Names aren't just labels or markers of our identity; they may even shape our personalities in subtle yet inexplicable ways. While this claim hasn't been substantiated by research, a study by the British Psychological Society reveals that a name can influence our initial impressions of others. Titled 'Does the Name Say It All: Investigating Phoneme-Personality Sound Symbolism in First Names', the study indicates that people typically ascribe specific personality traits to the sounds in their given names. If the findings are anything to go by, soft-sounding names are largely viewed as more agreeable than those with sharper, more abrupt phonetic qualities. However, the study also indicates there is no correlation between such sound-based impressions and people's inherent personalities.
In any case, names are still selected with care in some societies, especially in the Muslim societies where children aren't given names with an unfavourable meaning. This isn't a practice driven by superstition. On the contrary, some names are genuinely perceived as 'heavy' and can weigh people down in a spiritual, emotional or practical sense.
At its core, there are significant cross-cultural differences in the process of naming children. Conventional wisdom dictates that bestowing a name is ultimately a private act in many Western societies, where parents are the sole decision-makers. In non-Western societies, the process can be far more intricate, with ecstatic relatives offering a chorus of suggestions for a newborn's name. Amid the cacophony, it is fairly common for some preferences to be overlooked. Be that as it may, we cannot operate on these sweeping generalisations as the question of agency in these matters varies considerably depending on individual circumstances.
Two decades ago, Jhumpa Lahiri's The Namesake featured Ashok and Ashima Ganguli, an Indian-origin couple settled in the US, who surrender their agency in naming their newborn son to their family members separated from them by oceans and countless miles. After the birth, they respond to the hospital staff's request for a name with the assurance that a letter bearing their son’s name will soon arrive. Bewildered by their response, the hospital shows no sympathy for their unique situation and urges them to immediately choose a name. It is then that "they learn in America, a baby cannot be released from the hospital without a birth certificate...[which] requires a name." Weighed down by such technicalities, the couple is forced to make a choice that sets off a chain of intriguing events.
The couple in Florence Knapp's The Names aren't in a similar predicament. Settled in England, they are not bound by the same restrictions as Ashok and Ashima, nor are they burdened by the external pressures. In Knapp's debut novel, the complexities of the naming process are instead fuelled by internal strife.
Ironically, the novel begins in the midst of a storm — a literal rather than metaphorical one. And it is no ordinary storm, but the Great Storm of 1987, which battered parts of England, France and the Channel Islands, leaving a trail of destruction in its wake. The extratropical cyclone is a significant historical event that is often invoked in contemporary literature. In a poem titled 'The Great Storm -- 1987', British poet Jo Shapcott describes this tempest as a perilous moment when "the world roared" and people "were not [themselves]." In The Names, Knapp uses it as a valuable point of contrast. Her protagonist, Cora, gives birth to her son amid the chaos surrounding the storm. As "gusts lever at the fir trees behind the house," Cora grapples with her own whirlpool of emotions. "Because tomorrow," the omniscient third-person narrator states, "Cora will register the name of her son. Or perhaps, and this is her real concern, she'll formalise who he will become."
Her husband, Gordon, wants her to name their son after him. 'Gordon' is a "name passed down through the men in her husband's family, and it seems it could not be any other way." Cora is vehemently opposed to this decision, viewing it as an attempt to placate the demands of previous generations rather than fulfill the need to "love future ones". Her daughter, Maia, proposes the unusual moniker Bear for her newborn brother, passionately believing that it symbolises bravery and kindness. Cora, herself, favours the name Julian, which means 'sky father'.
The storm brewing in Cora's mind, though, is the novel's version of Sophie's Choice. Trapped in an abusive and exploitative marriage, she will pay a heavy price for defying Gordon's dictum, yet suffer equally unimaginable long-term repercussions through her compliance. Structured in six sections that progress in seven-year intervals, The Names shows how the choice Cora makes at the registrar's office ricochets across the decades. In the novel’s six sections, the author has included three chapters titled 'Bear', 'Julian' and 'Gordon', each representing a different timeline in which Cora's actions have drastic implications for the trajectory of her son's life as well as Maia's.
This is a clever, innovative style of storytelling that reminds readers of the unique power of transformative moments — however brief or trivial — in which a single decision can alter a person's fate. In the 'Bear' timeline, Gordon reacts violently to Cora's blatant disregard for his instructions regarding their son's name. As his aggressive tendencies cloud his judgement, he takes a drastic step that creates a chasm between himself and his family. Cora and her children consequently find the possibility of escape, only to have it abruptly shattered several years later by the vicissitudes of life.
