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349
The Journal of a Disappointed Man
·
W. N. P. Barbellion
249
The
record
nauseates
me.
I
am
nauseated
with
myself
and
my
self-centredness....
Suppose
I
have
been
"whizzing"
as
I
call
it--what
then?
They
are
but
subjective
trifles--meanwhile
other
men
are
seeing
great
adventures
in
Gallipoli
and
elsewhere.
"The
Triumph
is
gone,"
exclaimed
the
Admiral
who
in
a
little
group
of
naval
officers
on
board
the
flagship
had
been
watching
H.M.S.
Triumph
sink
in
the
Ægean.
He
shuts
his
telescope
with
a
click
and
returns
in
great
dudgeon
to
his
own
quarters.
How
I
envy
all
these
men
who
are
participating
in
this
War--soldiers,
sailors,
war
correspondents--all
who
live
and
throb
and
are
not
afraid.
I
am
a
timid
youth,
anæmic,
wear
spectacles,
and
am
frightened
by
a
Zep
raid!
How
humiliating.
I
hate
myself
for
a
white-livered
craven:
I
am
suffocated
for
want
of
more
life
and
courage.
My
damnable
body
is
slowly
killing
off
all
my
spirit
and
buoyancy.
Even
my
mind
is
becoming
blurred.
My
memory
is
like
an
old
man's
exactly.
(Ask
----.)
Yet
thro'
all
my
nausea,
here
I
remain
happy
to
discuss
myself
and
my
little
mishaps.
I'm
damned
sick
of
myself
and
all
my
neurotic
whimperings,
and
so
I
hereby
and
now
intend
to
lead
a
new
life
and
throw
this
Journal
to
the
Devil.
I
want
to
mangle
it,
tear
it
to
shreds.
You
smug,
hypocritical
readers!
you'll
get
no
more
of
me.
All
you
say
I
know
is
true
before
you
say
it
and
I
know
now
all
the
criticism
you
are
going
to
launch.
So
please
spare
yourself
the
trouble.
You
cannot
enlighten
me
upon
myself.
I
know.
I
disgust
myself--and
you,
and
as
for
you,
you
can
go
to
the
Devil
with
this
Journal.
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