Vladimir Nabokov, chapter 1 from Speak, Memory

There is such beautiful writing in this memoir! Here's a good quote:

"Nothing is sweeter or stranger than to ponder those first thrills. They belong to the harmonious world of a perfect childhood and, as such, possess a naturally plastic form in one's memory, which can be set down with hardly any effort" (24-25)

It is odd--how we remember certain things about our childhood. What is truly bizarre for me is the sorts of details one can remember. For example, from a family vacation I remember the smell of burning leaves and the red leash and harness on my stuffed animal. I remember that my parents brought with them a hotplate--how it was so strange to see a stove in a singualr format. But for me at least, it's not as easy as Nabokov lets us believe. For me it's not plastic. I cannot remember how we spent our days or the types of clothing that any of my family members wore. I have no idea how old I was. For me, though a few joyous details are there, writing down these memories is nothing like Nabokov says. The memory I chose to write about in my childhood essay is from when I was nearly nine--not nearly as impressive as Naokov's recollections from when he was four!