The Dictionary of Lost Words

by Pip Williams

“A name must mean something to be in the Dictionary.”

Some words are more important than others—I learned this, growing up in the Scriptorium. But it took me a long time to understand why.

“But they might be forgotten if they’re not in the Dictionary.”

“Your mother would have had the words to explain the world to you,

My words, I thought, all bound in leather, the pages trimmed in gold. I thought the weight of them would hold me to that place forever.

“We are not the arbiters of the English language, sir. Our job, surely, is to chronicle, not judge.”

“And then I was born and then she died.” “Yes.” “But when we talk about her, she comes to life.” “Never forget that, Esme. Words are our tools of resurrection.”

“So you and Dr. Murray could make the words mean whatever you want them to mean, and we’ll all have to use them that way forever?”

It was as if I were a word and the letters were slips that helped define me.

“Me needlework will always be here,” she said. “I see this and I feel…well, I don’t know the word. Like I’ll always be here.” “Permanent,” I said. “And the rest of the time?” “I feel like a dandelion just before the wind blows.”

How could she not know? How could something so horrible happen to a person every month and that person not know why?

New words, but they made Da feel uncomfortable.

There were so many words to describe the bleeding. Menstrue was the same as catamenia. It meant unclean blood. But what blood was clean? It always left a stain.

Menstruosity was the condition of being menstruous. And menstruous had once meant horribly filthy or polluted. Menstruous. Like monstrous. It came closest to explaining how I felt.

Lizzie had called it “The Curse.” She’d never heard of menstruation and laughed when I said it. “Probably a doctor’s word,” she’d said. “They have their own language, and it hardly ever makes sense.” I took the volume with all the C words from its shelf and searched for curse. One’s evil fate.

Over the next few months I spent more time in the kitchen than the Scriptorium.

Convention has never done any woman any good.

Dr. Murray agreed I should write an entry for the Dictionary, but I have since been told it is unlikely to be included.

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

It will be your century, Esme, and it will be different from mine. You will need to know more.

“They say I wasn’t alone.”

a real word is one that is said out loud and means something to someone. Not all of them will find their way to a page.

Its male equivalent was adequately referenced, but bondmaid was not there.

It should not be, this word, I thought. It shouldn’t exist. Its meaning should be obscure and unthinkable. It should be a relic, and yet it was as easily understood now as at any time in history. The joy of telling the story faded.

It’s a horrible word.” “That it may be, but it’s a true word.

Our thinking was limited by convention (the most subtle but oppressive dictator). Please forgive our lack of imagination.

Many quotations have been penned by women, though they are, of course, in the minority.

“Nothing I ever said has been written down,”

I worried that perhaps I would never find my place in the pigeon-holes at all.

I think sometimes the proper words mustn’t be quite right, and so people make new words up, or use old words differently.”

“Do you think there are some words that only women use, or that apply to women specifically?”

If it’s been written down, it’ll be there.” “If it’s been written down, shouldn’t it be in the Dictionary?”

what is the word, may I ask?” “Suffrage,” I said. “An important word.” I smiled. “They are all important,

“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.

“Nothing. It’s just that you don’t speak often, but when you do it’s perfect.”

“The fact you don’t know that is what will make me fall in love with you.” Suddenly, every word I ever knew evaporated.

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.

SISTERS Women bonded by a shared political goal; comrades.

Without the vote nothing we say matters, and that should terrify you.”

Women don’t have to live lives determined by others.

Bill looked at his sister with such pride. I couldn’t imagine him ever leaving her.

When I was with her I felt I might do something extraordinary. With her gone, I feared I never would.

I knew he thought he had failed me, rather than me failing him.

There never would be a word to match Her.

“A chip doesn’t stop it from holding tea,”

“God is in this place,” she said, without shifting her gaze from Wenlock Edge. “Do you think so, Lizzie?” “Oh, yes. I feel him more here than I ever have in church. Out here it’s like we’re stripped of all our clothes, of the callouses on our hands that tell our place, of our accents and words. He cares for none of it. All that matters is who you are in your heart. I’ve never loved him as much as I should, but here I do.”

“I reckon it’s the first time he’s noticed me.”

Lizzie was different, or perhaps it was just that now I saw her differently, as a woman who existed beyond my need for her.

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