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349
The Journal of a Disappointed Man
·
W. N. P. Barbellion
294
Service
He
asked
for
a
Tennyson.
She
immediately
went
upstairs
in
the
dark,
lit
a
match
and
got
it
for
him.
He
asked
for
a
Shakespeare.
And
without
a
moment's
hesitation,
she
went
upstairs
again,
lit
another
match
and
got
that
for
him.
And
I
believe
if
he
had
said
"Rats,"
she
would
have
shot
out
silently
into
the
dark
and
tried
to
catch
one
for
him.
Only
a
woman
is
capable
of
such
service.
Hardy's
Poetry
"You
did
not
come,
And
marching
time
drew
on
and
wore
me
numb--
Yet
less
for
loss
of
your
dear
presence
there
Than
that
I
thus
found
lacking
in
your
make
That
high
compassion
which
can
overbear
Reluctance
for
pure
loving-kindness'
sake
Grieved
I,
when,
as
the
hope-hour
stroked
its
sum,
You
did
not
come."
I
thoroughly
enjoy
Hardy's
poetry
for
its
masterfulness,
for
his
sheer
muscular
compulsion
over
the
words
and
sentences.
In
his
rough-hewn
lines
he
yokes
the
recalcitrant
words
together
and
drives
them
along
mercilessly
with
something
that
looks
like
simple
brute
strength.
Witness
the
triumphant
last
line
in
the
above
where
the
words
are
absolute
bondslaves
to
his
exact
meaning,
his
indomitable
will.
All
this
pleases
me
the
more
for
I
know
to
my
cost
what
stubborn,
sullen,
hephæstian
beasts
words
and
clauses
can
sometimes
be.
It
is
nice
to
see
them
punished.
Hardy's
poetry
is
Michael
Angelo
rather
than
Greek,
Browning
not
Tennyson.
December
14.
What
a
day!
After
a
night
of
fog
signals,
I
awoke
this
morning
to
find
it
still
foggy
and
the
ground
covered
with
a
grey
rime.
All
day
the
fog
has
remained:
I
look
out
now
thro'
the
yellowish
atmosphere
across
a
field
which
is
frosted
over,
the
grass
and
brambles
stiff
and
glassy.
My
back
is
aching
and
the
cold
is
so
intense
that
unless
I
crouch
over
the
fire
hands
and
feet
become
immediately
stone-cold.
All
day
I
have
crouched
over
the
fire,
reading
newspapers,
listening
to
fog
signals
and
the
screaming
of
the
baby....
I
have
been
in
a
torpor,
like
a
Bat
in
a
cavern--really
dead
yet
automatically
hanging
on
to
life
by
my
hind
legs.
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