Beautiful prose, a blend of personal and public history. Lacking, on first read, in enough of a theme to bind together all the information, images, and anecdotes. The book structure is too much influenced by this idea of being lost.

Levels of vagueness abound as well, a sense of the author merely reporting what has happened to her instead of evoking any sort of emotional. The death of a beloved friend, the abuses of a father, and other anecdotes felt pale and distant. It is as if the author is fleeing or hiding as much as lost, unwilling to engage.

Potentially meaningful to the right reader at the right time, otherwise simply a collection of beauty without a guide. I plan to revisit the book at a later time; it is definitely not without value, full of things to think about. ( )

I really wanted to like this book based on its title alone, and perhaps that was what spoiled it for me. There was much discussion of space, most of it metaphorical rather than physical, but with lots of brave attempts to draw meandering lines between the two. In the end, it was the meandering that got to me. Like clang associations of schizophrenics, I got the feeling that she sometimes went from rabbithole to rabbithole just because of the layout of the terrain she found herself in rather than because of any particularly strong underlying theme. Yes, in life, we drift through space and time. It's unavoidable. She puts it in a pretty way, but I don't feel as though I've learned much. As so often, when I find a book that purports to connect to the things that interest me the most, my expectations become sky high and I'm almost always disappointed. ( )

discursive exploration of what it is to be lost, how it's something that humans seem to have lost their sense of.

A compassionate and evocative book about living now with the destructive history of then. Open to despair and yet alive with hope. ( )