"You can't change the past, but you can change the future"
About this Quote
Herbert’s line lands like a bracing refusal to indulge nostalgia. “You can’t change the past” isn’t comfort; it’s a hard limit, a rebuke to the national hobby of re-editing memory until it flatters the present. Coming from an Australian writer who spent his career orbiting the country’s ugliest truths - race, frontier violence, the self-mythologizing of settler society - the sentence reads less like a motivational poster and more like an ethical ultimatum: stop pretending the ledger can be erased by better storytelling.
The subtext is aimed at both the individual and the nation. On the personal level, it rejects the fantasy that regret can be made “productive” through endless re-litigation. On the political level, it takes a swing at denialism: you don’t get to fix what was done by disputing that it happened. The only meaningful arena for agency is forward-looking action, which implies responsibility rather than absolution.
What makes the quote work is its clean asymmetry. The first clause shuts a door; the second opens one, but only after you accept the loss. It’s a sentence structured like consequence. There’s also a quiet warning baked into “can”: the future is changeable, not automatically better. Herbert isn’t promising progress; he’s assigning it. If the past is immovable, then the future becomes the only place where atonement, reform, and imagination can be tested - in policy, in relationships, in what a society decides to fund, protect, and refuse.
The subtext is aimed at both the individual and the nation. On the personal level, it rejects the fantasy that regret can be made “productive” through endless re-litigation. On the political level, it takes a swing at denialism: you don’t get to fix what was done by disputing that it happened. The only meaningful arena for agency is forward-looking action, which implies responsibility rather than absolution.
What makes the quote work is its clean asymmetry. The first clause shuts a door; the second opens one, but only after you accept the loss. It’s a sentence structured like consequence. There’s also a quiet warning baked into “can”: the future is changeable, not automatically better. Herbert isn’t promising progress; he’s assigning it. If the past is immovable, then the future becomes the only place where atonement, reform, and imagination can be tested - in policy, in relationships, in what a society decides to fund, protect, and refuse.
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