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1
349
The Journal of a Disappointed Man
·
W. N. P. Barbellion
308
January
26.
Out
of
doors
to-day
it's
like
the
roaring
forties!
Every
tree
I
passed
in
the
lane
was
a
great
wind
instrument,
bellowing
out
a
passionate
song,
and
the
sky
was
torn
to
ribbons.
It
is
cold
enough
to
freeze
the
nose
off
a
brass
Monkey,
but
very
exhilarating.
I
stood
on
the
hill
and
squared
my
fists
to
the
wind
and
bade
everything
come
on.
I
sit
writing
this
by
the
fire
and
am
thoroughly
scourged
and
purified
by
this
great
castigating
wind....
I
think
I
will
stick
it
out--I
will
sit
quite
still
in
my
chair
and
defy
this
sculking
footpad--let
the
paralysis
creep
into
every
bone,
I
will
hang
on
to
the
last
and
watch
it
skulking
with
my
most
hideous
grimace.
January
27.
Still
freezing
and
blowing.
Coming
back
from
the
village,
tho'
I
was
tired
and
hobbling
badly,
decided
to
walk
up
the
lane
even
if
it
meant
crawling
home
on
hands
and
knees.
The
sky
was
a
quick-change
artist
to-day.
Every
time
you
looked
you
saw
a
different
picture.
From
the
bottom
of
the
hill
I
looked
up
and
saw
above
me--it
seemed
at
an
immense
and
windy
height--a
piece
of
blue,
framed
in
an
irregular
edge
of
white
woolly
cloud
seen
thro'
the
crooked
branches
of
an
Oak.
It
was
a
narrow
crooked
lane,
sunk
deep
in
the
soil
with
large
smooth
surfaces
of
stone
like
skulls
bulging
up
in
places
where
the
rain
had
washed
away
the
soil.
Further
on,
the
sun
was
lying
low
almost
in
the
centre
of
a
semi-circular
bend
in
the
near
horizon.
It
frosted
the
wool
of
a
few
sheep
seen
in
silhouette,
and
then
slowly
disappeared
in
mist.
On
the
right-hand
side
was
a
cottage
with
the
smoke
being
wrenched
away
from
the
chimney
top,
and
on
the
left
a
group
of
stately
Firs,
chanting
a
requiem
like
a
cathedral
choir.
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