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349
The Journal of a Disappointed Man
·
W. N. P. Barbellion
278
September
5.
...
I
was
so
ashamed
of
having
to
fall
back
upon
such
ignominious
publications
for
my
literary
efforts
that
on
presenting
him
with
two
copies,
I
told
the
following
lie
to
save
my
face:
"They
were
two
essays
of
mine
left
over
at
the
beginning
of
the
War,
you
know.
My
usual
channel
became
blocked
so
I
had
to
have
recourse
to
these."
"Where
do
you
publish
as
a
rule?"
he
innocently
asked.
"Oh!
several
in
the
Manchester
Guardian,"
I
told
him
out
of
vanity.
"But
of
course
every
respectable
journal
now
has
closed
down
to
extra-war
topics."
I
lie
out
of
vanity.
And
then
I
confess
to
lying--out
of
vanity
too.
So
that
one
way
or
another
I
am
determined
to
make
kudos
out
of
myself.
Even
this
last
reflection
is
written
down
with
an
excessive
appreciation
of
its
wit
and
the
intention
that
it
shall
raise
a
smile.
September
9.
Still
nothing
to
report.
The
anxiety
is
telling
on
us
all.
The
nurse
has
another
case
on
the
22nd.
I
looked
at
myself
in
the
mirror
this
morning--nude,
a
most
revolting
picture.
An
emaciated
human
being
is
the
most
unlovely
thing
in
creation.
Some
time
ago
a
smart
errand
boy
called
out
"Bovril"
after
me
in
the
street.
On
my
way
to
the
Station
met
two
robust,
brawny
curates
on
the
way
to
the
daily
weekday
service--which
is
attended
only
by
two
decrepit
old
women
in
black,
each
with
her
prayer-book
caught
up
to
her
breast
as
if
she
were
afraid
it
might
gallop
off.
That
means
a
parson
apiece--and
in
war
time
too.
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