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476 pages, Kindle Edition
First published March 31, 2020
"Where, I wondered, are the women in this story, and does it matter that they are absent? —It took me a while to find the women, and when I did, they were cast in minor and supporting roles."
"From the beginning, it was important that I weave Esme's fictional story through the history of the Oxford English Dictionary as we know it. I soon realised that this history also included the women's suffrage movement in England as well as World War I.
Some words are more than letters on a page, don't you think? 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.
–aԻ�
I often wondered what kind of slip I would be written on if I was a word. Something too long, certainly. Probably the wrong colour. A scrap of paper that didn't quite fit. I worried that perhaps I would never find my place in the pigeon-holes at all.
–aԻ�
A vulgar word, well placed and said with just enough vigour, can express far more than its polite equivalent.
“Dr. Murray said you and Beth were proflitic contributors,� I said, with some authority.
“Prolific,� Ditte corrected.
“Is that a nice thing to be?�
“It means we have collected a lot of words and quotations for Dr. Murray’s dictionary, and I’m sure he meant it as a compliment.�
If war could change the nature of men, it would surely change the nature of words.
–aԻ�
“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 struck me that we are never fully at ease when we are aware of another's gaze. Perhaps we are never fully ourselves. In the desire to please or impress, to persuade or dominate, our movements become conscious, our features set.
“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.�
–aԻ�
My mother was like a word with a thousand slips. Lizzie’s mother was like a word with only two, barely enough to be counted. And I had treated one as if it were superfluous to need.
I thought about all the words I’d collected from Mabel and from Lizzie and from other women: women who gutted fish or cut cloth or cleaned the ladies� public convenience on Magdalen Street. They spoke their minds in words that suited them, and were reverent as I wrote their words on slips. These slips were precious to me, and I hid them in the trunk to keep them safe. But from what? Did I fear they would be scrutinised and found deficient? Or were those fears I had for myself? I never dreamed the givers had any hopes for their words beyond my slips, but it was suddenly clear that no one but me would ever read them. The women’s names, so carefully written, would never be set in type. Their words and their names would be lost as soon as I began to forget them. My Dictionary of Lost Words was no better than the grille in the Ladies� Gallery of the House of Commons: it hid what should be seen and silenced what should be heard.