First knowledge is lost. Komi fieldwork experience of wayfinding, weather, and the order of things
This article reflects on the first ethnographic field data collected by the author in 1996 among Komi hunters. The topics covered during the first encounter between the author and his field partners involved discussions on the practices of wayfinding. These conversations also encompassed weather conditions and broader questions concerning how Komi hunters see the world around them. The article combines a discussion of ethnographic field observations with data from scholarly literature and an autoethnographic analysis of the author’s own forest experience and the construction of ethnological knowledge.
As people deeply accustomed to the forest environment, the Komi hunters demonstrated both general knowledge and detailed expertise related to wayfinding. The author’s field partners discussed various natural cues used for orienting oneself in the forest, as well as the system of signs employed for marking their path. The hunters often emphasized that leaving minimal tracks in the forest was essential in order to prevent poachers from finding their traps and snares. Furthermore, the hunters considered deliberate marking of routes as unnecessary, given that they can memorize the forest environment quite easily. Another issue often discussed by the hunters involved weather patterns, which they preferred to remain stable over the years.
The Komi hunters’ knowledge of their environment and wayfinding skills appeared both specific and broadly applicable, allowing insight into both the particular competencies of the hunters and their more expansive views of the surrounding world. An ethnographer’s capacity to fully comprehend this knowledge remains limited, however, as practical skills and experience always lag far behind the hunters’ talent.
The diversity and distribution patterns of kinship vocabulary in Estonian runosongs
This article examines the core kinship vocabulary found in Estonian runosongs, focusing on the distribution of stems and stem variants of four key kinship terms: mother, father, sister, and brother. The kinship vocabulary in Estonian runosongs displays remarkable diversity, particularly in the terms denoting female and male parents. Among the analyzed terms, those referring to mother are the most frequent. In contrast, terms for sister and brother exhibit limited variation, represented by only two or three distinct stems.
The regional distribution pattern reveals clear differences between the North and South Estonian language areas. The coastal regions of western and northern Estonia stand out – the terms eit (mother) and taat (father) occur more frequently in runosongs from these areas. The analysis highlights a consistent differentiation between North and South Estonian across all the studied terms. However, in the case of eit/ema and taat/isa, this division does not align with the current main dialect boundary but lies further north. The distribution of õde/sõsar (sister) and vend/veli (brother), on the other hand, corresponds more closely to the historical North and South Estonian dialect boundary observed in contemporary dialects. Kinship terms with a broader Finnic distribution have been better preserved in South Estonian runosongs.
This study reconstructs the geography of meaning of the German perception verb schmecken on the basis of 30 major dialect dictionaries, treating them as a distributed semantic corpus and coding attestations as binary variables reflecting the presence or absence of semantic options. Combining a construal-based framework with spatial modeling, the analysis shows that the polysemy of schmecken is structured by three mutually reinforcing forces: embodied sensory organization, construal-based perspectivization, and regionally patterned areal dynamics. The gustatory–olfactory axis forms the semantic core of the verb, from which tactile, visual, affective, and epistemic extensions emerge. These extensions align with systematic pathways constrained by agentive, experiential, emissive, and evaluative construals, demonstrating that semantic extension is channeled through specific construal modes—notably emissive and agentive—rather than determined by sensory modality alone. A detailed areal analysis reveals a pronounced north–south divide. While Low German dialects conform to the cross-linguistically more common tendency to avoid colexifying taste and smekk—itself the outcome of historical change rather than uninterrupted differentiation—Upper German varieties preserve a typologically rare gustatory–olfactory cluster and exhibit the richest range of cross-modal and abstract extensions. The resulting semantic graph formalizes how regional varieties activate different subsets of a lexeme’s semantic potential and demonstrates that semantic networks themselves display spatial organization. The study thus provides an empirically grounded reconstruction of a German geography of meaning and illustrates how dialect data illuminate the interplay between embodied cognition, construal-based lexical architecture, and areal dynamics.
