Somewhere I ran across a reference to olonkho, the Yakut epic tradition; I’ve been interested in such traditions ever since (as a wet-behind-the-ears college student) I learned of the existence of the South Slavic epics as described by Milman Parry and Albert Lord (and later of equivalents from Africa and elsewhere), to parallel the Homer I loved, so I did a little investigating. The Wikipedia article says:
Olonkho (Yakut: олоҥхо, romanized: oloñxo, Yakut pronunciation: [oloŋχo]; Dolgan: олоӈко, romanized: oloñko; Russian: Олонхо́) is a series of Yakut and Dolgan heroic epics. The term Olonkho is used to refer to the entire Yakut epic tradition as well as individual epic poems. An ancient oral tradition, it is thought that many of the poems predate the northwards migration of Yakuts in the 14th century, making Olonkho among the oldest epic arts of any Turkic peoples. There are over one hundred recorded Olonkhos, varying in length from a few thousand to tens of thousands of verses, with the most well-known poem Nyurgun Bootur the Swift containing over 36,000 verses. […]
The term olonkho is believed to be related to the Old Turkic word ölön that also means ‘saga’, (cognate of Uzbek o‘lan) and has been argued to be related to the Turkish copula ol- (olmak ‘to be).[citation needed] The Buryat epic ontkno is related to olonkho.
There is much more detail in Robin Harris, Storytelling in Siberia: The Olonkho Epic in a Changing World (University of Illinois Press, 2017); I’ll quote her useful section on defining “epic” (pp. 13-14):
The term “olonkho” refers to both the broad genre of olonkho epic style and the individual stories that make up the genre (Larionova 2004, 43). As seen from the description above, olonkho tales feature both structural traits and contextual features common to other epics, including “poetic language, narrative style, heroic content, great length, and multigeneric qualities. The contextual traits include legendary belief structure, multifunctionality, and cultural, traditional transmission” (Johnson 1992, 6—7). In addition, olonkho tales contain themes common to epics, such as some form of miraculous conception and birth augmented by special heroic gifts and abilities, and “Herculean deeds, extraterrestrial journeys, fierce individual battles with heroes, divinities, animals, dragons, and monsters; possession of extraordinary magical devices; tests of strength and intelligence; games” (Biebuyck 1976, 25-26).
Situating olonkho among the other epics of the world necessitates clarifying the relation of the various stories of an epic with each other and with the collection as a whole. For example, literature about epics does not always provide precise terminology regarding the differences between an epic cycle, an epic tradition, and an epic tale. More often than not, these categories receive separate treatment (cf. Bynum 1980, 330; Nas 2002, 140; Park 2003, 14—15) rather than comparison, contrast, or exact definition.
In this book, I use these three terms in the following manner: (1) “epic cycle” describes traditions like the Kyrgyz Manas and Sunjata from Mali, in which a series of stories relate to one cultural hero and his descendants; (2) “epic tradition” describes a style of storytelling that includes multiple tales not necessarily related to one central hero, such as the Korean p’ansori and the Sakha olonkho; and (3) “epic tale” refers to the various performances, literary variants, or constituent parts of these cycles and traditions—for example, each part of the Manas trilogy, each of the five p’ansori narratives, or each of the various literary versions of Sunjata. As applied to olonkho, “epic tale” refers to an individual story, while “epic tradition” refers to the collection of these tales.
Another term, “epos,” reflects a close link through its dictionary definitions: (1) “an epic”; (2) “epic poetry”; (3) “a group of poems, transmitted orally, concerned with parts of a common epic theme”; (4) “‘a series of events suitable for treatment in epic poetry.” While both “epos” and “epic” stem from Greek roots, epos and epikós, respectively, the term “epic” may appear as either a noun or an adjective, while “epos” always functions as a noun. Within those grammatical constraints, both terms occur here interchangeably as a matter more of writing style than of definition.
Olonkho is not an epic cycle like Manas or Sunjata, in which all the episodes revolve around one main hero and his descendants. Instead, the tales in the olonkho tradition function independently of one another, although some characters appear in more than one tale (Larionova 2004, 42).