Violence morphs into a slow-acting poison in the 'Julian' timeline. While this strand of the narrative presents an alternative view of Cora's defiance, she remains palpably absent from it — a sad commentary on the dangers of abusive relationships. The 'Gordon' timeline depicts Cora's son as a morally dubious ally to his manipulative father, albeit one who redeems himself in adulthood.
The multiple timelines are scattered across the narrative’s linear arc, giving readers the impression that the various strands of narrative are unfolding concurrently within the same timeframe. While this is a clever technique, it stands the danger of rendering the novel slightly disjointed, resembling a chaotic mosaic that can prove challenging to navigate. However, once readers adapt to its unconventional structure, the fragmentary approach grows on them and becomes an apt metaphor for the messy business of living.
The Names presents a gut-wrenching account that examines the lingering trauma associated with domestic violence. The relevance of the subject is quite difficult to overlook, especially since official statistics continue to paint a bleak, unsettling picture. According to a report released in November 2025 by the World Health Organisation (WHO) and its UN Partners, one in three women globally — approximately 840 million — have experienced sexual violence or intimate partner violence. In the last year alone, around 316 million women – 11% of women aged 15 or older – experienced physical or sexual violence from an intimate partner. In the UK, Women’s Aid reports that nearly 30.3% of women have faced domestic abuse since the age of 16.
However, fictional depictions of the topic tend to rely on familiar tropes and static stereotypes. Knapp’s narrative avoids these traps. Instead of exploring the emotional degradation in sensational details, the novel captures the complex realities of survival following such catastrophic experiences.
The author skilfully portrays the overpowering effects of domestic abuse on a person’s psyche. In one of the timelines, Cora is set up on a date with Felix, who, in his “perfectly punctuated politeness”, appears good-natured yet somehow untrustworthy. Some readers might view her reaction as wildly exaggerated since, at this stage in the narrative, her troubled marriage with Gordon should have faded into a distant memory over the intervening years. Yet, this cycle of distrust becomes a tragic token from her abusive relationships, serving as the compass that directs her towards safety.
Knapp is equally adept at exploring the intergenerational effects of domestic violence. At one stage in the narrative, Cora realises that her daughter has observed her mother’s interactions with Gordon and instinctively learnt “how to soothe, to placate.” It steadily dawns on the hapless mother that this “pattern will repeat unendingly, the destiny of each generation set on the same course.”
The narrative spotlights a prevalent social problem with flair and ingenuity. For instance, Cora's preoccupation with ballet functions as an intriguing metaphor throughout the novel. The dance acquires fresh significance as the plot races towards its denouement. At first, it is a symbol of the agency and control Cora once exercised over her body. After marriage, ballet offers a strong, subliminal form of education, reminding her to be more vigilant about] every step she takes — a useful skill within the contours of a fraught marriage. Later in the novel, ballet also becomes a vessel for intergenerational healing.
The novel juxtaposes private moments of despair with major dramatic developments in the public sphere. The Great Storm of 1987, the Paris attacks of November 2015 and the unsettling circumstances surrounding the pandemic aren't merely indicative of the passage of time. Instead, each crisis propels the characters to test their capacity to survive in a world where adversity is never a remote possibility.
A key feature of The Names is that it falls into the category of fiction often readily embraced by book clubs. A vast majority of novels that attract the attention of such forums are believed to possess numerous telltale attributes. First, they are emotionally resonant and engage with intrinsically human themes, such as grief, turbulent familial dynamics, social prejudice and resilience. Second, their characters confront moral dilemmas and are forced to reckon with difficult choices. Third, these novels tend to feature a motley cast of complex characters, exasperatingly ambiguous endings and some unique perspectives. Fourth, the writing is pacy, engaging and compulsively readable.
The Names contains all four elements and will, therefore, prove ideal for stimulating group discussions in book clubs. However, this quality occasionally works to its disadvantage. Knapp's decision to chronicle the events through incremental seven-year intervals often burdens the narrative with an excessively synoptic quality. As a result, summaries of crucial developments are prioritised over tough, cogent writing that reveals how events unfold.
Another pitfall of this category of literature is that it encourages readers to discard all their inhibitions about confronting trauma. The Names places similar emotional expectations on readers, irrespective of whether they feel comfortable excavating the characters' painful pasts to uncover hidden strands of meaning. Even so, readers who enjoy novels that challenge them to question their worldview, as well as the fragile sense of security upon which it relies, will likely relish The Names.
Owing to its multiple timelines, sceptics might consider Knapp’s novel to be surrealistic and almost fantastical in scope. However, it is refreshing to see a narrative that tells a familiar story in a new and invigorating vein. In a post-truth world where meaning has been distorted by emotional appeals, some of the most meaningful stories can only be told by defying rules and allowing the imagination to fly.
The writer is a critically acclaimed author
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