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349
The Journal of a Disappointed Man
·
W. N. P. Barbellion
169
Still
thinking
of
suicide.
It
seems
the
only
way
out.
This
morning
my
Essay
was
returned
by
the
Editor
of
----.
One
by
one
I
have
been
divested
of
all
my
most
cherished
illusions.
Once
my
ambitions
gave
me
the
fuel
with
which
to
keep
myself
alive.
One
after
another
they
have
been
foiled,
and
now
I've
nothing
to
burn.
I
am
daily
facing
the
fact
that
my
ambitions
have
overtaxed
my
abilities
and
health.
For
years,
my
whole
existence
has
rested
on
a
false
estimate
of
my
own
value,
and
my
life
been
revolving
around
a
foolish
self-deception.
But
I
know
myself
as
I
am
at
last--and
am
not
at
all
enamoured.
The
future
has
nothing
for
me.
I
am
wearied
of
my
life
already.
What
is
there
for
any
of
us
to
do
but
die?
November
14.
Before
going
over
to-night
bought
London
Opinion
deliberately
in
order
to
find
a
joke
or
better
still
some
cynicism
about
women
to
fire
off
at
her.
Rehearsed
one
joke,
one
witticism
from
Oscar
Wilde,
and
one
personal
anecdote
(the
latter
for
the
most
part
false),
none
of
which
came
off,
tho'
I
succeeded
in
carrying
off
a
nonchalant
or
even
jaunty
bearing.
"Don't
you
ever
swear?"
I
asked.
"It's
a
good
thing
you
know,
swearing
is
like
pimples,
better
to
come
out,
cleanses
the
moral
system.
The
person
who
controls
himself
must
have
lots
of
terrible
oaths
circulating
in
his
blood."
"Swearing
is
not
the
only
remedy."
"I
suppose
you
prefer
the
gilded
pill
of
a
curate's
sermon:
I
prefer
pimples
to
pills."
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