On the translation of the agenda (Kässi-Ramat) printed in Tallinn in 1699
This article provides an overview of the translation process of the Estonian-language agenda, a handbook for church services, printed in Tallinn in 1699. It also introduces two surviving translation manuscripts housed in the National Archives of Estonia in Tartu. The translation was based on the new Swedish-language church agenda published in 1693 in connection with the Swedish Church Law of 1686. The task of translation was to be carried out collaboratively by the clergy of Estonia and Livonia, who had recently been at odds over the Estonian language used in church texts (such as the Bible, hymns, etc.). According to a decree issued in 1694 by Swedish King Charles XI, the Consistory of Estonia was to prepare the translation, which would then be reviewed by the Supreme Consistory of Livonia. Once consensus on the translation was reached, the king would provide funding for printing.
Initially, Estonian pastors proficient in Swedish prepared a draft translation, the cleanly rewritten version of which has survived (referred to as Manuscript A). The second surviving manuscript (Manuscript B) contains corrections made during two rounds of editing conducted in Estonia. This is likely the same manuscript that the Estonian Consistory sent to the Supreme Consistory of Livonia for review at the beginning of 1696.
As the Supreme Consistory of Livonia was dissatisfied with the translation they received, their skilled linguists prepared an alternative version, which was sent back to Estonia for review later that same year. This version was cleanly rewritten by Johann Hornung, the author of an Estonian grammar and a well-known language reformer. The Estonian clergy were then tasked with comparing the two manuscripts and, where necessary, revising their translation based on the Livonian version. By the autumn of 1697, when the Supreme Consistory of Livonia requested their manuscript back, the work had not yet been completed. The revisions based on the Livonian translation were apparently incorporated into Manuscript B. Subsequently, the manuscript received from Livonia was returned to the Supreme Consistory of Livonia, but its further fate remains unknown.
This article explores the origins and connections of the Estonian words lõkad ‘the
white bands of a minister’s clerical collar’ and lõkmed ‘the small trapezoid-shaped
coloured tabs on the corner of a uniform collar (indicating branch of service or area
of duty)’. In standard Estonian, both meanings are metaphorical. The metaphor rests
on a comparison with the human dewlap, a rooster’s wattle, and fish gills: in dialects,
lõkk, gen. lõka means ‘dewlap, fold; wattle; gill’ (also ‘clerical collar’), while lõkmed
means ‘gills; corner of the mouth; wattle’. What unites these body parts – whether of
people, poultry, or fish – is their light mobility. Given the closeness of these dialectal
meanings, it is plausible that lõkad and lõkmed share a common root. The stem
lõkk- is most likely phonetically motivated. Dialects also contain many words with
close semantics but based on stems with varying first syllable vowels and internal
consonants, e.g., lokk, gen. loki ~ loku ‘dewlap; wattle’, lõt́t, gen. lõti ‘fat fold; wattle;
gill; collar corner’.
Julius Mägiste compared the words lõka ‘preacher’s bands’, lõkk, gen. lõka ‘rooster’s
comb’, lõke, gen. lõkme ‘gill cover’, along with others, etymologically to the Finnish
verbs lekkua ‘to sway, oscillate, jump’, lekuttaa ‘to rock, sway, swing’. This comparison
is convincing. According to the Finnish etymological dictionary (SSA), the verb lekkua
‘to sway, move, frolic; to shimmer’ (cf. Finnish lekko ‘flame, fire; heat, sunshine’)
belongs to a Finnic word family divided into two semantic groups: one denoting
light, back-and-forth movement in general, the other more specifically describing
the movement of fire and, synesthetically, the sensation of heat associated with it.
The Estonian words belonging to this family – lõkatada ‘to flare up’, lõke ‘flame, blaze,
fire’, lõkata ‘to burn with a big flame’ – relate to the latter semantic group. Words like
lõkad, lõkmed, lõkutid, etc., on the other hand, can be added to the first group as
expressions of movement more generally. From this, it follows that lõkad, lõkmed,
and lõke are indeed etymologically related.