Under “Features of olonkho performance,” she says:
During pre-Soviet centuries, olonkho flourished as an unaccompanied solo epic genre in which both dramatic narrative poetry and song alternated throughout the extensive, multiple-evening performance of the work (Okladnikov 1970, 263). Although often referred to as teatr odnogo cheloveka (one-person theater), the performances do not feature blocking or props. The olonkhosut generally sits with crossed legs on a low stool, and either rests both hands on the top knee or holds one hand cupped to the side of the face. A Sakha style of narrative poetry, often referred to by the Sakha as rechitativ (recitative), delineates the “telling” sections, while sung material conveys the characters’ direct speech (Larionova 2010). A gifted olonkhosut maintains a balance between the alternating textures of song and recitative as the story unfolds during the performance.
Distinct leitmotifs, vocal registers, and intonations signify the sung speech of each of the characters in the olonkho, including the voices of animals such as the bogatyr’s horse. Moving beyond prosaic narration, the recitative sections also contain musical elements such as central tones and other melodic ambitus-related factors—rising and falling contours, organization in phrases, and rhythmic and temporal characteristics. Highly complex formal elements of Sakha poetry mark those texts considered most aesthetically pleasing, incorporating literary devices such as parallel grammatical constructions, symbolism, descriptive imagery, epithets, metaphor, simile, and hyperbole (Larionova 2000, 39; Nakhodkina 2014, 275).
She goes on to analyze olonkho in terms of Parry and Lord’s oral formulaic theory and “emergent quality” (quoting Bauman: “the emergent quality of performance resides in the interplay between communicative resources, individual competence, and the goals of the participants, within the context of particular situations”), and describes the way the poetry works:
Another essential characteristic of Sakha poetry, making its oral re-creation in the moment of performance an accomplishment of astonishing complexity, is the presence of both horizontal and vertical parallelisms for sounds and syllables. Points of alliteration at the beginnings of lines and repetitions of sounds in succeeding lines undergird the poetic form. Whole words and other forms of parallelism may also repeat in subsequent lines.
It sounds worth further investigation; had I but world enough and time…
Olonkho came up here before: Philosophy in Sakha.
Whence the use of “cycle” in this sense? Is it because its components would be recited in some determined order, returning to the first once the sequence was completed?
DWDS has for German Zyklus:
Reihe zusammenhängender, besonders künstlerischer Werke derselben Gattung zu einem Gedankenkreis oder Themenkreis
I believe this meaning of “cycle” in English goes back to 19th century, if you have access to OED, you can probably find citations.
@Y: The cycle terminology dates from Late Antiquity, but the origins in Greek are apparently obscure. Use for groupings of epics in English goes back to the early nineteenth century. The English word was used to mean “complete set” (often a metaphorically or somehow repeating set), but there are also uses that just seem to mean “complete list” in English as early as 1662.
@PP: But that is just, ahem, circular reasoning. Because whence the Kreis in a Gedankenkreis/Themenkreis?
Batting for the cycle means getting a single, double, trie and HR, but doesn’t imply you’ll continue on around the next time.
Cycles make me think of Nibelungen.
(I hold to Rossini’s view of Wagner, but I did once stand all the way through Parsifal at the Proms, and I figure that Wagner owes me for that.)
@Y
This is less circular than disclike. The denotation of Kreis/circle in phrases like “Themenkreis” /circle of ideas is presumably the area within the disc, separated from the rest of the plane by the circle. But your question seems to be a “why” question. One answer would be “because”. One could also supplement Ryan’s contribution by noting that a cyclist does not always return to his/her starting point, for example if he/she has a collision with a lorry.
EDIT:
I have just realised that an alternative and perhaps better explanation for the circle in these phrases is that the circle is closed and connected, and has no corners to use as preferred starting points from which to traverse it.
I hold to Rossini’s view of Wagner
Me too, in general, but the other day I heard Boulez’s performance of the Tannhäuser overture and it made me realize why people went so nuts about Wagner back in the day — I actually turned up the sound, and when I said it made me wish I were in the hall listening to it live my wife agreed.
