amounts of time. For those of you who can't be bothered with Kripke's objections to Description Theory, let me just say that the naming of names is important. Time and again, in all the stories which are foundational to culture and society, the name of the protagonist carries significance beyond mere labelling.
Writers of speculative fiction turn to atlases and name-books for inspiration too. (Did you know Gondor was a place in Ethiopia?) Computer programmers are more literal, as you can see here.
Growing up, I thought it would be interesting to name my firstborn after the late Michael Coney's Celestial Steam Locomotive. As I look back on those halcyon (but sometimes also rather fevered) days of speculation and wild imagining, I cannot help but feel no twinge of regret at all. I realised there was a thin border between naming for effect and naming for affect, between romance and comedy. T S Eliot stalks back and forth over that line in his 1939 poem The Naming of Cats. But what then to name a child (assuming one exists, of course)?
It's a funny thing that names eventually distance themselves from their original sources. Who thinks of Stephen as a crown, or Basil as a king? Who looks at Felicia, thinking happy (even if she is indeed so); or Jennifer, thinking white owl? Eventually, names fall into decay. The girl named Nur does not evoke radiance; the man named Edward guards no hoard.
Yet, there is still power there. Rebecca still binds; Abraham might still be father to multitudes. What on earth would you think of a man who named his sons warlike defender and immortal soldier? Names are powerful, and even in these careless days when parents name their children in perverse and unmentionable ways, it pays to be careful when at last you bring yourself to the naming of names.
Writers of speculative fiction turn to atlases and name-books for inspiration too. (Did you know Gondor was a place in Ethiopia?) Computer programmers are more literal, as you can see here.
Growing up, I thought it would be interesting to name my firstborn after the late Michael Coney's Celestial Steam Locomotive. As I look back on those halcyon (but sometimes also rather fevered) days of speculation and wild imagining, I cannot help but feel no twinge of regret at all. I realised there was a thin border between naming for effect and naming for affect, between romance and comedy. T S Eliot stalks back and forth over that line in his 1939 poem The Naming of Cats. But what then to name a child (assuming one exists, of course)?
It's a funny thing that names eventually distance themselves from their original sources. Who thinks of Stephen as a crown, or Basil as a king? Who looks at Felicia, thinking happy (even if she is indeed so); or Jennifer, thinking white owl? Eventually, names fall into decay. The girl named Nur does not evoke radiance; the man named Edward guards no hoard.
Yet, there is still power there. Rebecca still binds; Abraham might still be father to multitudes. What on earth would you think of a man who named his sons warlike defender and immortal soldier? Names are powerful, and even in these careless days when parents name their children in perverse and unmentionable ways, it pays to be careful when at last you bring yourself to the naming of names.
etched with acid at 6:56:00 pm
8 Comments:
in malaysia the authorities have posted a list of nicks which are strictly off limits.
violating the rules will result in you getting /kicked
Actually, when I think of Felicia, I think of félicity, felicitations (en français), feliz navidad, and Felix both the grinning cat and the respective Roman figures.
And oh, reading the Naming of Cats again suddenly reminds me of Chinese names. Milk names, school names, register names, courtesy names, posthumous names, and the reigning officials with temple names, posthumous names and what have you.
Disassociative personality indeed!
I knew Gondor was a place in Æthiopia before I read Tolkien! Heh, I hadn't even read LOTR when I visited Gondor for Timkat (Epiphany/Theophany) and other bits of Abyssinia in my undergrad days. Then again, I'm the nut who finds Æthiopian Orthodoxy fascinating.
Names and their meanings - difficult to know what names mean when one isn't familiar with the language whence those names are derived. Someone with Latin will immediately see Claire as the shining girl, the beginner Hellenist will know Andrew as the manly one and George as the earth-worker, and anyone who knows a Slavic language will see Vera as the faithful girl. It's all about being broadly educated, I suspect.
I'm always amused when I meet ladies with the name Cassandra. My usual response is 'I don't believe you!', and only in very few cases (none in Singapore, not surprisingly) did the lady in question see the meaning. The very fate of Cassandra in mythology should be enough to put any thinking parent off the name.
Then there's the Slavic fondness for the name Orest, derived from the Greek Orestes. They're naming their sons after St Orestes the Great Martyr, and have no idea of the Orestes in mythology, and the bloody story of the house of Atreus. No right-thinking mother familiar with greek mythology would name a son Orestes!
Most appropriately named is Greek Orthodox priest friend of mine, Fr Dionysos, who is fittingly jolly and fond of wine!
Speaking of perverse and unmentionable names, II had a student in ACJC named Janus. Now, Janus was the Roman god of beginnings and endings, doorways etc, with two faces. Problem was, the student in question was a girl. Parents probably thought Janus was a variant of Jane. Erudite wags (rather thin on the ground) could call her 'two-faced', of course, but most of her schoolmates took the easier way out and dropped the initial letter of her name.
Claire est francais, and often it is the letters that bring images. The consonant cluster at the beginning gives depth to the face; the "air" part makes one smile. The cute little "e" paired with the r makes for a feminine touch. So there is a subconscious sentiment of a clear, bright face.
Claire is derived from the Latin Clara, so it was Bastard Latin before Bastard Latin began to be called French.
Claire's Latin roots are obvious, but the words Clara and Claire have different textures.
I would say "Clara" doesn't conjure that strong image of a bright face ... namely for the lack of the grin that the "i" gives.
Highly subjective. The 'grin' that you have in mind is very much a North American thing - in French, Claire is pronounced with a slightly dropped jaw and is non-rhotic. Ditto for English.
Clara, for those familiar with Latin, has a bright, shining and resonant sound, much like the Greek λαμπρος.
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