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349
The Journal of a Disappointed Man
·
W. N. P. Barbellion
139
I
am
a
Magpie
in
a
Bagdad
bazaar,
hopping
about,
useless,
inquisitive,
fascinated
by
a
lot
of
astonishing
things:
e.g.,
a
book
on
the
quadrature
of
the
circle,
the
gabbertushed
fustilugs
passage
in
Burton's
Anatomy
of
Melancholy,
names
like
Mr.
Portwine
or
Mr.
Hogsflesh,
Tweezer's
Alley
or
Pickle
Herring
Street,
the
excellent,
conceitful
sonnets
of
Henry
Constable
or
Petticoat
Lane
on
a
Sunday
morning.
Colossal
things
such
as
Art,
Science,
etc.,
frighten
me.
I
am
afraid
I
should
develop
a
thirst
that
would
make
me
wish
to
drink
the
sea
dry.
My
mind
is
a
disordered
miscellany.
The
world
is
too
distracting.
I
cannot
apply
myself
for
long.
London
bewilders
me.
At
times
it
is
a
phantasmagoria,
an
opium
dream
out
of
De
Quincey.
June
17.
Prof.
Geo.
Saintsbury's
book
on
Elizabethan
literature
amuses
me.
George,
there
can
be
no
doubt,
is
a
very
refined,
cultivated
fellow.
I
bet
he
don't
eat
periwinkles
with
a
pin
or
bite
his
nails--and
you
should
hear
him
refer
to
folk
who
can't
read
Homer
in
the
original
or
who
haven't
been
to
Oxford--to
Merton
above
all.
He
also
says
non
so
che
for
je
ne
sais
quoi.
June
26.
...
I
placed
the
volume
on
the
mantelpiece
as
if
it
were
a
bottle
of
physic
straight
from
my
Dispensary,
and
I
began
to
expostulate
and
expound,
as
if
she
were
a
sick
person
and
I
the
doctor....
She
seemed
a
little
nettled
at
my
proselytising
demeanour
and
gave
herself
out
to
be
very
preoccupied--or
at
any
rate
quite
uninterested
in
my
physic.
I
read
the
book
last
night
at
one
sitting
and
was
boiling
over
with
it.
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