Book Review– The Book of Lost and Found

A story of finding love, losing and finding love again. The Book of Lost and Found revolves around a love story of two young people but doesn’t quite end on a happy ending. But sometimes, love stories do not necessarily have to have a happy ending. It’s the imperfection that makes them striking.

The Book of Lost and Found is a debut novel by British author Lucy Foley. Set in London, Paris, Corsica and New York, the author has beautifully strung together relationships and events which unveil the story of love between two friends, Tom and Alice, who find each other fifteen years after they first met at Winnard Cove when they were six years old.

When Kate—an emerging photographer—is handed over an old sketch of a beautiful woman who resembles her late ballerina mother so closely, Kate decides to find out more about the mysterious woman in the drawing. And that is how she gets to know Tom Strafford, the artist of the drawing. Soon Kate finds out about the relationship between herself and the woman in the dr20150116_212357awing, and Alice’s unfaltering love for Tom, but things are not as simple as they seem. Tom has a bright career ahead of him while Alice doesn’t want to burden him with her own problems. This is when Alice makes a decision for both of them that will change the course of their lives.

While Tom pursues his art career and becomes one of the greatest artists of twentieth century, Alice relocates herself in Paris and chooses a path for her that demands hard work, bravery and courage despite the bleak future that might lie in front of her.

At the same time, in her struggle to find answers to the story of Tom and Alice, Kate not only uncovers answers to questions that have been bugging her but also someone who would make her feel special.

The Book of Lost and Found is a beautiful story of relationships and sacrifices, of relationships and friendships lost and found, of dark times and the will that changes those times into a journey worth remembering.

Lucy Foley, with her debut novel has proved herself as a great storyteller, carrying the story back and forth skillfully without exhausting the reader. The exquisite locations throughout the novel add to the classic frame of reference to which the book itself relates to.

PS: Thanks to Harper Collins for providing review copy of the book.     


I’ve never been good with words. I always have to struggle with them. Think of a perfect word before uttering it. I marvel at people who are good with words. All these writers baffle me. They always remind me flowing rivers, never submitting to obstacles that come in their way, taking away everything that comes in their way, molding it as it comes.

And yet I choose to write. It’s probably because I have always been the one with overwhelming emotions. Emotions that are hard to control, emotions that are so overpowering sometimes that if I don’t get them out, I feel they would burst out of me. Anger, love, possessiveness, grief, disgust, joy—and yet I’ve learnt all these years never to express my emotions at full. People are never honest at receiving them. And my honesty has never benefited me, which is why I have learned the hard way and I’ve chosen to write. Thus my writings are mostly about situations which are trying to portray an emotion—or at least I try to depict them that way.

As humans we are always trying to find easy solutions to our problems. We take shortcuts, fail, take another wrong cut until we finally find a safe route, a route in the right direction. It wasn’t until very late when I found out that I could maneuver my way to writing when I couldn’t cope with my emotions. And it was even later when I could muster courage to show people what I had written. Until then I was an anonymous nameless person who would write on old papers, hidden diaries and anonymous blogs. I remember the time I had to deliberate for days before I gathered courage to show my writings to my friends and ask for their opinion. Gladly, they liked them which paved a way for my publishing a blog (this time with my name). Later, I began voicing my opinion through my writings whenever I felt angry or happy or filled with disgust. But I always kept underestimating myself even when I was offered editorial posts for my college club magazines and journals. Because I was never at par with how I felt and how it came in writing.

I’ve never been proud of myself, for I know there are times (almost always) when I begin writing inspired by emotions and then put the full stop at the end of the last word, I am looking at something which did not expect it would come out to be. It shatters me every time when I disappoint myself, promising I would try to do better so that I keep going. Other times I leave things in between.   

It’s like trying to defeat an opponent for a long time, but the opponent wins each time. And guess what? You’re your only opponent.