Loans came, loans went or stayed: From berry apples and ground apples to pears and potatoes
This article examines the arrival of German loanwords into Estonian through a small selection of once-exotic fruits of foreign origin (pear, plum, damson, cherry, lemon, bitter orange, and orange) alongside the potato, a vegetable of American origin. Linguistic data provides insight into when these foreign fruits and plants appeared on our tables and in our gardens, as well as the forms these loanwords took in Northern and Southern Estonia, two historical provinces with distinct dialects and written languages.
The adoption of new fruit names in Estonian reflects long-term linguistic processes. In the early stages, native vocabulary was often preferred over foreign words. For example, Marja puh (1637), meaning ‘pear tree’, introduced the unfamiliar fruit by paraphrasing it with the native word mari (‘berry’). Another method of naming foreign species involved associating them with their country of origin. Since many southern fruits arrived in Estonia via Germany, Heinrich Göseken, for instance, referred to the pear as Saxa marri Oun and the plum as saxa mah marri (1660). Such explanatory names sufficed temporarily but did not endure over time. A third approach to word formation involved borrowing directly from foreign languages, initially mainly from Low German (e.g., Karsberi marri < kersebere), followed by Baltic German (e.g., kreek < Kreke, pombre marja < Bumbeere), and later from standard German (e.g., kirss < Kirsche, sidrun < Zitrone). Some of the borrowed names fell out of use (e.g., orans ‘orange’, maaõun ‘potato’), but others that entered common usage were gradually adapted to fit the Estonian linguistic system.
Repeated borrowing is a well-known phenomenon in this context, occurring in different regions or at different times. For instance, the term for ‘cherry’ appeared as Karsberi marri in Kadrina (1637), Wissila Marri in Urvaste (1648), and Kirsimarri in Pärnu (1720–1730). Thus, the tree and its fruit were named differently in Northern, Southern, and Western Estonia, influenced by the contact languages prevalent in these regions.
The modifying compound word vanakooli (‘old-school’), frequently used in informal speech as a variant of the phrase vana kooli, exemplifies a linguistic phenomenon where certain noun-based phrases tend to form compound words. Adjectives, pronouns, numerals, and adpositions can merge with the following noun, resulting in compounds such as vanakooli (‘old-school’), vabaaja (‘leisure-time’), sellesuve (‘this summer’s’), kaheinimese (‘two-people’), üleõla (‘over-the-shoulder’), and ümbernurga (‘around the corner’). The prevalence of compound words increases as the expression gains popularity. In orthography and word formation, the potential of phrases with distinct meanings to form three-part compounds with the following noun (e.g., hull lehm – hullulehmatõbi (‘mad cow – mad cow disease’), hall pass – hallipassimees (‘grey passport – man with a grey passport’) has received some attention, whereas the lexicalization of modifiers derived from the phrases has largely been overlooked. Due to its lack of agreement in number and case, the descriptive compound vanakooli appears to belong to the category of defective adjectives, yet prior studies on defective adjectives have not encompassed compound words originating from noun phrases (or adpositional phrases) with adjectival (or pronominal or numeral) modifiers. An antonym for vanakooli would be uuekooli (‘new-school’).
