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349
The Journal of a Disappointed Man
·
W. N. P. Barbellion
119
Such
is
my
world!
Oh!
I
forgot--on
the
floor
below
me
is
a
corpse--that
of
an
old
gentleman
who
passed
away
suddenly
in
the
night.
In
the
small
hours,
the
landlady
went
for
the
Doctor
over
the
way,
but
he
refused
to
come,
saying
the
old
man
was
too
aged.
So
the
poor
gentleman
died
alone--in
this
rat
hole
of
a
place.
February
7.
Intending
to
buy
my
usual
3d.
packet
of
Goldflakes,
entered
a
tobacconist's
in
Piccadilly,
but
once
inside
surprised
to
find
myself
in
a
classy
west-end
establishment,
which
frightened
my
flabby
nature
into
buying
De
Reszke's
instead.
I
hadn't
the
courage
to
face
the
aristocrat
behind
the
counter
with
a
request
for
Goldflakes--probably
not
stocked.
What
would
he
think
of
me?
Besides,
I
shrank
from
letting
him
see
I
was
not
perfectly
well-to-do.
February
14.
I
wonder
what
this
year
has
in
store
for
me?
The
first
twenty-four
years
of
my
life
have
hunted
me
up
and
down
the
keyboard--I
have
been
right
to
the
top
and
also
to
the
bottom--very
happy
and
very
miserable.
Yet
I
prefer
the
life
that
is
a
hunt
and
an
adventure.
I
don't
really
mind
being
chased
like
this.
I
almost
thrive
on
the
excitement.
If
I
knew
always
where
to
look
with
any
degree
of
certainty
for
my
next
day's
life
I
should
yawn!
"What
if
to-day
be
sweet,"
I
say,
and
never
look
ahead.
To
me,
next
week
is
next
century.
The
danger
and
uncertainty
of
my
life
make
me
cherish
and
hug
closely
to
my
heart
various
little
projects
that
otherwise
would
seem
unworthy.
I
work
at
them
quickly,
frantically,
sometimes,
afraid
to
whisper
to
a
living
soul
what
expectations
I
dare
to
harbour
in
my
heart.
What
if
now
the
end
be
near?
Not
a
word!
Let
me
go
onward.
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