For [Virginia] Woolf, getting lost was not a matter of geography so much as identity, a passionate desire, even an urgent need, to become no one and anyone, to shake off the shackles that remind you who you are, who others think you are. This dissolution of identity is familiar to travellers in foreign places and remote fastnesses, but Woolf, with her acute perception of the nuances of consciousness, could find it in a stroll down the street, a moment’s solitude in an armchair. Woolf was not a romantic, not a celebrant of that getting lost that is erotic love, in which the beloved becomes an invitation to become who you secretly, dormantly, like a locust underground waiting for the seventeen-year call, already are in hiding, that love for the other that is also a desire to reside in your own mystery in the mystery of others. Her getting lost was solitary, like Thoreau’s.

Rebecca Solnit
Open Door, A Field Guide to Getting Lost

long lost

June 29, 2019

The woods they do that to you, they always look familiar, long lost, like the face of a long-dead relative, like an old dream…

Jack Kerouac
Dharma Bums

At night…

December 26, 2018

Only at night, by myself, alone, forgotten and lost — with no links with reality, no need to participate in anything useful — only then can I find and comfort myself.

Fernando Pessoa
The Book of Disquiet

sense of eternity

September 18, 2018

If I lived by the sea I would never be really sad. I get an immense sense of eternity and peace from the ocean. I can lose myself in staring at it hour after hour.

Sylvia Plath
July 1951 letter to Aurelia Plath

A sad fact

July 1, 2018

so dangerous

June 24, 2018

I lost myself so many years ago that I hesitate to try to find myself again. I am afraid to begin. Existing so often gives me palpitations. I am so afraid to be myself. I am so dangerous.

Clarice Lispector
Why This World: A Biography of Clarice Lispector

thin paper layers

June 6, 2017

I have been catching
my thin paper layers
before they peel away
and float upon whirling,
whistling winds;
carefully, symmetrically,
I have folded them into
tight, tiny squares for
quiet, safe storage
in friendly fortress hearts
should I ever find myself
lonely and lost again.

nicole v novotny


February 18, 2017


Stand still. The trees ahead and bushes beside you
Are not lost. Wherever you are is called Here,
And you must treat it as a powerful stranger,
Must ask permission to know it and be known.
The forest breathes. Listen. It answers,
I have made this place around you,
If you leave it you may come back again, saying Here.
No two trees are the same to Raven.
No two branches are the same to Wren.
If what a tree or a bush does is lost on you,
You are surely lost. Stand still. The forest knows
Where you are. You must let it find you.

David Wagoner


November 13, 2016



September 18, 2015


She tried for sharpness
in a spiked world,
drove half under a truck
to be quick like the rest.
Real drivers raised their eyes in disgust.

When she found the mountain
she took the wrong fork,
it led to the shingle path
so she stood there crying.

People came out of their houses to help
but she was long past remembering
where she lived.

Adele David

(Adele David is a Jungian analyst, Astrologer and poet who lives in London. Her publications include: “Becoming”, 1980 and “The Moon’s Song”, 2001)