"Violent death in folktales". Folktales are often rife with scenes of bloodshed and violence, even cruelty. Such violence frequently serves a narrative purpose, propelling the plot, facilitating character development, and delivering poetic justice. This article delves into the historical context of violence in folktales, analysing its portrayal across different folktale types. It pays particular attention to how the Grimm Brothers’ fairy tale collection has influenced folktales and authors of Estonian fairy tale collections (Friedrich Reinhold Kreutzwald, Juhan Kunder). The Brothers Grimm notably used violence as a pedagogical tool in their stories. Violence depicted in folktales can unexpectedly resonate with real-world events, prompting a re-evaluation of how we engage with and interpret these traditional narratives. Modern adaptations often tone down or omit violent elements, reflecting a shift in societal values. This underscores the enduring power of folktales to mirror and grapple with the complexities of human experience, including its darker aspects like violence and conflict. The analysis encompasses 300 texts from the academic anthology series of Estonian folktales published as part of the Monumenta Estoniae antiquae series. The sample included 100 tales from each published volume of the academic edition: fairy tales (tales of magic), animal tales, and realistic tales (Novelle). AI-powered analysis using chatbots has been utilized to help identify characters, their roles, violence, and instances of death within the folktales. Texts recorded in Estonian dialects pose a challenge – some are translated into standard Estonian, while others are accompanied by word explanations –, as does the poetic expression characteristic of folktales. Among all the events identified in the analyzed texts, the proportion of violent deaths is highest in animal tales. The functions of fairy tales, as outlined by Vladimir Propp, are also considered: in fairy tales, the highest number of violent deaths occurs (as expected) in Propp’s function no. 30, Punishment. This may suggest that fairy tales strongly emphasize the importance of maintaining a moral order.
”Everybody’s in favour, of course.” Meetings as a motif in retrospective depictions of the socialist order
This article examines the portrayal of meetings in four novels: Enn Vetemaa’s “The Musician” (Pillimees), Herta Müller’s “The Land of Green Plums” (Herztier), Elena Chizhova’s “The Time of Women” (Vremia zhenshchin), and Eugen Ruge’s “In Times of Fading Light” (In Zeiten des abnehmenden Lichts). These works all explore the experience of living under a totalitarian regime, where the system had either fundamentally changed or collapsed by the time of the novels’ publication. Meetings play a significant role in conveying this experience. In The Musician, the meeting unfolds as a trap, destroying the accused while leaving others trapped in endless contemplation of the events. “The Land of Green Plums” employs meetings to articulate the trauma of life under totalitarianism. Chizhova’s novel uses meetings as manifestations of the suffocating effects of the totalitarian regime and the way desperate people reinforce the system. In Ruge’s work, the meeting motif serves primarily to reveal the spatiotemporal context and the prevailing worldview of the era. In these narratives, meetings often appear as recollections that disrupt the contemporary plotline or paralyze the character’s perception. Instead of advancing dialogue, the texts focus on the formality of the meetings, emphasizing their ritualistic nature and the characters’ lack of agency. During and after the meetings, protagonists feel alienated from the events and even from themselves. In most cases, meetings leave behind traumas that time fails to heal. Across these novels, the meeting emerges as a powerful symbol of an oppressive, at times even life-threatening, system. This motif serves to reflect on the enduring impact of a bygone regime – or, in some cases, its remnants that continue to persist.
Kaabakas, kabajantsik, and the like…
This article examines common names for persons and supernatural beings with negative connotations in the Estonian language. These names are thought to originate from either onomatopoeic-descriptive roots or (as the author prefers) affective stems, the protoforms of which can be reconstructed as *ka(a)p(p)-. The analysis covers their distribution across Estonian subdialects, written texts, and runic songs. It also considers the etymology of these terms and tries to approach them from a somewhat novel perspective.
Noun derivatives of the *ka(a)p(p)– protostem are found in all Estonian dialects. While their prevalence seems to vary between dialects, a closer examination (Table 1) reveals that the largest number of derivative forms are present in the Mulgi and northeast coastal dialects, with the central dialect showing the least variety. Other dialects, on average, have one recorded derivative per subdialect.
Among the 20 words analyzed, which refer to either persons or supernatural beings, kaabakas ‘tough; villain; hooligan’ is the most widespread, appearing in 54 subdialects. This is followed by kaapjalg ‘thief; tramp; lame horse; haunting ghost’ in 20 subdialects, and kabajantsik ‘rogue, rascal’ in 13 subdialects (Table 2). The remaining terms occur in one or two subdialects each. Nine of the *ka(a)p(p)– stem nouns describe solely humans, with meanings such as ‘tough’, ‘rogue’ (kaabask, kaaberdus, kaabert, kaaberts, kaaper, kaavakas, kabajantsik, raatskaaper; although kontkaabakas can also mean ‘uninvited guest’); five words refer solely to supernatural entities such as ‘ghost’ and ‘devil’ (kaabajalg, kaabasjalg, kapatjalg, kapats, öökaaper); two words refer to both humans and animals (kabujalg ‘maiden; young man; lively child; hen’, kabusjalg ‘agile child or horse’); one lexeme applies to both persons and supernatural beings (kaabakas); one word refers to a person, animal, or supernatural being (kaapjalg); one lexeme is used to describe animals and supernatural beings (kappjalg ‘horse with white legs; ghost’); and one term refers solely to animals (kabik ‘little hen’). Polysemantic words, the different meanings of which have been recorded across a small number of subdialects, thus remain an exception.
