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349
The Journal of a Disappointed Man
·
W. N. P. Barbellion
171
November
19.
I
might
be
Captain
Scott
writing
his
last
words
amid
Antarctic
cold
and
desolation.
It
is
very
cold.
I
am
sitting
hunched
up
by
the
fire
in
my
lodgings
after
a
meal
of
tough
meat
and
cold
apple-tart.
I
am
full
of
self-commiseration--my
only
pleasure
now.
It
is
very
cold
and
I
cannot
get
warm--try
as
I
will.
My
various
nervous
derangements
take
different
forms.
This
time
my
peripheral
circulation
is
affected,
and
the
hand,
arm,
and
shoulder
are
permanently
cold.
My
right
hand
is
blue--tho'
I've
shut
up
the
window
and
piled
up
a
roaring
fire.
It's
Antarctic
cold
and
desolation.
London
in
November
from
the
inside
of
a
dingy
lodging-house
can
be
very
terrible
indeed.
This
celestial
isolation
will
send
me
out
of
my
mind.
I
marvel
how
God
can
stick
it--lonely,
damp,
and
cold
in
the
clouds.
That
is
how
I
live
too--but
then
I
am
not
God.
I
fall
back
on
this
Journal
just
as
some
other
poor
devil
takes
to
drink.
I,
too,
have
toyed
with
the
idea
of
drinking
hard.
I
have
frequented
bars
and
billiards
saloons
and
in
fits
of
depression
done
my
best
to
forget
myself.
But
I
am
not
sufficiently
fond
of
alcohol
(and
it
would
take
a
lot
to
make
me
forget
myself).
So
I
plunge
into
these
literary
excesses
and
drown
my
sorrows
in
Stephens'
Blue-black
Ink.
It
gives
me
a
sulky
pleasure
to
think
that
some
day
somebody
will
know....
It
is
humiliating
to
feel
ill
as
I
do.
If
I
had
consumption,
the
disease
would
act
as
a
stimulus--I
could
strike
an
attitude
feverishly
and
be
histrionic.
But
to
be
merely
"below
par"--to
feel
like
a
Bunny
rabbit
perennially
"poorly,"
saps
my
character
and
mental
vigour.
I
want
to
crawl
away
and
die
like
a
rat
in
a
hole.
A
bronzed
healthy
man
makes
me
wince.
Healthy
people
regard
a
chronic
sickly
man
as
a
leper.
They
suspect
him,
something
fishy.
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