When the Trobriander relates happenings, there is no developmental arrangement, no building up of emotional tone. His stories have no plot, no lineal development, no climax. And when he repeats his garden spell, his list is neither climactic, nor anticlimactic; it sounds merely untidy to us:
The belly of my garden lifts
The belly of my garden rises
The belly of my garden reclines
The belly of my garden is-a-bushhen's-nest-in-lifting
The belly of my garden is-an-anthill
The belly of my garden lifts-bends
The belly of my garden is-anironwood-tree-in-lifting
The belly of my garden lies-down
The belly of my garden burgeons.
(Dorothy Lee, Lineal and Nonlineal Codifications of Reality, 160)
