And Moses said unto God, Behold, when I come unto the children of Israel, and shall say unto them, The God of your fathers hath sent me unto you; and they shall say to me, What is his name? what shall I say unto them?
And God said unto Moses, I Am That I Am: and he said, Thus shalt thou say unto the children of Israel, I Am hath sent me unto you. — Exodus 3: 13-14
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And the angel of the Lord said unto him, Why askest thou thus after my name, seeing it is secret? — Judges 13: 18
The power of names is an ancient motif, an archetype that holds not only for the name of God, but also for the names of men. In tribal cultures across the world, typically in the passage to adulthood children shed their old names and are given new names, names that are kept strictly within a family, a tribe, or other trusted in-group. Use names are shared with outsiders. Sir James George Frazier put it (politically incorrectly, but) succinctly:
Unable to discriminate clearly between words and things, the savage commonly fancies that the link between a name and the person or thing denominated by it is not a mere arbitrary and ideal association, but a real and substantial bond which unites the two in such a way that magic may be wrought on a man just as easily through his name as through his hair, his nails, or any other material part of his person. In fact, primitive man regards his name as a vital portion of himself and takes care of it accordingly . The Golden Bough
The connection between name and self informs traditional homeopathic magic and figures largely in belief systems from Wicca to Vodoun, and in no way are those two systems to be compared or conflated. It’s such a universal truth in premodern cultures that you will find it almost literally everywhere in the world.
The secret name of the self as a motif cuts a wide swathe through folklore as well, especially in folk tales, Rumplestiltskin being one of the most famous. Power belongs to the one who possesses knowledge of the true name.
In modern culture, the link between name and individual has weakened, but not so much as one might suppose. In general, people are picky about their names—the way they’re spelled, the way they’re pronounced—the psychological link between self and name, though weakened, is still in evidence. Our names, even our usernames here on Daily Kos, reveal things about us that we wish to shape and to control—in general, our usernames reflect something of ourselves. Names, yes—names are important.
In fantasy, Ursula LeGuin picked up on the power of naming and made it an integral part of her magic system in Earthsea. A early short story, “The Rule of Names,” outlines the system that controls magic in the Earthsea Cycle. The first part of the Rule of Names is that one’s true name, conferred during the Passage from childhood to adulthood, is secret and only shared with one’s most trusted friends. “Who knows a man’s name, hold that man’s life in his keeping.” (2, p. 69) The second, part of the Rule of Names is voiced by Mr. Underhill, the island wizard,
"Because the name is the thing," he said in his shy, soft, husky voice, "and the truename is the true thing. To speak the name is to control the thing.”
In Earthsea, wizards learn to speak the true names of things in the Old Speech, which is the language of dragons. Knowing names is essential for Earthsea magic, but there’s also the component of magery, the ability to wield power. Ged is born a wizard, or at least born with the capacity for magery, which is why Ogion takes him as a student. The learning of Names raises him to the heights of power.
LeGuin drew from archetypal wells shared by Biblical writers and primitive culture alike in fashioning Earthsea’s magical system using the Rule of Names. Patrick Rothfuss takes the same idea and develops it further in Kingkiller Chronicles. Instead of Roke Island and the tower of Kurremkarmerruk, Kvothe studies at the University in Imre, where Naming is the most esoteric and rarest of all magical arts. Naming was once an integral part of magic, but over the years it has become increasingly rare, and appears now largely in story.
“Now Taborlin needed to escape, but when he looked around, he saw his cell had no door. No windows. All around him was nothing but smooth, hard stone. It was a cell no man had ever escaped.
“But Taborlin knew the names of all things, and so all things were his to command. He said to the stone, ‘Break!’ and the stone broke. The wall tore like a piece of paper, and through that hole Taborlin could see the sky and breathe the sweet spring air. He stepped to the edge, looked down, and without a second thought he stepped out into the open air...”
The boy’s eyes went wide. “He didn’t!”
Cob nodded seriously. “So Taborlin fell, but he did not despair. For he knew the name of the wind, and so the wind obeyed him. He spoke to the wind and it cradled and caressed him. It bore him to the ground as gently as a puff of thistledown and set him on his feet softly as a mother’s kiss.” (3, p. 4)
All things were his to command…. Such is the power of Names. Significantly, in the Four Corners world, magic is a learned art, and not an inborn power. Kvothe is quick-minded and has an excellent memory—strength of mind is more important than talent at the University, and anyone who works hard has the potential to be an arcanist.