Disappointingly, it seems unclear whether Rossini actually made the most famous of his remarks about Wagner (and it appears that, even if he did, the joke schema was not original}:
https://quoteinvestigator.com/2015/08/19/wagner/
The supposedly Wagnerian “After Rossini dies, who will there be to promote his music?” seems to be apocryphal. I see it gets randomly attributed to various other sources too.
Y: Or a Kulturkreis?
I heard Boulez’s performance of the Tannhäuser overture and it made me realize why people went so nuts about Wagner back in the day.
I’d say that’s one of the beaux moments, and a favorite of mine, maybe better as sung by the chorus in the opera.
I’d say extending “moments” to a quarter-hour is a stretch.
Wagner’s core material is often really, really good, but he tends to let it go on too long.
Every time I see Sakha I must recheck that a connection with Saka doesn’t work.
Sakha “Yakut” < PTu *yaka “edge, collar”
Saka “Eastern Scythian” < OP sakā “roamer”
The languages weren’t in touch at a time when the names sounded the same.
Didn’t even occur to me, because Russian
sáki (plural) “Saka”, Saxá “Sakha”
I’d say extending “moments” to a quarter-hour is a stretch.
OK, beautiful moments. More than half of the overture is the Pilgrims’ Chorus melody repeated, at the beginning and the end, right? If you like the rest (which I don’t remember liking outstandingly, but my tastes are unsophisticated and shmaltzy), then I suggest it includes de beaux moments selected from the opera.
Sakha “Yakut” < PTu *yaka “edge, collar”
Ah. “Margin” people, like Ukrainians and Cymry.
OK, beautiful moments. More than half of the overture is the Pilgrims’ Chorus melody repeated, at the beginning and the end, right? If you like the rest (which I don’t remember liking outstandingly, but my tastes are unsophisticated and shmaltzy), then I suggest it includes de beaux moments selected from the opera.
No, I don’t care about the opera tunes, I’m talking about the overture as a carefully constructed piece of music. Usually Wagner is played for maximum emotional impact and the details are swept under the rug; Boulez brings out every detail, every instrument, and the result is gripping and never muddy.
Ah. I suspect that Rossini or whoever cared about the tunes, as I do.
I just learned, but you may know, that Boulez conducted the centenary production of the Ring at Bayreuth, which was recorded on audio and video. Some of the comments on his conducting at the end of the Wikipedia article strongly resemble yours on Boulez’s Tannhäuser overture.
Stunning, and yet not surprising, that Yakut and Dolgan use different letters for /ŋ/. Nowhere in Siberia was too remote for Stalin to do some dividing & conquering.
They lie in a circle around you. They’re the area, not the perimeter.
Most Turkic words are stressed at the end. I actually keep forgetting that, but the Russians know it.
Sintashtá.
“but the Russians know it.” – Not really.
But the name of the region is “Республика Саха (Якутия)” and you can hear it often enough…
Dolgan alphabet, WP:
https://ru.wikipedia.org/wiki/Долганская_письменность
Google-translated:
https://ru-m-wikipedia-org.translate.goog/wiki/Долганская_письменность?_x_tr_sl=ru&_x_tr_tl=en
There is YouTube channel on olonkho with some performances if you are willing to ferret them out, as here, or here with an Evenk performer of olonkho and Evenki нимнгакан.
I can’t help notice how often the nasty Asiatic vowel makes him clear his throat. I had no idea it was that nasty…!
but the Russians know it
No, the Russians just love putting stress at the end in general: Эрне́ст Резерфо́рд. Might be a French thing.
(But in this case it indeed might just be because it usually shows up as part of the official full name. I actually thought it was Sáxa when I originally encountered that name in writing somewhere, and came up with silly verse rhyming it that way before awkwardly finding out that it’s actually not.)
Definitely is with western words & names (шлагбаум, бутерброд, even Петербург…). But with Turkic ones?
I wonder whether that’s due to Western European words originally being mediated by Polish, where because of the penultimate stress most inflected forms would have the stress on the final syllable of the stem?
