Memories rarely come to the surface on their own. They are quiet, hidden in the shadow of everyday obligations, alone. They wait for someone to call them. And the call is — a question. A simple: “Do you remember…?” can open the door to an entire world, where colors, scents, and voices come alive as if they were never forgotten.
But what kind of question can truly unlock a memory?
When a teenager comes home from school and the parent asks: “What’s new?”, the most common answer will be: “Nothing.” Even though we know much happened that day — a glance from a crush, whispers behind their back, a small drama during recess — we won’t find out about any of it. The question wasn’t wrong, but it didn’t open the door to a story.
The answer depends on our skill in asking the right question — and our genuine desire to hear the answer.
Easy questions that target the present
Remembering is hard work. Our brain burns a lot of energy when it tries to recall something — it heats up like an overloaded phone battery. We all know the feeling from school, when we couldn’t recall a date or name during a history test, even though it was “on the tip of our tongue.”
That’s why the best way to start is with “easy questions,” the kind that don’t require effort: Where do you live? Do you have brothers or sisters? What’s your favorite drink?…
These questions focus on the present, and the answers are close at hand. The speaker doesn’t have to struggle. Over time, however, even these simple answers become precious: ten, twenty, fifty years later, they are signposts back to forgotten memories.
Because why do we create lexicons? To preserve people, events, and objects from being forgotten.
The more specific the question, the better
In the animated movie Shrek, Donkey says: “People are like onions. They have layers.” If we want to truly know someone, we have to peel away the layers they believe protect them.
“Easy questions” peel off the first layer. After that come deeper questions — the ones that touch a person’s inner layers and reveal what really matters.
Such questions must be concrete enough. “What was your first favorite song?” sounds nice, but it’s unlikely to get to the core. Why? Try remembering your first favorite song right now! Not so easy, is it? Especially if you’re fifty years old and trying to remember something from long ago.
Instead of asking: “What was your first favorite song?”, it’s better to ask: “What did your first music player look like?” A music player is tangible: it has color, shape, texture, even a smell — and those details are easier to recall than a long-forgotten tune.
And when we start describing that music player, the magic begins. For example:
My first music player was bought during a winter break. It was black and stood on the highest shelf in the store. It had large speakers, a record player, and space for two cassettes. When we unpacked it, the whole room smelled of freshly lacquered wood and new, hard plastic. At the time, we only had one cassette at home — with Hawaiian music. I have no idea how it ended up with us. For days we rewound it and listened to the same songs. The clear, tropical sounds from the powerful speakers enchanted me. It felt like I was traveling somewhere far away, to a place I had never been.
What do we see here? With a single object, I managed to unlock something buried deep inside me — the memory of listening to Hawaiian music as a child. It was the last time I listened to that music intensely, but now I can say those are my favorite songs I’ve ever heard.
A good question is like a key to a hidden door
A question unlocks doors leading to a room of memories full of stories.
Such a question doesn’t just bring an answer — it brings images, feelings, and the atmosphere of a past time. Filling a lexicon becomes a joy, because we unlock memories we had forgotten — but which still matter.
If I had only answered: “My first song was…”, there would have been no story to reveal what truly mattered. Only through a tangible object did the memory come alive.
Follow-up questions save the day
My students love follow-up questions. When I ask them something, their answers are often short and shallow. They quickly go silent and look at me, waiting for another question. Follow-ups unlock what is hidden — the real knowledge. Students sense they know more, but don’t know how to express it.
For example, if I ask a student to talk about Anna Karenina, he’ll usually give a general answer: who she was, that she came to help her brother save his marriage, that she later fell in love with Vronsky… but without going deeper into her character. However, if I ask what Anna reads on the train back from Moscow, the student will answer: a love novel, imagining herself as the heroine passionately loved by the hero. And there we uncover something essential: Anna Karenina longs for love — she dreams of it, because her husband cannot give it to her…
Paper lexicons usually didn’t allow follow-up questions. Something important was always left unsaid.
Our digital lexicon fixes this limitation. Without follow-ups, the most important things would remain unspoken. My students know this well. 😉
Imagine a person when writing your questions
Not everyone answers the same question in the same way. Someone shy in conversation may open up in writing. Someone silent in a group may suddenly talk — or write — when it’s one-on-one. 😊
That’s why it’s best to adapt questions to the person who’ll be answering them. Some will happily answer: “Who was your first crush?”, but most won’t. Instead, it’s better to ask: “Describe the moment when you first fell in love.” That way, many fun, surprising details surface, and the person will recall them with joy — instead of embarrassment.
The magic of unlocking memories
The Celts believed that the past never truly disappears. They believed everything that happened remains trapped somewhere: in an animal, a plant, or an object. So, when we taste elderflower juice or a special cake, we can unlock a trapped memory. It shivers, speaks to us, and once we recognize it, it is freed — and never forgotten again.
Here’s how memory unlocking unfolds in Marcel Proust’s In Search of Lost Time, when he tasted a madeleine dipped in linden tea:
“No sooner had the warm liquid mixed with the crumbs touched my palate than a shudder ran through me and I stopped, intent upon the extraordinary thing that was happening to me. A delicious pleasure had invaded me, isolated, detached, with no suggestion of its origin. … And as soon as I recognized the taste of the crumb of madeleine soaked in her infusion of lime-flowers which my aunt used to give me… the whole of Combray and of its surroundings, taking shape and solidity, sprang into being, town and gardens alike, from my cup of tea.”
The right questions magically unlock trapped memories. Answers become stories, and stories become bridges: connecting us to our past selves, and to the people with whom we share those memories.
Leksikon as a digital space of taming
Leksikon is not a database where answers are collected mechanically. It is a digital space of taming and revival — a place where memories turn into meaningful stories, and stories into strong bonds between people.
So when you ask a question in Leksikon — the digital guardian of memories — remember: it’s not just a sentence. It’s a key. And behind every lock doesn’t wait a piece of data, but a story that connects us with our most treasured memories and people.
Finally, 5 rules for a good question
1. Start with easy questions that target the present.
2. Ask what you genuinely want to hear.
3. Questions about the past should be concrete (include color, sound, smell, touch).
4. Personalize it — imagine the specific person answering while designing the question.
5. Open a story like a key opens a door — don’t begin with “Do you” or closed “yes/no” forms, but phrase it as a small task: to describe, to explain, etc.
P.S. If you’d like to try the madeleine cake that unlocked a whole architecture of memories in Proust’s novel,
here’s the recipe.