Chronicler reached inside his shirt and tugged something from around his neck. He set it on the table at arm’s length between himself and Bast. All this was done in half a second, and his eyes never left the dark-haired young man at the bar. Chronicler’s face was calm as he pressed the metal disk firmly onto the table with two fingers.
“Iron,” he said. His voice sounding with a strange resonance, as if it were an order to be obeyed.
Bast doubled over as if punched in the stomach…. (3, p. 101)
Elodin, the master of Naming at the University, explains to Kvothe, “’To name a thing, you must understand it entire. A stone or a piece of wind is difficult enough. A person….’ He trailed off significantly.” (4, p. 1051). To understand a person is something that only the “sleeping mind,” the powerful unconscious, can do. Kvothe renames Auri and the renaming is so appropriate that his accomplishment convinces Elodin to finally take him on as a student. He manages to Name Felurian, that is, to understand her in all her complexity; he utterly fails with Denna.
Denna is a difficult character for many readers (and is the subject of next week’s diary, insofar as Denna illustrates a type of character that’s easily misread, especially in fantasy). She’s also a poster child for the slipperiness of Naming, mostly because we don’t know her name. Kvothe doesn’t know it, either. But she knows his, because he gives it to her:
“Sovoy mentioned you were keeping pace with him in the University. That means you meddle with dark forces better left alone. If I give you my name you would have a terrible power over me.” Her mouth was serious, but her smiled showed itself around the corner of her eyes, in the tilt of her head.
“That is very true,” I said with equal seriousness. “But I will make you a bargain. I’ll give you my name in exchange. Then I will be in your power as well.” (3, p. 429)
Kvothe keeps his side of the bargain, but Denna doesn’t. Each time he sees her, she calls herself something different, which Elodin says may suggest that she doesn’t know who she is, or she knows but doesn’t like herself. A third option is that she keeps her name hidden to keep her advantage over Kvothe. Why she needs to manipulate him, and what her role in the narrative is, those are subjects for next week.
Other fantasies use the power of naming in magical systems, but to my knowledge none more significant or central to the mechanics of power within their worlds, and none that are as popular or well-received by readers. In Le Guin, the language of Naming is itself a powerful force but it imposes powerful limitations on the user:
[The dragon] spoke, as did Ged, in the Old Speech, for that is the tongue of dragons still. Although the use of the Old Speech binds a man to truth, that is not so with dragons. It is their own language, and they can lie in it, twisting the true words to false ends, catching the unwary hearer in a maze of mirrorwords each of which reflects the truth and none of which leads anywhere. (2, pp. 89-90)
If you’re read The Wise Man’s Fear, you should be thinking of the Cthaeth right now.
In LeGuin, Naming is a mighty tool; in Rothfuss, Naming can effect change as much as any other magical power can do. Kvothe renames himself, and it seems to be a true re-Naming. The man Kote is less than Kvothe—he’s locked himself away, much to Bast’s dismay and alarm; his Name, his self, is locked away in his thrice-locked chest, and he cannot remember how to open it. By the end of the second day, Kvothe has had two warnings from Faen—the scrael and the skindancer. Threes are pivotal—the next emissary will likely come with blue fire and rotting iron, and red-handed pursuers. That’s the bad news. The one flicker of hope for a man who is already dead, but hasn’t stopped moving yet: “There, behind the tightly shuttered windows, he lifted his hands like a dancer, shifted his weight, and slowly took one single perfect step.” (4, p. 1107)
Notes
1. The Name of the Wind playing cards are available from the Tinker’s Packs. Kvothe is king of spades, while Denna is queen. There’s also a wicked set of Cthulhu playing cards for sale. Proceeds benefit Worldbuilders.
2. Ursula LeGuin, A Wizard of Earthsea, NY: Bantam, 1975.
3. Patrick Rothfuss, The Name of the Wind, NY: Daw, 2007.
4. Patrick Rothfuss, The Wise Man’s Fear, NY: Daw, 2011.
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