I’ve failed at googling this up, but I sometimes see a similar convention in modern (English translations of) Japanese manga. More often for place names than person names, IIRC. Like, the TV news will be playing “in the background” and it will mention something happening in S_____ City. Not sure how it is written in the original Japanese. (I think maybe I’ve seen it in English translations of some novels/short stories, too?)
Odd then it seems to have happened once.
Perhaps I’m wrong, maybe Persian Literature from the 12th century or Japanese Traditional poetry from the 18th is full of blank names. I might make up all manner of incredible scenarios for this bizarre turn of events.
Or not.
People don’t like to be sued. Ever. Throughout history.
Coincidentally, I just finished reading a book containing Dashiell Hammett’s “lost stories.” Apparently, Hammett had no fears of being sued (he was involved in a number of lawsuits during his life), but in one of his early books, he used the names of the employees at a jewelry firm he worked for as character names. He used other friends’s and family names in other works. He even worked a Hellmann street into one of his stories.
I’m not sure why you’re saying that a convention that spread across most English-language literature for more than a century only happened once. I’m sure that non-English language literature adopted it at times. I’m sure that more modern writers have used it. There are examples right here in this thread.
Styles happen and then stop. In everything. They may be easier to trace in books, however.
Books in that era often had an “or” in the title. Moby Dick; or, The Whale. Little Men, or Life at Plumfield with Jo’s Boys.
Titles in the late 18th and early 19th century were very long, often occupying a whole page. That was to help readers understand the contents by giving them a precis or epitome in a world where there were few other ways of knowing what was published other than by physically opening a volume.
Books were aimed at the rich then so the standard for booksellers was to sell unbound pages and then have the rich buyers specify the style and quality of the leather used for binding. A connoisseur would be mortified not to have shelves of identical bindings.
A little later, as bookselling spread to the middle classes, covers became standard but were usually elaborately tooled and designed. Then because these covers were easily damaged, publishers started wrapping books in clear onionskin. Then they started putting the titles on the covers. Then they started putting on descriptions and advertising and blurbs and pictures and they evolved into dustjackets.
Books from that period also often showed punctuation we wouldn’t use today, like a space before a colon or semicolon. (Check the pages of this facsimile edition of Dickens.)
The conventions and styles of a different time may be different than today just because it was a different time. Think of “dirty” words. First they were left out entirely. The a replacement like [expletive deleted] might be seen. Then they might be half-written as f*** or f—. Then the full word fuck became used in many places, but not yet all.The way books are written and published vary regularly. 19th century books had a look and feel that remove them from even 20th century books, let alone 21st century books.
Writers and publishers work with a feedback loop from readers. Book design sends covert and overt messages to influence buyers, always according to a sense of what works place for a kind of book in a specific time and place to an intended audience. Some books flout the trends, some conform slavishly. Either way, a deliberate point is being made, but for today, not for an imaginary future sensibility.
Hell, a whole lot of literary conventions “happened once”, and then fell out of fashion. There was also a period of a century or more in English literature where it was routine to precede and follow a parenthesis with a comma, (sort of like this), to make the separateness of the parenthesis extra-emphasized.
Then it became routine to treat parentheses and commas as alternative ways of delimiting tangential remarks, rather than using them in combination. There was no legal issue involved and no ulterior motive, it was just a stylistic feature that changed.
I think, along with Exapno_Mapcase, that it’s far more plausible to consider the use of “dash-names” in English fiction as the same sort of phenomenon than to imagine far-fetched scenarios about fiction authors being scared of lawsuits.
Sure, maybe the journalism of the time was using initials/dashes when referring to real people because of that sort of caution.* (Not only did you not want to get sued by an irate subject of a gossipy article, you didn’t want to get horsewhipped on the steps of your club by him either.) But I think it’s silly to suggest that that’s why fiction authors were using dashes or initials in place of the names of fictional characters.
No, as other posters have opined, it seems far more likely that fiction writers were using the initial/dash convention familiar from nonfiction contexts because it made their narratives look more realistic. Don’t forget that there was also a bit of a craze in 19th-century writing for pretending that a fictional narrative actually represented some historical document that was “discovered” by its “editor” (i.e., author) in some colorful circumstances. Everybody from Walter Scott to Rider Haggard got in on that act.
* A nice (fictional) example of that sort of gossip-journalism, from Jane Austen’s Mansfield Park:
A little deniability in that sort of scandalous gossip, even if (as in this case) ultimately hopeless, made a little more ambiguity about names potentially desirable for many readers as well as authors and editors.
I once read, and am now absolutely blanking on the title and author of, a mid-20th-century American novel in which a contemporary novelist is sarcastically lauded for his literary brilliance and daring in repeatedly using in his printed works an epithet which is rendered in-universe as “fushing”. And C.S. Lewis had his angry foul-mouthed characters in, e.g., That Hideous Strength (1945) say “bucking”, but of course everyone knew what he meant.
Whoopsie, hijacking again, sorry.
There is the famous story that Norman Mailer, in The Naked and the Dead, was forced by his publisher to substitute “fug” for “fuck.” On meeting him, Tallulah Bankhead allegedly said, “Oh, yes, you’re the boy who can’t spell fuck.”
Mailer’s use of “fug” is a fact. On the other hand, he always insisted that the story about Tallulah Bankhead never actually happened.
Around the World in 80 Days: or, Money Refunded
John Creasey, the British mystery writer, couldn’t have his police characters swear in the 1950s. So for his Gideon books, written as J. J. Marric, he had his heroic police Commander substitute “blurry” for “bloody” on the grounds that his wife demanded his say that around his grandchildren. When I first read the books I was totally confused because I had never heard of “bloody” as a swear word and so had no idea what was going on.
Vanity Fair starts out with dates like 18–, but Thackeray seems to give up on that convention once the story hits the Battle of Waterloo in 1815.
!!!
Not everyone. I read that when I was about 12, and I certainly didn’t know that’s what they meant. (Nor do I remember the use of that epithet. Contemporaneously, my cousins and sibs found my parents’ copy of “Love Story” and flipped through it to find that it REALL DID USE THAT WORD IN PRINT. So I’m pretty sure I would remember if I’d understood that was a euphemism.
That was no Milady, that was Mi-lime!
Ba dum bomp
Stephen King has used this convention in a couple of short stories. Jerusalem’s Lot and The Breathing Method come immediately to mind.