Etymologically, most of these words (13–14) are derived from the *kaapp– stem, three or four from the *kap– stem (kabajantsik?, kabik, kabujalg, kabusjalg), and three from the *kapp– stem (kapatjalg, kapats, kappjalg). Kaabakas, for example, is associated with the word kaapama (< *kaappa-) ‘to scrape once; to paw; to grasp; to escape’. The first part of the word kabajantsik derives from either the same verb stem or kabama (< *kapa-) ‘to touch, to finger; to snatch, to grasp; to tread, to grope; to move quickly; to flounder’. Kabujalg is associated with the verb stem kabuma (< *kapu-) ‘to climb’, possibly evolving from ‘to scratch’ or a similar word.
These stems are combined with a suffix expressing either single or multiple actions, -a or -i, respectively, as well as -u, the function of which is less clearly defined (in the case of kabuma). Additional suffixes include -er (< *-ar; kaaper, raatskaaper, öökaaper), -k ~ -kas (kaabakas, kontkaabakas, kaavakas, kabik), -rdus (kaaberdus), -rt (kaabert), -rts (kaaberts), -sk (kaabask), and -ts (kapats).
Compound words make up more than half (11) of the terms: kaabajalg, kaabasjalg, kaapjalg, kabajantsik, kabujalg, kabusjalg, kapatjalg, kappjalg, kontkaabakas, raatskaaper, and öökaaper. In seven instances, the initial part is the *ka(a)p(p)– stem or its derivative, and the main part is -jalg ‘-foot’. In three compound words (kontkaabakas, raatskaaper, öökaaper), the main part is a stem derivative, while in one case (kabajantsik) it is a suffixal personal name derived from the given name Jaan.
The phonemes s and t in the initial part of the compound words kaabasjalg, kabusjalg and kapatjalg warrant a separate investigation. The term kappjalg would be a good name for a regular horse, but has never been recorded. This lexeme, taken to refer to a specimen with special characteristics, indicates either a mixing of terms or the loss of original meaning. Among the human-focused terms, there are three compound words: in two cases, the stem in question forms the main part of the compound word (kontkaabakas, the swear word raatskaaper), while in one case it forms the initial part (kabajantsik). Among the names for supernatural beings, on the other hand, compound words make up the majority, with the exception of kapats.
The origins of affective words lie in sound imitation, though their meanings have evolved over time, more or less obscuring the initial onomatopoeia. Associated with sounds, these words designate actions involving hands or feet, mostly from an affective perspective, denoting the negative meaning of ‘vagrant’, ‘grabber’, ‘escaper’, etc. The resulting substantives carry strongly negative connotations, with the exception of kabujalg and kabusjalg.
This article explores the potential connections between the well-known Kalevala-metric Estonian, Karelian, and Ingrian folk song type “Searching for the Comb” and the magical aspects of swinging, supernatural entities traversing between earth and sky in swings or cradles, ancient solar symbols and customs tied to the yearly cycle, along with motifs linked to divination. Through an examination of swinging’s significance in more distant cultures, I demonstrate that: (a) ritual swinging could be linked to creation myths, travel between worlds, the struggle against malevolent forces, and rites of fertility magic; (b) mythical swingers can be gods or symbolize them; (c) swinging could convey the transition of gods from the supernatural realm to the earthly plane and vice versa, as well as humanity’s aspiration to draw nearer to the gods; (d) swinging might affect the attainment of various benefits; (e) swinging and associated acts could also symbolically represent the movement of celestial bodies. Examples from Finno-Ugric folklore depict instances where both supernatural beings and humans traverse different realms using swings or cradles, with swinging often intertwined with practices of divination.