That’s possible for some of them, but not Петербург (straight from Dutch, later Germanized).
Could the stress be from (Low?) German? The city was established about the time when both the Swedish and the Danish (incl. Norwegian) national language developed stress on the final element in multi-syllable compound toponyms (Københávn, Götebórg, Kristiansánd, etc.), and I’m pretty sure that had a German model (Ludwigsháfen, Bremerháven, Swineműnde, etc.).
…Fascinating idea. That said, the only -búrg I can think of is Hainburg near Vienna or rather Bratislava – Bratislava itself, Pressburg, is/was very much stressed on the first syllable.
came up with silly verse – there is already one about doxá….:) (I call the capital of Qatar Doxá too – ideally it is Dóxa, of course – but that may have to do with the word for coat).
I haven’t been to the Independent University in Moscow (courses of pure math ideally more advanced than what’s offered at MSU, exams for those who want them and only those who want them, absolutely everyone can come) is for more than a decade.
Pleased to learn that they host “Лаборатория ненужных вещей” for workshops and research projects on languages, mythologies and so on.
(recembles Университет Пожарского – an attempt to combine courses in hard sciences with Greek and Egyptian [etc.)
That’s possible for some of them, but not Петербург (straight from Dutch, later Germanized).
Leaving aside Trond’s interesting idea, what I assumed is that the loans coming through Polish established a pattern to which other Western words were also subjected, independent of actual stress. That pattern was then later reinforced by French.
That said, the only -búrg I can think of is Hainburg
Interesting. I didn’t realize that, and I‘ve driven through that town countless times. Is that a local shibboleth? I would guess most non-Austrian German speakers (like me) would assume it has penultimate stress.
Doesn’t the German Hainburg near Offenbach have normal penultimate stress?
Note that Mécklenburg isn’t very convenient to pronounce in Russian, unlike hypothetical *Mecklénburg and very real zádnitsa, where the third syllable is not a part of the root.
Doesn’t the German Hainburg near Offenbach have normal penultimate stress?
That’s how I would pronounce it, but who knows what the locals are doing…
I an only aware that there are varieties of German where compounds consisting of two disyllabic words, e.g. Bürgermeister “mayor” are stressed on the second element, not only the first element as in standard pronunciation, but I don’t know of any that extend that to compounds where one or both elements are monosyllabic.
I’d never have guessed it either if I hadn’t lived in Vienna. (And the mayors of Vienna have initial stress; I didn’t know another version existed.)
Note that Mécklenburg isn’t very convenient to pronounce in Russian, unlike hypothetical *Mecklénburg and very real zádnitsa, where the third syllable is not a part of the root.
OTOH we do end up saying Göteborg as Гётеборг with initial stress; the insistence of stress on the ё overtakes the inconvenience.
I tried to figure out how I’d pronounce Шлиссельбург and I feel like I’d end up with initial stress there; the first two syllables are so long it becomes more inconvenient to do final stress. But I don’t recall ever having to say it. Wikipedia says Шлиссельбу́рг just as I suspected it would.
Mécklenburg […] *Mecklénburg
not to be confused with clan MacLemberg, who claim roots in red ruthenia, as returned descendents of varangians who moved north of the prut to escape their hereditary service in the byzantine armies.
aka Lvovovichi
https://agroalimentaire.e-pro.fr/alpes-maritimes/leibovici-maurice_f2341837
Probably not the same name, but good if you like French pastries…
I clicked on the Wikipedia soundfile once. It’s pronounced [ˌjœːtɛˈbɔːri], to the tune of “Don Giovanni”.
J1M, I think (without confidence) that either of these three factors:
(a) the third syllable is a part of the root* (b) … of one of the two roots (c) a foreign word
can make speakers want to articulate it well enough.
Then
/ x x
>
*/ x /
>
x x /
_____
* counter-examples:
– Nóvgorod etc. Well, they are formed within a different phonology, but what about
– prígorod
– prírabotok and prítoloka even have a rhythm which I find peculiar and uncharacteristic for my Russian.