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349
The Journal of a Disappointed Man
·
W. N. P. Barbellion
170
Is
it
a
wonder
she
does
not
love
me?
I
wonder
why
I
paint
myself
in
such
horrid
colours--why
have
I
this
morbid
pleasure
in
pretending
to
those
I
love
that
I
am
a
beast
and
a
cynic?
I
suffer,
I
suppose,
from
a
lacerated
self-esteem,
from
a
painful
loneliness,
from
the
consciousness
of
how
ridiculous
I
have
made
myself,
and
that
most
people
if
they
knew
would
regard
me
with
loathing
and
disgust.
I
am
very
unhappy.
I
am
unhappy
because
she
does
not
care
for
me,
and
I
am
chiefly
unhappy
because
I
do
not
care
for
her.
Instead
of
a
passion,
only
a
dragging
heavy
chain
of
attraction
...
some
inflexible
law
makes
me
gravitate
to
her,
seizes
me
by
the
neck
and
suspends
me
over
her,
I
cannot
look
away....
In
the
early
days
when
I
did
my
best
to
strangle
my
love--as
one
would
a
bastard
child--I
took
courage
in
the
fact
that
for
a
man
like
me
the
murder
was
necessary.
There
were
books
to
write
and
to
read,
and
name
and
fame
perhaps.
To
these
everything
must
be
sacrificed.
...
That
is
all
gone
now.
No
man
could
have
withstood
for
ever
that
concentrated
essence
of
womanhood
that
flowed
from
her....
Still
the
declaration
has
made
amends.
She
is
pleased
about
it--it
is
a
scalp.
Yet
how
can
I
forgive
her
for
saying
she
supposed
it
was
a
natural
instinct
for
a
girl
not
to
feel
drawn
to
an
invalid
like
me.
That
was
cruel
tho'
true.
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