This article defines decadence as the aesthetics of ambivalences, drawing on Charles Baudelaire’s poem “A Carcass” (Une charogne), where decadence signifies both decline and deterioration, as well as rising, transition, and renewal. This extends beyond the organic and physiological sense, serving as a reference to the transformation of artistic aesthetics.
The usage tradition of the concept of decadence in 18th and early 19th-century French culture is briefly explored. Initially denoting historical decline (Charles de Montesquieu, Edward Gibbon), it later, in the early 19th century, encompassed aesthetic degeneration (Désiré Nisard). The definitions of literary decadence by Théophile Gautier, Baudelaire, and Paul Bourget, prevalent in the second half and end of the 19th century, are examined in more detail. These three theorists and authors define decadence similarly to Nisard in terms of a specific mode of expression, characterized by accumulating details, a preference for rich vocabulary borrowed from various fields, the principle of syncretism, and an attempt to express the most obscure thoughts and the most fleeting forms. However, unlike Nisard, they attribute a positive value to this style. In addition to Paul Bourget, who expanded the semantic field of decadence, the article outlines Friedrich Nietzsche’s understanding of the ambivalent content of this concept and discusses Egon Friedell, a key developer of Nietzschean decadence in the German cultural sphere in the 20th century.
The second part of the article delves into the connection between decadence and naturalism and their merging in the so-called spiritual naturalism. Friedebert Tuglas formulated the latter as an aesthetic ideal, drawing inspiration from Joris-Karl Huysmans’ novel Là-Bas (1891). The article examines a number of examples of Estonian and international literary decadence, where the combination of decadence and naturalism clearly serves to reproduce the aesthetics of ambivalences (e.g., Fyodor Dostoevsky’s “The Idiot”, J. Randvere’s “Ruth”, Friedebert Tuglas’ “Felix Ormusson”, August Gailit’s “Purple Death” (Purpurne surm)). It is pointed out that while Estonian literary decadence is influenced by various cultures (in addition to French culture, German, Russian, English, and Italian examples also play an important role), its tonality most closely resembles Scandinavian literary decadence.
In this work we examine the distribution of wh-in-situ and short (i.e., clause internal) wh-doubling in Northern Italian dialects with the purpose of showing that wh-in-situ and wh-doubling are not unitary phenomena, since they are subject to different distributional properties across dialects. We show that wh-doubling cannot be reduced to a single analysis but rather corresponds to a family of phenomena which have in common the basic procedure of feature doubling, within which the copying mechanism applies to different subsets or packages of features and is constrained in different ways. Furthermore, some types of doubling correspond in their distribution with some types of wh-in-situ, which shows that the two phenomena must be related and that different types of wh-in-situ are the null counterpart of different types of wh-doubling. However, in the languages in which wh-in-situ is generalized, wh-in-situ has nothing to do with wh-doubling.
This article examines the portrayal of socially active modern urban women in Marta Sillaots’s novellas “Juta” (1912) and “Anna Holm” (1913), as well as in Alide Ertel’s short story collection “The Modern Lady” (Moodne daam, 1919/1920). The characters are analyzed within the framework of the “New Woman”, as surveys sort both Sillaots’s and Ertel’s early works under the theme of women’s emancipation, without acknowledging that they depict emancipated women in a negative light. Such women are characterized by a pursuit of independence, cultural interests, and creativity; mostly, they appear sympathetic at first. However, the authors’ ultimate judgment of these women’s aspirations is one of disapproval – they turn out to be nothing but frivolous socialites. The article contextualizes these characters within earlier depictions of emancipated women in Estonian literature and examines the social and cultural factors that may have motivated this kind of literary portrayal.
