"No memory of having starred atones for later disregard, or keeps the end from being hard"
About this Quote
Frost slips the knife in with the calmness of a man describing weather. The line reads like consolation at first glance: surely being “starred” - chosen, celebrated, loved - should count for something. Then the syntax tightens into refusal. “No memory” is the trapdoor. Even if you can replay the highlight reel, it doesn’t “atone” for what comes after, and it doesn’t soften “the end.” Frost isn’t denying joy; he’s denying joy’s power to negotiate with time.
The verb choices do the real work. “Starred” is theatrical and temporary, a role granted by others, not an identity you can hold. “Atones” borrows from moral accounting, suggesting we want past affection to function like credit: I was good to you; you were good to me; therefore you owe me tenderness at the finish. Frost calls that fantasy. “Later disregard” lands with particular cruelty because it’s not a dramatic betrayal; it’s the slow downgrade from attention to indifference. The line understands how most endings actually go: not with a bang, but with someone looking past you.
Contextually, Frost’s poetry is full of moments where sentimentality tries to rush in and gets checked by reality - rural scenes that don’t redeem loneliness, nature that doesn’t provide a clean lesson. Here he’s also writing against the American habit of turning experience into uplift. Memory, he implies, is not a shield. It’s evidence you once mattered, which can make the disregard sharper, and the hard end harder.
The verb choices do the real work. “Starred” is theatrical and temporary, a role granted by others, not an identity you can hold. “Atones” borrows from moral accounting, suggesting we want past affection to function like credit: I was good to you; you were good to me; therefore you owe me tenderness at the finish. Frost calls that fantasy. “Later disregard” lands with particular cruelty because it’s not a dramatic betrayal; it’s the slow downgrade from attention to indifference. The line understands how most endings actually go: not with a bang, but with someone looking past you.
Contextually, Frost’s poetry is full of moments where sentimentality tries to rush in and gets checked by reality - rural scenes that don’t redeem loneliness, nature that doesn’t provide a clean lesson. Here he’s also writing against the American habit of turning experience into uplift. Memory, he implies, is not a shield. It’s evidence you once mattered, which can make the disregard sharper, and the hard end harder.
Quote Details
| Topic | Legacy & Remembrance |
|---|---|
| Source | Help us find the source |
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