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349
The Journal of a Disappointed Man
·
W. N. P. Barbellion
111
For
any
one
who
is
not
simply
a
Sheep
or
Cow
or
whose
nervous
organisation
is
a
degree
more
sensitive
than
the
village
blacksmith's,
it
is
a
besetting
peril
to
his
peace
of
mind
to
be
constantly
moving
about
an
independent
being,
with
loves
and
hates,
and
a
separate
identity
among
other
separate
identities,
who
prowl
and
prowl
around
like
the
hosts
of
Midian--ready
to
snarl,
fight,
seize
you,
bore
you,
exasperate
you,
to
arouse
all
your
passions,
call
up
all
the
worst
from
the
depths
where
they
have
lain
hidden....
A
day
spent
among
my
fellows
goads
me
to
a
frenzy
by
the
evening.
I
am
no
longer
fit
for
human
companionship.
People
string
me
up
to
concert
pitch.
I
develop
suspicions
of
one
that
he
is
prying,
of
another
that
he
patronises.
Others
make
me
horribly
anxious
to
stand
well
in
their
eyes
and
horribly
curious
to
know
what
they
think
of
me.
Others
I
hate
and
loathe--for
no
particular
reason.
There
is
a
man
I
am
acquainted
with
concerning
whom
I
know
nothing
at
all.
He
may
be
Jew,
Gentile,
Socinian,
Pre-adamite,
Anabaptist,
Rosicrucian--I
don't
know,
and
I
don't
care,
for
I
hate
him.
I
should
like
to
smash
his
face
in.
I
don't
know
why....
In
the
whole
course
of
our
tenuous
acquaintance
we
have
spoken
scarce
a
dozen
words
to
each
other.
Yet
I
should
like
to
blow
up
his
face
with
dynamite.
If
I
had
£200
a
year
private
income
I
should
be
in
wait
for
him
to-morrow
round
a
corner
and
land
him
one--just
to
indicate
my
economic
independence.
He
would
call
for
the
police
and
the
policeman--discerning
creature--on
arrival,
would
surely
say,
"With
a
face
like
that,
I'm
not
surprised."
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