Takahata's brushstroke animation gives a folktale the quality of something half-remembered, where a woman recounts a life that was never fully hers. The film mirrors how Le Guin's protagonist exists between worlds — neither the bamboo grove nor the imperial palace can hold a being whose true home is the act of telling.

An old woman's life in colonial Africa is recalled in a silent second half narrated by another voice, dissolving the boundary between testimony and ventriloquism. The film, like Stone Telling, asks who owns a remembered life when the rememberer is no longer the one speaking.

A documentary-poem about reindeer herders whose oral cosmology binds them to a specific valley, told through patient observation rather than exposition. The work shares Le Guin's conviction that a culture's center of gravity lies in small repeated gestures rather than declared events.

Reitz's village chronicle stretches one woman's life across decades of national rupture, told in a register so domestic that history seems to arrive only as weather. Stone Telling shares this scale: epochs measured in a single courtyard, wars registered as absences at a particular table.

Chatwin tracks the Aboriginal practice of singing the land into being, where geography is inseparable from inherited verse and walking is a form of recitation. Like Le Guin's narrator, the book treats place as a text written across generations, decipherable only by those who learned its rhythms in childhood.

Shepherd circles the Cairngorms across decades, treating the massif not as scenery but as a slowly disclosing companion. Her sentences accrete the way Le Guin's stanzas do — through return rather than progression, until the speaker becomes legible to the place rather than vice versa.

The overtone tradition treats the human throat as a landscape, with steppe wind and horse gait audible inside a single voice. Like Stone Telling, the music carries the topography of a homeland in a body that may be far from it.

The Bosnian sevdalinka tradition turns longing into a civic art form, where a single sustained vowel carries the memory of a city's vanished neighbors. Medunjanin's restraint matches Le Guin's: grief is not described but housed inside the cadence itself.