Why do I remember my childhood so little, and my first memories start at the age of five? I'm sure you have this issue too. Memoirs of a Kyivian: Then the War Began Guitar, Mushroom and Milk Soup

For the happy life is full of hopes, for the unfortunate it is full of memories.

Memories are the only paradise from which we cannot be expelled.

Things you may not remember for years can still make you cry.

The memories were light, like postcards sent from a previous life.

The only bank where you can invest all your savings is memories. This bank will never fail.

Remember this day... for eternity begins with it.

Memories are so ridiculous. Some of them are quite vague, others are absolutely clear, others are too painful, and you try not to think about them, and some are so painful that you will never forget them.

Colossal Memories Quotes

You can't live on memories alone.

The memory of a mother's love is the most comforting memory for someone who feels lost and abandoned.

Our memories are a card file that was once used and then scattered at random ...

Good Colossal Memories Quotes

You can close your eyes to reality, but not to memories.

Life is the period between dreams and memories.

I will collect all the memories of you and make them a part of myself.

Some people save money for old age, but I preferred to save memories.

Life passes in our absence: we are always between memory and hope.

Life flows like a river, independent, full-blooded; it boils and rushes forward, taking away particles of time, erasing impressions of what has sunk into oblivion. If time turns even stones to dust, what to speak of memories!

Memories - a walk through the cemetery of unfulfilled hopes.

Man always hopes for what he ought to remember, and always remembers what he ought to hope for.

The crown of thorns of sorrow is a memory of happy days.

Perhaps the fear of death is nothing but the memory of the fear of birth.

The memory of experienced happiness is no longer happiness, the memory of experienced pain is still pain.

Memories are like islands in the ocean.

The longing for the lost is not as painful as the longing for the never-before.

In the life of every person, probably, there are moments with memories of which he does not want to part.

It's nice when they remember you; but it's often cheaper to be forgotten.

Grave Colossal Memories Quotes

What is it like to live when you have nothing, not even memories to haunt you in the middle of the night?

Memories?.. These are phantom pains.

If a person helped the one he loved, then under no circumstances should he later remember his own.

Only that remains in the memory that does not cease to bring harm.

I love my memories. That is all I have. It's the only true value...

People know how to change memories, little by little they add lies so as not to see the truth ...

What does the Ninth Symphony mean in comparison with the tune, which is sung in a duet by a street hurdy-gurdy and a memory!

Whoever carries his lantern behind his back casts a shadow in front of him.

Memoirs are written not to inform the reader, but to protect their author.

If we remember with emotion about the one we loved, then it is not he himself, but our memories that excite us.

Nothing remains after us, nothing but memories...

Different people have different memories, there are no two people who remember at least something the same, even if they saw it with their own eyes.

Nothing hurts like broken memories.

Long Colossal Memories Quotes

Happiness is not a reality, but only a memory: our past years seem happy to us, when we could live better than we lived, and lived better than we live in a moment of recollection.

Our life then seemed to me the most ordinary thing, and now, sifted through a sieve of memories, it seems simply incredible and amazing. It must be nostalgia and longing.

Burn to ashes the burden of your memories...

Everyone has a place in their hearts for unforgettable memories, unforgettable places. One has only to understand that there is no way back, as you will want to go back to insanity.

Nothing brings back memories like a scent.

Why tell someone else's pain, how the memory burned with a whip?

Memories are magical garments that do not wear out from use.

Dreams and memories - the future and the past - are just decoration.

The music of life will be silenced if the strings of memories are broken.

I don't want to become just a memory that will soon be blown away by a storm!

Remembering past suffering when you are safe is a pleasure.

For the sake of such memories it is worth living, even if there is no one to close the cycle with. That's because memories - they will always be new. You can't change the past, that's for sure, but you can change your memories.

Memories are the life of the survivors.

Savory Colossal Memories Quotes

Life is a very capricious thing, and there were some moments in it that I wanted to remember, capture in my memory, I can remember them later, like a dried flower between the pages of books, which I again admire and remember.

How touching are memories of memories!

Most of us live in a world that no longer exists.

Nothing can be erased completely, because if you erase memories from your head, your heart still remembers.

