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349
The Journal of a Disappointed Man
·
W. N. P. Barbellion
279
September
10.
My
sympathy
with
myself
is
so
unfailing
that
I
don't
deserve
anybody
else's.
In
many
respects,
however,
this
Journal
I
believe
gives
the
impression
that
I
behave
myself
in
the
public
gaze
much
worse
than
I
actually
do.
You
must
remember
that
herein
I
let
myself
go
at
a
stretch
gallop:
in
life
I
rein
in,
I
am
almost
another
person.
Would
you
believe
it,
E----
says
I
am
full
of
quick
sympathy
with
others
and
extraordinarily
cheerful,
nay
gay.
Verily
I
lead
a
curious
double
existence:
among
most
people,
I
pass
for
a
complaisant,
amiable,
mealy-mouthed,
furry
if
conceited
creature.
Here
I
stand
revealed
as
a
contemptuous,
arrogant
malcontent.
My
life
has
embittered
me
an
fond,
I
have
the
crabbed
temper
of
the
disappointed
man
insufficiently
developed
yet
to
be
very
plainly
visible
beneath
my
innate
affable,
unassuming,
humble,
diffident,
cheerful
characteristics.
With
fools
on
every
hand
I
am
becoming
insolent,
aggressive,
self-declamatory.
Last
evening
came
home
and
got
down
Robert
Buchanan's
sonnet,
"When
He
returns
and
finds
the
world
so
drear,"
and
felt
constrained
to
read
it
out
to
E----.
I
poured
out
its
acid
sentiment
with
the
base
revenge
of
a
vitriol
thrower,
and
then
became
quiescent.
It
is
a
helpless
feeling,
sitting
still
and
watching
circumstances
pounding
away
at
my
malleable
character
and
moulding
it
wrongly.
September
14.
An
American
Neighbour
We
have
a
delightful
American
neighbour
here
whose
life
revolves
like
the
fly-wheel
of
an
engine.
Even
when
not
in
eruption
his
volcanic
energy
is
always
rumbling
and
can
be
heard.
Seeing
he
is
a
globe
trotter,
I
was
surprised
to
observe
his
most
elaborate
precautions
for
catching
the
train
and
getting
a
seat
when
he
takes
his
wife
and
family
to
town.
He
first
of
all
plants
himself
and
all
his
property
down
at
a
certain
carefully
selected
point
along
the
platform
as
if
he
were
in
the
wild
west
lying
in
wait
for
a
Buffalo.
Then
as
the
train
comes
in,
his
eye
fixes
on
an
empty
compartment
as
it
passes
and
he
dashes
off
after
it
in
furious
pursuit
up
the
platform,
shouting
to
his
family
to
follow
him.
Having
lassooed
the
compartment,
squaw
and
piccaninnies
are
hustled
in
as
if
there
was
not
a
moment
to
lose,
what
time
the
black-coated,
suburban
Englishmen
look
on
in
pain
and
silence,
and
then
slowly
with
offensive
deliberation
enter
their
respective
carriages.
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