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349
The Journal of a Disappointed Man
·
W. N. P. Barbellion
166
Some
mechanical
means
were
necessary
for
sustaining
life
till
bedtime.
I
sat
down
and
played
a
game
of
Patience--no
one
knows
how
I
loathe
playing
Patience
and
how
much
I
despise
the
people
who
play
it.
Tiring
of
that,
sat
back
in
my
chair,
yawned,
and
thought
of
a
word
I
wanted
to
look
up
in
the
Dictionary.
This
quest,
forgotten
until
then,
came
like
a
beam
of
bright
light
into
a
dark
room.
So
looked
the
word
up
leisurely,
took
out
my
watch,
noted
the
time,
and
then
stood
up
with
elbows
on
the
mantelpiece
and
stared
at
myself
in
the
glass....
I
was
at
bay
at
last.
There
was
simply
nothing
I
could
do.
I
would
have
given
worlds
to
have
some
one
to
talk
to.
Pride
kept
me
from
ringing
for
the
landlady.
I
must
stand
motionless,
back
to
the
wall,
and
wait
for
the
hour
of
my
release.
I
had
but
one
idea,
viz.,
that
I
was
surely
beaten
in
this
game
of
life.
I
was
very
miserable
indeed.
But
being
so
miserable
that
I
couldn't
feel
more
so,
I
began
to
recover
after
a
while.
I
began
to
visualise
my
lamentable
situation,
and
rose
above
it
as
I
did
so.
I
staged
it
before
my
mind's
eye
and
observed
myself
as
hero
of
the
plot.
I
saw
myself
sitting
in
a
dirty
armchair
in
a
dirty
house
in
a
dirty
London
street,
with
the
landlady's
dirty
daughter
below-stairs
singing,
"Little
Grey
Home
in
the
West,"
my
head
obscured
in
a
cloud
of
depression,
and
in
my
mind
the
thought
that
if
life
be
a
test
of
endurance
I
must
hang
on
grimly
to
the
arms
of
the
chair
and
sit
tight
till
bedtime.
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