Memories, along with thoughts and emotions, are something like a person’s personal property, and it is unethical and unacceptable to encroach on them. Even with the best of intentions.

Great memories are like lost jewels.

Loneliness cannot be filled with memories, they only make it worse.

Once remembered, it becomes harder to forget again.

Living in memories dies forgotten.

The weight of memories pulls to the bottom of the glass.

After all, memories are not as embarrassing as a living being, although sometimes memories torment the soul!

You need to learn how to store memories, and not carry them around like a heavy load.

We all need memories to know who we are...

It is useless to remember the past if these memories cannot help in the present.

Memories are not yellowed letters, not old age, not dried flowers and relics, but a living, trembling world full of poetry...

When our pain has already passed, the memory of it is already fascinated by memories.

Thanks to everyone who shared their first memories.

And I remember how I was lying in a stroller and my parents were taking me along the night street, the lights were shining and my sister looked inside all the time.
I believe that it was a little over a year .. A year and four somewhere.

Children's impressions and emotions form many character traits and attitudes towards life. It is not for nothing that psychologists so carefully swarm in our childhood, looking for the roots of adult problems in it: failures with the opposite sex, insecurity, isolation, total bad luck and even illness. For you and me, this once again emphasizes the importance of the childhood period in a person’s life and obliges us to give our kids something that will give them confidence in their lives and the “posture of a king”.

First childhood memories

Usually the first childhood memories begin somewhere around the age of 3-4. Does anyone know what theories are on this, or does anyone have their own guesses? Why do we usually not remember ourselves at an earlier age?
The theory in general terms is this - with the normal development of the child and his relationship with his parents, the child does not perceive himself as a separate person for up to 3 years; that's why there are no memories "about yourself". Earlier memories indicate that the child was forced to "separate" from the parents ahead of time. I understand that this can be a consequence of a lot of stress, such as parting with parents. I cannot say that I fully accept this theory; questions arise. But there is something in it.

A group of scientists have found out why most adults do not remember themselves at the age of 3-4 years and younger, despite the fact that young children remember themselves well from a very young age. In the study, researchers asked 140 children aged 4-13 to describe their three earliest memories.
Two years later, the same children were again asked to recall three incidents from early childhood and, if possible, indicate how old they were in each case. Daily News & Analysis.
The fact that the events described by the children actually took place was confirmed by their parents. They also tried to independently recall the age of the child in each individual memory.
Children who were 4-7 years old during the first experiment showed very little overlap between memories in the first and second cases. This suggests that the earliest childhood memories are the most fragile and vulnerable.

What are your first childhood memories?

I like to ask my characters about their first childhood memory.
Some remember themselves at the age of five, some have childhood memories from the age of three, and one actress assured me that she remembers herself even when she could not speak. Human memory is bizarre.
Someone like a flash, someone - like a long romance.
I remember myself clearly only from my school years. I remember the hated gray hat, which was tied under the chin, and under it my mother also twisted a scarf for warmth.


Of childhood memories and covering memories

How far back into childhood do our memories extend? I am aware of several studies on this subject, including the work of Henri and Potvin; from them we learn of the existence of considerable individual differences; some of those who have been observed attribute their first memories to the 6th month of life, while others do not remember anything from their lives until the end of the 6th and even the 8th year. What is the reason for these differences in childhood memories and what significance do they have? Obviously, to solve this problem, it is not enough to obtain material by collecting information; its processing is necessary, in which the person from whom these messages originate must participate.
In my opinion, we are too indifferent to the facts of infantile amnesia - the loss of memories of the first years of our life, and thanks to this we pass by a peculiar riddle. We forget what a high level of intellectual development a child reaches already in the fourth year of life, what complex emotions he is capable of; we should be amazed at how little of these spiritual events is usually remembered in later years; all the more so since we have every reason to believe that these forgotten experiences of childhood by no means slipped without a trace in the development of this person; on the contrary, they exerted an influence that remained decisive in later times. And despite this incomparable influence, they are forgotten!

First childhood memories

I remember running through my grandmother's garden in an orange sundress. As it turned out, I wore this sundress when I was about 2 years old.

