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349
The Journal of a Disappointed Man
·
W. N. P. Barbellion
100
I
can
scoff
like
this
now.
But
at
the
time
my
exaltation
was
very
real.
My
soul
strained
in
the
leash.
I
was
full
of
a
desire
for
unattainable
spiritual
beauty.
I
wanted
something.
But
I
don't
know
what
I
want.
June
16.
My
Sense
of
Touch
My
sense
of
touch
has
always
been
morbidly
acute.
I
like
to
feel
a
cigarette
locked
in
the
extreme
corner
of
my
mouth.
When
I
remove
it
from
my
mouth
then
I
hold
it
probably
up
in
the
fork
between
two
fingers.
If
I
am
waiting
for
a
meal
I
finger
the
cool
knives
and
forks.
If
I
am
in
the
country
I
plunge
my
hands
with
outspread
fingers
into
a
mass
of
large-topped
grasses,
then
close
my
fingers,
crush
and
decapitate
the
lot.
June
27.
Camping
Out
at
S----
Sands
A
brilliant
summer
day.
Up
early,
breakfasted,
and,
clad
in
sweater
and
trousers,
walked
up
the
sands
to
the
boathouse
with
bare
feet.
Everything
was
wonderful!
I
strode
along
over
the
level
sands
infatuated
with
the
sheer
ability
to
put
one
leg
in
front
of
the
other
and
walk.
I
loved
to
feel
the
muscles
of
my
thighs
working,
and
to
swing
my
arms
in
rhythm
with
the
stride.
The
stiff
breeze
had
blown
the
sky
clear,
and
was
rushing
through
my
long
hair,
and
bellowing
into
each
ear.
I
strode
as
Alexander
must
have
done!
Then
I
stretched
my
whole
length
out
along
a
flat
plank
on
the
sands,
which
was
as
dry
as
a
bone
and
warm.
There
was
not
a
soul
on
the
sands.
Everything
was
bare,
clean,
windswept.
My
plank
had
been
washed
clean
and
white.
The
sands--3
miles
of
it--were
hard
and
purified,
level.
My
eye
raced
along
in
every
direction--there
was
nothing--not
a
bird
or
a
man--to
stop
it.
In
that
immense
windswept
space
nothing
was
present
save
me
and
the
wind
and
the
sea--a
flattering
moment
for
the
egotist.
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