It is concluded that the authors in question were drawn to the image of an independent woman, but in the 1910s Estonia, a broadly suitable social space did not yet exist for such an image, nor had fitting literary plots been established. This led to an ambiguity surrounding these characters. A particularly vivid example is Sillaots’s character Juta, who appears in two novellas and is initially developed as an extraordinary, decadent female figure. She possesses a lively imagination and an independent mindset, while also functioning as a morbidly passive observer; she is interested in the sciences of the mind and conducts psychological experiments on both herself and others. However, as there seems to be no clear path for such a character, she is relegated to the status of a peripheral cautionary figure, a doll-faced socialite, in the later text. Similarly, Ertel’s short story protagonists have no other outlet besides trivial social life. The analyzed characters deviate from the traditional monogamous heterosexual marriage – a defining point for the New Woman, which, however, upon closer examination often proves a tragic necessity rather than a mark of independence.
As such, the portrayal of the modern lady exemplifies the tensions within the category of the New Woman: neither the characters nor the authors are entirely certain what a woman’s role should be in the contemporary urban society; which behaviours should be considered bold and independent, and which ones should be seen as moral laxity or meaningless social provocation.
The article looks at the origin of the dialect word prann ‘fringe’ and concludes that it is a loan deriving from the equivalent Baltic German word Franje.
The article looks at nature references in texts written in the 1890s by two men born in the middle of the 19th century: namely, the autobiographical writings of farmer and school teacher Paulus Paurmann (1850–1903), and the diary of miller Märt Siipsen (1846–1916). Paurmann and Siipsen can be called vernacular literati – despite their poor education they were eager to participate in the modern literary sphere as both readers and writers. Both men depended on nature in their livelihood – this combined with their interest in contemporary literary matters makes them good examples of the spread of modern ideas about nature among the lower social classes.
The influence of these ideas can manifest in at least three different ways: (1) as an interest in modern scientific ideas; (2) as a wish to shape nature – plant new species, apply new technologies; (3) by using nature (as well as poetic language stemming from nature) to express one’s identity, to position oneself with respect to modern identity markers.
In Siipsen’s text we can see two different ways of positioning oneself in relation to nature: passive (religious) and active (practical). In some passages he states that everything which happens in nature depends on God, whereas in others he describes attempts at designing his surroundings by adding new plants and birds. The relationship between the two remains ambiguous.
Paurmann has written two autobiographies. The earlier one uses a lot of descriptions of and metaphorical references to nature and its composition adheres to the poetics of sentimental chapbooks; the latter one is written in plain language and barely mentions nature at all. That is to say, references to nature in his writings depend on the chosen poetic language.
In conclusion, we can see that both men have incorporated into their writings certain new ideas about nature that were disseminated in the written discourse at the time. Siipsen mostly describes new ways of designing one’s farmyard, whereas Paurmann turns to poetic uses of nature.
Recent public debates on family-related issues (What constitutes a traditional family? How widespread is domestic violence? What is the purpose of child protective services?) prompted an examination of these themes from the perspective of people’s personal experience. The article is based on manuscripts of life narratives obtained from the collection of Estonian Life Histories in the Estonian Cultural History Archives (EKM EKLA, f 350). The narratives were written down between 1989 and 2017 and provide a glimpse into the societal changes that took place between the 1930s and the early 21st century. The favoured narrative techniques and the ways these changed at the end of the 20th century and at the beginning of the 21st century also become apparent. The article compares Estonian narratives with Finnish ones. The comparison is aided by similar collection methods used both for Estonian and Finnish stories – these are thematic narratives archived by volunteer correspondents. More specifically, the focus is on generational conflicts present in life narratives.
Family relationships (including conflicts) are revealed in the narratives through the lens chosen by the narrator. It seems that family relationships were overshadowed by political issues in Estonian life stories narrated in the 1990s: the narrators concentrated on descriptions of people’s relationship with the Soviet power, including repressive experiences. In the early 2000s, this perspective receded, allowing more space for descriptions of relationships within the family. Depictions of post-war childhood sometimes suggest that children who grew up separately from their mother due to economic, social or other reasons never developed a close bond with her. In narratives collected in 2017, the narrator often looks at her life experience both as a daughter and a mother. In such cases, the focus of the narrative shifts from the relationship between herself and her mother to the development of the narrator as a person.