P. N. Pertsov. Memories.
The life story of a Russian entrepreneur who built the famous house in Moscow. Peter Nikolayevich was born into a poor noble family. But he chose to work in a promising area - railways. Memories begin with childhood happy years in a small estate in the province, then a gymnasium, the Institute of Railways, work on state railways. A small salary and the difficulties of promotion force them to move into the commercial sphere after a while. And things went well. Railways are developing, revenues are growing. There are lengthy passages in the book listing all sorts of business relationships. But interestingly, Pertsov did not engage in corruption or kickbacks in his business, he won competitions thanks to a low price or a good reputation. Although he mentions that there were crooks. Pertsov survived the revolution also in business relations. This distinguishes him: no matter what problem appears, it is necessary to solve it according to the circumstances.

Nina Anosova. While the light is still bright.
The book is of interest as a description of childhood in the early twentieth century. The author grew up in a "middle class" family, where there were good times and her stepfather's big earnings, and there were also times without work, forced savings. In St. Petersburg, the girl goes to kindergarten, but it is expensive, with a private gymnasium. The older sister ends up in a good institute, which is attended by Empress Maria Feodorovna. An interesting description of a trip for the summer to relatives. A gymnasium in Mariupol, where the family is forced to move in search of work. Revolution and civil war in the south of Russia. It is very tragic - how ties with relatives and friends are lost. People are fleeing the war, wandering, hiding, and nothing is known - what happened to their beloved aunt or best friend. At the end of the book, the author, a fifteen-year-old girl, feels responsible for the fate of the family. We have to leave hope for the best and go abroad.

Olga Lodyzhenskaya. Peers of a difficult age.
The author was born at the turn of the twentieth century in a poor noble family. Father died early, mother rented apartments. The legacy from my grandfather is an old manor that needs repair. Relatives paid for Olga and her sister to study at a women's institute in Moscow. Perhaps the dreary atmosphere there, the tedious rules, created a "protest mood" among the girls, as they say now. Both girls and their mother, still a young woman, loyally met the revolution, and even began to support the Bolsheviks. In the suburbs, where they lived, there were no horrors of the revolution. And the Bolsheviks they met were neutral, even fair. The family left the estate voluntarily, because they did not want to engage in agriculture. Soon the girls get jobs in Soviet institutions, and then mom too. They are interested in a new life. And they decide to go with the Red Army to help establish Soviet power. The memoirs end in 1927. "Then it only got worse," the author writes.

Harry remains unremarkable trifles in his apartment, scattered here and there in different corners of small, dark rooms. His lighter is forever lost between old books on narrow shelves, and dust never gets under a forgotten cup of tea on a coffee table. Every day and every second, the Sun slowly moves along the ecliptic around the Earth. They live in the Age of Aquarius, and Harry, wrapping his arms around Louis' neck, touching his cool fingers to smooth skin, tells him it's a good sign. At this time - in them time will be different. Better. Stronger. Happier. Harry looks at him with his wet green eyes, his voice barely audible. "Really, Louis?" Louis knows nothing about astrology and is unlikely to be able to find at least one constellation in the sky, but he nods, touching his lips to Harry's forehead, and closes his eyes. His heart beats dully in his chest and does not even for a second lose its rhythm. Harry leaves a suffocating smell of hope in his apartment, penetrating every crevice, soaking into the furniture, into the yellow, faded curtains on the dark windows and into Louis. There is no getting away from him, and even the gray smoke of cigarettes cannot kill him. Louis burrows his head under the covers and just remembers, remembers, remembers. Not of my own free will, but because memories - like dense air - cannot be hidden. Something is slowly clenching in his chest and scratching inside with nails. Is it conscience? Louis closes his eyes tightly, trying to get rid of this inappropriate feeling and from a quiet voice whispering insistently in his ear: "Really, Louis?" Every night, Harry laughs out loud, tossing his head, causing his hair to fall in soft waves down his back. Harry laughs, and his laughter echoes through the forest, frightening rare birds. The hassle of their wings is lost somewhere in the green crowns of centuries-old trees, and Louis presses his back against the trunk of one of them, feeling the hard bark dig into the skin, even through clothes. He pulls Harry towards him, intertwining his fingers and inhaling - unusually so hard and full - fresh air with the smell of wet grass. Harry gives him a long, trusting look that Louis knows he can't hide from even if he closes his eyes. It eats deep under the skin, leaving a bitter aftertaste of despair and cheap coffee on the tongue. Harry looks at him and asks in a barely audible voice: "Really, Louis?" Louis is choking on promises as empty as balloons. He's losing count of them, and he doesn't seem to remember what Harry is asking this time, but he nods anyway, the corners of his lips twitching up in an almost sincere smile. And Louis wakes up every night, short breaths filling his lungs with heavy air, saturated with memories. He tickles his nostrils, making his already really tired heart beat fast. It's as if the hard bark is still digging into his back, and the laughter doesn't want to leave his head. Louis sits up in bed, listening to the steady breathing next to him. Harry remains unremarkable trifles in his apartment, scattered here and there in different corners of small, dark rooms. His lighter is forever lost between old books on narrow shelves, and dust never gets under a forgotten cup of tea on a coffee table, but only things in the closet are gradually replaced by strangers, and an empty cup is no longer his. Louis runs a hand over his face, closing his eyes and nodding automatically. Just like that, in the void. Out of habit. They live in the Age of Aquarius, and they will definitely do well, except that the adverb "together" does not fit into this sentence. Really, Harry?

