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349
The Journal of a Disappointed Man
·
W. N. P. Barbellion
265
My
gratitude
to
E----
for
plucking
me
out
of
the
hideous
miseries
of
my
life
in
London
is
greater
than
I
can
express.
If
I
were
the
cheap
hero
of
a
ladies'
novel
I
should
immolate
my
journals
as
a
token,
and
you
would
have
a
pretty
picture
of
a
pale
young
man
watching
his
days
go
up
in
smoke
by
the
drawing-room
fire.
But
I
have
more
confidence
in
her
sterling
good
sense,
and
if
I
cannot
be
loved
for
what
I
am,
I
do
not
wish
to
be
loved
for
what
I
am
not.
Since
the
fateful
Nov.
27th,
my
life
has
become
entirely
posthumous.
I
live
now
in
the
grave
and
am
busy
furnishing
it
with
posthumous
joys.
I
accept
my
fate
with
great
content,
my
one-time
restless
ambition
lies
asleep
now,
my
one-time,
furious
self-assertiveness
is
anæsthetised
by
this
great
War;
the
War
and
the
discovery
about
my
health
together
have
plucked
out
of
me
that
canker
of
self-obsession.
I
sit
at
home
here
in
this
country
cottage
in
perfect
isolation--flattened
out
by
a
steam
hammer
(tho'
it
took
Armageddon
to
do
it!),
yet
as
cheerful
and
busy
as
a
Dormouse
laying
up
store
for
the
winter.
For
I
am
almost
resigned
to
the
issue
in
the
knowledge
that
some
day,
someone
will
know,
perhaps
somebody
will
understand
and--immortal
powers!--even
sympathise,
"the
quick
heart
quickening
from
the
heart
that's
still."
July
19.
Omniscience
An
omniscient
Caledonian
asked
me
to-day:
"Where
are
the
Celebes?
Are
they
E.
or
N.E.
of
the
Sandwich
Group?"
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