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349
The Journal of a Disappointed Man
·
W. N. P. Barbellion
149
One
day
it
looks
like
appendicitis,
another
stoppage,
another
threatened
blindness,
or
I
develop
a
cough
and
am
menaced
with
consumption.
So
I
go
on
in
a
hurricane
of
bad
dreams.
I
struggle
like
Laocoon
with
the
serpents--the
serpents
of
nervous
depression
that
press
around
the
heart
tighter
than
I
care
to
admit.
I
must
use
every
kind
of
blandishment
to
convince
myself
that
my
life
and
my
work
are
worth
while.
Frequently
I
must
smother
and
kill
(and
it
calls
for
prompt
action)
the
shrill
voice
that
cries
from
the
tiniest
corner
of
my
heart,
"Are
you
quite
sure
you
are
such
an
important
fellow
as
you
imagine?"
Or
I
fret
over
the
condition
of
my
brain,
finding
that
I
forget
what
I
read,
I
lose
in
acuteness
of
my
perceptions.
My
brain
is
a
tumefaction.
But
I
won't
give
in.
I
go
on
trying
to
recollect
what
I
have
forgotten,
I
harry
my
brain
all
day
to
recall
a
word
or
name,
I
attack
other
folk
importunately.
I
write
things
down
so
as
to
look
them
up
in
reference
books--I
am
always
looking
up
the
things
I
remember
I
have
forgotten....
There
is
another
struggle,
too,
that
often
engrosses
all
my
energies....
It
is
a
horrible
thing
that
with
so
large
an
ambition,
so
great
a
love
of
life,
I
should
nevertheless
court
disaster
like
this.
Truly
Sir
Thomas
Browne
you
say,
"Every
man
is
his
own
Atropos."
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