The comparison between Finnish and Estonian stories reveals that Finnish families tended to remain silent on difficult circumstances, whereas Estonian narratives emphasized the parents’ ability to explain difficult situations to children. Comparing the stories also pointed to a change in the family structure and functions in the 20th century: the pre-war family model included the parents and the children, while in wartime and post-war families, the mother had to take on the father’s former responsibilities. In Finnish research, this is addressed through the lens of trauma studies (e.g., the aggressiveness of the exhausted single mother towards her children). In Estonia, the issue is seen through the framework of the impact of political repressions on a person’s life. However, the trauma discourse is also evident in Estonian narratives. That is, if the narrators themselves have used corporal punishment on their own children. In such cases, the focus is not so much on the events that took place as on a perception of changing values.
The period of Estonian independence between 1918 and 1940 was also a prolific time for Estonian children’s literature: various genres evolved and books were being published vigorously. However, works from that period have received relatively little attention from researchers. This article focuses on realistic children’s fiction written by women in the second half of the 1930s, known as the authoritarian Era of Silence. Characteristically of the era, there were public debates on whether children’s literature should depict reality in an idealized way or handle problematic aspects as well.
In this article, I have analyzed how childhood and the conditions of children’s upbringing are depicted in these works, as well as how societal and educational expectations are reflected in them. The range of families portrayed in these stories varies from orphaned children and poor families to modern, well-off households. Recurring themes are the importance of education as the key to a better future and overcoming poverty. Rural life is idealized and essential connections with country life are always emphasized. On the one hand, these works depict the growing up of first-generation urban intellectuals who fled the harsh conditions and poverty of countryside, but on the other hand, it is considered important to introduce children to rural life as something “genuinely Estonian”. For example, children working as herders during the summer vacation is a recurring motif. The books reflect the intellectual debates of the time which sought a balance between tradition and modernization, even seeing modern urban life as a certain threat to national identity. Children are associated with the nation’s future, hence the exemplary moral attitudes of the characters and their willingness to assume the role of either a civil or war hero.
The inspiration for this article came from Jüri Talvet’s observation that Johann Wolfgang von Goethe’s „Faust” and Friedrich Reinhold Kreutzwald’s „Kalevipoeg” show some remarkable similarities in their philosophical structure and plot. This article therefore aims to compare these two masterpieces by using Harold Bloom’s and Paul de Man’s understanding of tropes. While allusion and intertextuality studies typically focus on a limited number of similarities between two texts, Bloom’s anxiety of influence theory helps to apprehend both texts as a whole. This objective is achievable with two constraints. Firstly, making such a comparison requires us to widen our understanding of tropes. In this analysis, tropes do not signify limited transfers of meaning (from one word to another), but the full transformation of a text’s meaning. The background to this article lies in the hypothesis that large chunks of „Kalevipoeg” can be read as tropes that are derived from the verses of „Faust”. Secondly, this kind of analysis cannot focus on the style, genre or semantic nuances of both works, but only on the general picture: the stories and their protagonists. The anxiety of influence theory shows that the change of meaning from one work to another can be described by means of two kinds of tropes: limiting and repeating ones. In this article, the limiting tropes of irony, metonymy and metaphor can be used to depict the change of meaning from „Faust” to „Kalevipoeg”. The story of an intellectual who makes a pact with the devil, seeks absolute love and wishes to accomplish godly deeds becomes a story of a mythically strong hero who has no choice, never finds true love and achieves predestined greatness. According to Bloom, this is only half of the comparison. In a follow-up article, I will show how the repeating tropes of synecdoche, hyperbole and metalepsis can be used to demonstrate that the fate of these different protagonists is in fact somewhat similar.