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349
The Journal of a Disappointed Man
·
W. N. P. Barbellion
203
After
tea
went
out
into
the
Studio
and
watched
these
two
enthusiasts
paint.
I
must
have
glowered
at
them.
I--the
energetic,
ambitious,
pushing
youth--of
necessity
sitting
down
doing
nought,
as
unconsidered
as
a
child
playing
on
the
floor.
I
recollected
my
early
days
in
my
attic
laboratory
and
sighed.
Where
is
my
energy
now?
Mrs.
----
plays
Chopin
divinely
well.
How
I
envied
this
man--to
have
a
wife
play
you
Chopin!
March
24.
It
is
fortunate
I
am
ill
in
one
way
for
I
need
not
make
my
mind
up
about
this
War.
I
am
not
interested
in
it--this
filth
and
lunacy.
I
have
not
yet
made
up
my
mind
about
myself.
I
am
so
steeped
in
myself--in
my
moods,
vapours,
idiosyncrasies,
so
self-sodden,
that
I
am
unable
to
stand
clear
of
the
data,
to
marshal
and
classify
the
multitude
of
facts
and
thence
draw
the
deduction
what
manner
of
man
I
am.
I
should
like
to
know--if
only
as
a
matter
of
curiosity.
So
what
in
God's
name
am
I?
A
fool,
of
course,
to
start
with--but
the
rest
of
the
diagnosis?
One
feature
is
my
incredible
levity
about
serious
matters.
Nothing
matters,
provided
the
tongue
is
not
furred.
I
have
coquetted
with
death
for
so
long
now,
and
endured
such
prodigious
ill-health
that
my
main
idea
when
in
a
fair
state
of
repair
is
to
seize
the
passing
moment
and
squeeze
it
dry.
The
thing
that
counts
is
to
be
drunken;
as
Baudelaire
says,
"One
must
be
for
ever
drunken;
that
is
the
sole
question
of
importance.
If
you
would
not
feel
the
horrible
burden
of
time
that
bruises
your
shoulders
and
bends
you
to
the
earth,
you
must
be
drunken
without
cease."
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