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349
The Journal of a Disappointed Man
·
W. N. P. Barbellion
200
The
truth
is
I
am
a
hybrid:
a
mixture
of
two
very
distinct
temperaments
and
they
are
often
at
war.
To
keep
two
different
natures
and
two
different
mental
habits
simultaneously
at
work
is
next
to
impossible.
Consequently
plenty
of
waste
and
fever
and--as
I
might
have
discovered
earlier
for
myself--success
almost
out
of
the
question.
If
only
I
were
pure-bred
science
or
pure-bred
art!
March
4.
Life
is
a
dream
and
we
are
all
somnambuloes.
We
know
that
for
a
fact
at
all
times
when
we
are
most
intensely
alive--at
crises
of
unprecedented
change,
in
sorrow
or
catastrophe,
or
in
any
unusual
incident
brought
swiftly
to
a
close
like
a
vision!
I
sit
here
writing
this--a
mirage!
Who
am
I?
No
one
can
say.
What
am
I?
"A
soap-bubble
hanging
from
a
reed."
Every
man
is
an
inexhaustible
treasury
of
human
personality.
He
can
go
on
burrowing
in
it
for
an
eternity
if
he
have
the
desire--and
a
taste
for
introspection.
I
like
to
keep
myself
well
within
the
field
of
the
microscope,
and,
with
as
much
detachment
as
I
can
muster,
to
watch
myself
live,
to
report
my
observations
of
what
I
say,
feel,
think.
In
default
of
others,
I
am
myself
my
own
spectator
and
self-appreciator--critical,
discerning,
vigilant,
fond!--my
own
stupid
Boswell,
shrewd
if
silly.
This
spectator
of
mine,
it
seems
to
me,
must
be
a
very
moral
gentleman
and
eminently
superior.
His
incessant
attentions,
while
I
go
on
my
way
misconducting
myself,
goad
me
at
times
into
a
surly,
ill-tempered
outbreak,
like
Dr.
Johnson.
I
hate
being
shadowed
and
reported
like
this.
Yet
on
the
whole--like
old
Samuel
again--I
am
rather
pleased
to
be
Boswelled.
It
flatters
me
to
know
that
at
least
one
person
takes
an
unremitting
interest
in
all
my
ways.
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