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349
The Journal of a Disappointed Man
·
W. N. P. Barbellion
121
Next
morning
I
was
all
right.
February
20.
Am
feeling
very
unwell.
My
ill-health,
my
isolation,
baulked
ambitions,
and
daily
breadwinning
all
conspire
to
bring
me
down.
The
idea
of
a
pistol
and
the
end
of
it
grows
on
me
day
by
day.
February
21.
After
four
days
of
the
most
profound
depression
of
spirits,
bitterness,
self-distrust,
despair,
I
emerged
from
the
cloud
to-day
quite
suddenly
(probably
the
arsenic
and
strychnine
begins
to
take
effect)
and
walked
up
Exhibition
Road
with
the
intention
of
visiting
the
Science
Museum
Library
so
as
to
refer
to
Schafer's
Essentials
of
Histology
(I
have
to
watch
myself
carefully
so
that
I
may
act
at
once
as
soon
as
the
balance
of
mind
is
restored).
In
the
lobby
was
a
woman
screaming
as
if
in
pain,
with
a
passer-by
at
her
side
saying
sternly,
"What
is
the
matter
with
you?"
as
if
she
were
making
herself
ridiculous
by
suffering
pain
in
public.
I
passed
by
quickly,
pretending
not
to
notice
lest--after
all--I
should
be
done
out
of
my
Essentials
of
Histology.
Even
in
the
Library
I
very
nearly
let
the
opportunity
slide
by
picking
up
a
book
on
squaring
the
circle,
the
preface
and
introduction
of
which
I
was
forced
to
read.
March
4.
The
Entomological
Society
There
were
a
great
many
Scarabees
present
who
exhibited
to
one
another
poor
little
pinned
insects
in
collecting-boxes
...
It
was
really
a
one-man
show,
Prof.
Poulton,
a
man
of
very
considerable
scientific
attainments,
being
present,
and
shouting
with
a
raucous
voice
in
a
way
that
must
have
scared
some
of
the
timid,
unassuming
collectors
of
our
country's
butterflies
and
moths.
Like
a
great
powerful
sheep-dog,
he
got
up
and
barked,
"Mendelian
characters,"
or
"Germ
plasm,"
what
time
the
obedient
flock
ran
together
and
bleated
a
pitiful
applause.
I
suppose,
having
frequently
heard
these
and
similar
phrases
fall
from
the
lips
of
the
great
man
at
these
reunions,
they
have
come
to
regard
them
as
symbols
of
a
ritual
which
they
think
it
pious
to
accept
without
any
question.
So
every
time
the
Professor
says,
"Allelomorph,"
or
some
such
phrase,
they
cross
themselves
and
never
venture
to
ask
him
what
the
hell
it
is
all
about.
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