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349
The Journal of a Disappointed Man
·
W. N. P. Barbellion
159
In
Fleet
Street,
you
exchange
the
Whitechapel
sausage
restaurants
for
Taverns
with
"snacks
at
the
bar,"
and
the
chestnut
roasters,
with
their
buckets
of
red-hot
coals,
for
Grub
Street
camp
followers,
selling
L'Indépendance
Belge
or
pamphlets
entitled,
Why
We
Went
to
War.
In
the
Strand
you
may
buy
war
maps,
buttonhole
flags,
etc.,
etc.
I
bought
a
penny
stud.
One
shop
was
turned
into
a
shooting
gallery
at
three
shots
a
penny
where
the
Inner
Temple
Barristers
in
between
the
case
for
the
defence
and
the
case
for
the
prosecution
could
come
and
keep
their
eye
in
against
the
time
the
Germans
come.
Outside
Charing
Cross
Station
I
saw
a
good-looking,
well-dressed
woman
in
mourning
clothes,
grinding
a
barrel
organ....
Returned
to
the
Library
and
read
the
Dublin
Review
(article
on
Samuel
Butler),
North
American
Review
(one
on
Henry
James)
and
dined
at
seven.
After
dinner,
read:
Evening
Standard,
Saturday
Westminster,
and
the
New
Statesman.
Smoked
six
cigarettes
and
went
to
bed.
To-morrow
Fifth
Symphony
of
Beethoven.
October
25.
Too
Late
Yesterday's
ramble
has
left
me
very
sore
in
spirit.
London
was
spread
out
before
me,
a
vast
campagne.
But
I
felt
too
physically
tired
to
explore.
I
could
just
amble
along--a
spectator
merely--and
automatically
register
impressions.
Think
of
the
misery
of
that!
I
want
to
see
the
Docks
and
Dockland,
to
enter
East
End
public-houses
and
opium-dens,
to
speak
to
Chinamen
and
Lascars:
I
want
a
first-rate,
first-hand
knowledge
of
London,
of
London
men,
London
women.
I
was
tingling
with
anticipation
yesterday
and
then
I
grew
tired
and
fretful
and
morose,
crawled
back
like
a
weevil
into
my
nut.
By
6.30
I
was
in
a
Library
reading
the
Dublin
Review!
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