Every night, tormented by insomnia, I scroll through my head the same, already fed up, scenario of our happy ending. Where did I miss? What did you do wrong? The planned, long-awaited happiness slipped away, as soon as we approached it, it seemed to slip through our fingers, leaving us alone with empty hopes. Pulling the blanket up to my chin, I still couldn't get warm. I rolled over on my other side, waiting for the touch of strong hands that squeezed my waist so tightly and demandingly pulled me to him; it seemed to me that I was about to snuggle up to the heated body, feeling safe. The phantom was tangible, as if I could smell it again, filling my lungs, I could hear the rapid heartbeat so booming in my ears, I could feel the scorching breath of my lover on my skin. The memories, which had begun as small ripples, were already engulfing me in a ten-point storm. I remembered every inch of his body. Arms. His long fingers crawled up my back, feeling every vertebrae; from a light touch, my body was covered with goosebumps, and when he roughly scratched my skin, digging into it with short nails, leaving red streaks, I arched, uttering a muffled groan. Completely dissolving in my own feelings, I lost touch with reality. It seemed to me that only the two of us existed. Me and my Harry. When he squeezed my hand, his delicate velvet skin touched my rough hand, in those moments I felt the happiest. And now, when I go home late at night, my hands are cold in the pockets of my felt coat. Eyes. This is probably what I love most about him. Large emerald eyes with dilated pupils. It seemed that you could drown in them, and this was the best prospect. Fluffy long eyelashes framing her eyes always trembled slightly from excessive noise. I could watch him for hours, even if he didn't do anything outstanding; follow his gaze, the way he frowns, and if we made eye contact, Harry instantly averted his eyes, barely audibly muttering: “Why are you looking at me?”, To which I always answered him: “Because you are beautiful”, after With such words, he could hardly suppress a smile, visibly embarrassed. I loved him like this. And now I love. Smile. In my memories, he always smiles. His slightly plump lips curve into a casual and even lazy grin, revealing snow-white teeth. As if for the first time I saw these wonderful dimples. The next moment he is already talking and laughing, but I can't hear him. I want to kiss him. I reach out to touch his cheek, but the image fades. All that remains is the air and the ringing silence that has been surrounding me for a long time. Hair. Soft chestnut curls that bounced funny as he ran or just walked at a brisk pace. I've always loved to run my hands through them, pulling me to inhale the chocolate mingling with caramel aroma. I rolled my eyes in bliss - it drove me crazy. I wish I could do it again, but each time I just bumped into the cold pillow that lay next to my head. Perfectly fluffed up, she was untouched since he'd left, but still retained the faint scent of his hair. Harry. Lying in a cold bed, I still could not fall asleep, all my thoughts were mixed up and seemed to have merged into some kind of crystalline universe, and amazingly beautiful flashes of light flashed on its faces. Unbelievable distances that once made us happy opened up before me, and I smiled. The saddest smile in the world.