The Dictionary of Lost Words

by Pip Williams

Some words are more important than others—I

Some words are more important than others—I

“But when we talk about her, she comes to life.” “Never forget that, Esme. Words are our tools of resurrection.”

It had come earlier than he’d expected, Da said, looking apologetic. It was called catamenia, and the process of shedding it was menstruation.

The number of literary ladies in the world is surely so great as to render them ordinary and deserving members of the literati.

“Words are like stories, don’t you think, Mr. Sweatman? They change as they are passed from mouth to mouth; their meanings stretch or truncate to fit what needs to be said.

It’s just that you don’t speak often, but when you do it’s perfect.”

A vulgar word, well placed and said with just enough vigour, can express far more than its polite equivalent.

“The Dictionary is a history book, Esme. If it has taught me anything, it is that the way we conceive of things now will most certainly change.

“Problem is, Esme, you’re scared of the wrong thing. Without the vote nothing we say matters, and that should terrify you.”

“Maybe it’s about time I became ‘more worldly,’ as you put it. Things are changing. Women don’t have to live lives determined by others. They have choices, and I choose not to live the rest of my days doing as I’m told and worrying about what people will think. That’s no life at all.”

And some…well, some are just brought up with too many books and too many ideas, and they can’t settle to it.”

“I want things to stay as they are. I want to keep sorting words and understanding what they mean. I want to get better at it and be given more responsibility, and I want to keep earning my own money. I feel as though I’ve only begun to understand who I am. Being a wife or a mother just doesn’t fit.”

“Some words are more than letters on a page, don’t you think?” she said, tying the sash around my belly as best she could. “They have shape and texture. They are like bullets, full of energy, and when you give one breath you can feel its sharp edge against your lip. It can be quite cathartic in the right context.”

She couldn’t be defined by any of the words I found, and eventually I stopped looking.

“An ache is an ache.”

“Love, Essy. A good family is one where there is love.”

Grief was all I could feel. It crowded my thoughts and filled my heart and left no room for anything else.

“Sorry for your loss, they say. And I want to know what they mean, because it’s not just my boys I’ve lost. I’ve lost my motherhood, my chance to be a grandmother. I’ve lost the easy conversation of neighbours and the comfort of family in my old age. Every day I wake to some new loss that I hadn’t thought of before, and I know that soon it will be my mind.”

I’ve lost my motherhood.

“I knew the words would win you, all bound and beautiful.

Horror. It’s war-weary. It is the word we use when we have no words. Perhaps some things are not meant to be described—at