A surprising juxtaposition of the seventeenth century with classical times.
“For now she need not think about anybody. She could be herself, by herself. And that was what now she often felt the need of—to think; well, not even to think. To be silent; to be alone. All the being and the doing, expansive, glittering, vocal, evaporated; and one shrunk, with a sense of solemnity, to being oneself, a wedge-shaped core of darkness, something invisible to others.
Virgina Woolf, in To the Lighthouse, cited by Rebecca Solnit in A Field Guide to Getting Lost
Field Guide promises to be a remarkable book, and it has pointed me toward The Lost Art of Finding Our Way by Edward Huth