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349
The Journal of a Disappointed Man
·
W. N. P. Barbellion
283
My
God!
how
I
loathe
the
prospect
of
death.
November
3.
I
must
have
some
music
or
I
shall
hear
the
paralysis
creeping.
That
is
why
I
lie
in
bed
and
whistle.
"My
dear
Brown,
what
am
I
to
do?"[5]
(I
like
to
dramatise
myself
like
that--it
is
an
anodyne).
I
feel
as
if
I
were
living
alone
on
Ascension
Island
with
the
tide
coming
up
continuously,
up
and
up
and
up.
November
6.
She
has
known
all
from
the
beginning!
M----
warned
her
not
to
marry
me.
How
brave
and
loyal
of
her!
What
an
ass
I
have
been.
I
am
overwhelmed
with
feelings
of
shame
and
self-contempt
and
sorrow
for
her.
She
is
quite
cheerful
and
an
enormous
help.
November
12.
What
a
wreck
my
existence
has
become
and--dragging
down
others
with
me.
If
only
I
could
rest
assured
that
after
I
am
dead
these
Journals
will
be
tenderly
cared
for--as
tenderly
as
this
blessed
infant!
It
would
be
cruel
if
even
after
I
have
paid
the
last
penalty,
my
efforts
and
sufferings
should
continue
to
remain
unknown
or
disregarded.
What
I
would
give
to
know
the
effect
I
shall
produce
when
published!
I
am
tortured
by
two
doubts--whether
these
MSS.
(the
labour
and
hope
of
many
years)
will
survive
accidental
loss
and
whether
they
really
are
of
any
value.
I
have
no
faith
in
either.
November
14.
In
fits
of
panic,
I
keep
saying
to
myself:
"My
dear
Brown,
what
am
I
to
do?"
But
where
is
Brown?
Brown,
you
devil!
where
are
you?
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