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349
The Journal of a Disappointed Man
·
W. N. P. Barbellion
270
The
War
rings
the
changes
on
all
the
emotions.
It
twangs
all
my
strings
in
turn
and
occasionally
all
at
once,
so
that
I
scarcely
know
how
to
react
or
what
to
think.
You
see,
here
am
I,
a
compulsory
spectator,
and
all
I
can
do
is
to
reflect.
A
Zeppelin
brought
down
in
flames
that
lit
up
all
London--now
that
makes
me
want
to
write
like
Mr.
Garvin.
But
a
Foreign
Correspondent's
eager
discussion
of
"Italy's
aspirations
in
the
Trentino,"
how
Russia
insists
on
a
large
slice
of
Turkey,
and
so
forth,
makes
me
splutter.
How
insufferably
childish
to
be
slicing
up
the
earth's
surface!
How
immeasureably
"above
the
battle"
I
am
at
times.
What
a
prig
you
will
say
I
am
when
I
sneer
at
such
contemptible
little
devilries
as
the
Bodies'
trick
of
sending
over
a
little
note,
"Warsaw
is
fallen,"
into
our
trenches,
or
as
ours
in
reply:
"Gorizia!"
"There
is
no
difference
in
principle
between
the
case
of
a
man
who
loses
a
limb
in
the
service
of
his
country
and
that
of
the
man
who
loses
his
reason,
both
have
an
obvious
claim
to
the
grateful
recognition
of
the
State."--A
morning
paper.
A
jejune
comment
like
this
makes
me
grin
like
a
gargoyle!
Hark
to
the
fellow--this
leader-writer
over
his
cup
of
tea.
But
it
is
a
lesson
to
show
how
easily
and
quickly
we
have
all
adapted
ourselves
to
the
War.
The
War
is
everything;
it
is
noble,
filthy,
great,
petty,
degrading,
inspiring,
ridiculous,
glorious,
mad,
bad,
hopeless
yet
full
of
hope.
I
don't
know
what
to
think
about
it.
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