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349
The Journal of a Disappointed Man
·
W. N. P. Barbellion
167
This
attitude
proved
a
useful
means
of
self-defence.
When
I
had
dramatised
my
misery,
I
enjoyed
it,
and
acute
mental
pain
turned
into
merely
aesthetic
malaise.
November
4.
A
lurid
day.
Suffering
from
the
most
horrible
physical
languor.
Wrote
the
Doctor
saying
I
was
rapidly
sliding
down
a
steep
place
into
the
sea
(like
the
swine
I
am).
Could
I
see
him?
Endured
an
hour's
torture
of
indecision
to-night
asking
myself
whether
I
should
go
over
to
ask
her
to
be
my
wife
or
should
I
go
to
the
Fabian
Society
and
hear
Bernard
Shaw.
Kept
putting
off
the
decision
even
till
after
dinner.
If
I
went
to
the
flat,
I
must
shave;
to
shave
required
hot
water--the
landlady
had
already
cleared
the
table
and
was
rapidly
retreating.
Something
must
be
done
and
at
once.
I
called
the
old
thing
back
impulsively
and
ordered
shaving
water,
consoling
myself
with
the
reflection
that
it
was
still
unnecessary
to
decide;
the
hot
water
could
be
at
hand
in
case
the
worst
happened.
If
I
decided
on
matrimony
I
could
shave
forthwith.
Should
I?
(After
dark
I
always
shave
in
the
sitting-room
because
of
the
better
gaslight.)
Drank
some
coffee
and
next
found
myself
slowly,
mournfully
putting
on
hat
and
coat.
You
can't
shave
in
hat
and
coat
so
I
concluded
I
had
decided
on
Shaw.
Slowly
undid
the
front
door
latch
and
went
off.
Shaw
bored
me.
He
is
mid-Victorian.
Sat
beside
a
bulgy-eyed
youth
reading
the
Freethinker.
November
9.
In
the
evening
asked
her
to
be
my
wife.
She
refused.
Once
perhaps
...
but
now....
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