Lab
Library
Journal
Shop
Sign in
to keep
Share image
1
349
The Journal of a Disappointed Man
·
W. N. P. Barbellion
161
London
certainly
lies
before
me.
Certainly
I
am
alive
at
last.
Yet
now
my
energy
is
gone.
It
is
too
late.
I
am
ill
and
tired.
It
costs
me
infinite
discomfort
to
write
this
entry,
all
the
skin
of
my
right
hand
is
permanently
"pins
and
needles"
and
in
the
finger
tips
I
have
lost
all
sense
of
touch.
The
sight
of
my
right
eye
is
also
very
bad
and
sometimes
I
can
scarcely
read
print
with
it,
etc.,
etc.
But
why
should
I
go
on?
A
trance-like
condition
supervenes
in
a
semi-invalid
forced
to
live
in
almost
complete
social
isolation
in
a
great
whirling
city
like
London.
Days
of
routine
follow
each
other
as
swiftly
as
the
weaver's
shuttle
and
numb
the
spirit
and
turn
palpitating
life
into
a
silent
picture
show.
Everywhere
always
in
the
street
people--millions
of
them
--whom
I
do
not
know,
moving
swiftly
along.
I
look
and
look
and
yawn
and
then
one
day
as
to-day
I
wake
up
and
race
about
beside
myself--a
swollen
bag
ready
to
burst
with
hope,
love,
misery,
joy,
desperation.
Apologia
pro
vita
mea
How
may
I
excuse
myself
for
continuing
to
talk
about
my
affairs
and
for
continuing
to
write
zoological
memoirs
during
the
greatest
War
of
all
time?
Well,
here
are
some
precedents:--
Goethe
sat
down
to
study
the
geography
of
China,
while
his
fatherland
agonised
at
Leipsig.
Hegel
wrote
the
last
lines
of
the
Phenomenology
of
Spirit
within
sound
of
the
guns
of
Jena.
While
England
was
being
rent
in
twain
by
civil
war,
Sir
Thomas
Browne,
ensconced
in
old
Norwich,
reflected
on
Cambyses
and
Pharaoh
and
on
the
song
the
Sirens
sang.
Marker
Marker
Fine marker
White-out
Fine white-out
Circle
Paint
Unmarker
Hand
Scalpel
Dice
Sieve
Purify
Undo
Redo
Start over
