“I am not going to tell you my name, not yet at any rate.' A queer half-knowing, half-humorous look came with a green flicker into his eyes. 'For one thing it would take a long while: my name is growing all the time, and I've lived a very long, long time; so my name is like a story. Real names tell you the story of things they belong to in my language, in the Old Entish as you might say. It is a lovely language, but it takes a very long time saying anything in it, because we do not say anything in it, unless it is worth taking a long time to say, and to listen to.”
As you live out your life, you fill out your name and indeed that story gets longer and longer to tell. With dark patches, and sunny days, and days that are hard to recall at all once you’ve lived through it. And altogether they make up a life and more and more “tell you the story of things they belong to.”