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.”

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.”

“Words change over time, you see. The way they look, the way they sound; sometimes even their meaning changes. They have their own history.”

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.”

You’re a little lady, and no one will mind you spending a day in bed every month.”

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

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.

Convention has never done any woman any good.

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.

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. There are words I’ve heard all my life that I’ve never set in type.”

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.

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.

In all democracies therefore it is of the utmost importance to regulate by whom, and in what manner, the suffrages are to be given.

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. 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.”

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

“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.”

“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.”

“It’s not about forgiveness, Essymay. We can’t always make the choices we’d like, but we can try to make the best of what we must settle for. Take care not to dwell.”

A good family is one where there is love.”

“Do you still love me, after everything that has happened?” “Of course I do.” “Then you have not let me down.”

“Surely things could change if enough people wanted them to,”

“No graduation, of course. No degree. But it’s satisfying to know I would have achieved both if I wore trousers.”

“But what’s the point?” she said, picking a slip out of the trunk and looking at it. “Half the people who say these words will never be able to read them.” “Maybe not,” I said, heaving the trunk onto her bed. “But their words are important.”

“Wouldn’t it be good if the words these women use were treated the same as any other?”

the words most often used to define us were words that described our function in relation to others.

Even the most benign words—maiden, wife, mother—told the world whether we were virgins or not.

militancy isn’t the only way,

You are not a coward, Esme. It pains me to think that any young woman would think such a thing because she is not being brutalised for her convictions.