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349
The Journal of a Disappointed Man
·
W. N. P. Barbellion
310
My
usual
little
jaunt
up
the
lane
past
the
mossy
farm-house.
Home
to
toasted
tea-cakes
and
a
pinewood
fire,
with
my
wife
chattering
prettily
to
the
baby.
After
tea,
enchanted
by
the
reading
of
a
new
book--Le
Journal
de
Maurice
de
Guérin--or
rather
the
introduction
to
it
by
Sainte-Beuve.
I
devoured
it!
I
have
spent
a
devouring
day;
under
a
calm
exterior
I
have
burnt
up
the
hours;
all
of
me
has
been
athrob;
every
little
cell
in
my
brain
has
danced
to
its
own
little
tune.
For
to-day,
Death
has
been
an
impossibility.
I
have
felt
that
anyhow
to-day
I
could
not
die--I
have
laughed
at
the
mere
thought
of
it.
If
only
this
mood
would
last!
If
I
could
feel
thus
always,
then
I
could
fend
off
Death
for
an
immortality
of
life.
But
suddenly,
as
now,
the
real
horror
of
my
life
and
future
comes
on
me
in
a
flash.
For
a
second
I
am
terrified
by
the
menace
of
the
future,
but
fortunately
only
for
a
second.
For
I've
learnt
a
trick
which
I
fear
to
reveal;
it
is
so
valuable
and
necessary
to
me
that
if
I
talked
of
it
or
vulgarised
it
my
secret
might
be
stolen
away.
Not
a
word
then!
Later.
I
have
just
heard
on
the
gramophone,
some
Grieg,
and
it
has
charged
my
happiness
with
disrupting
voltage
of
desire.
Oh!
if
only
I
had
health,
I
could
make
the
welkin
ring!
I
shall
leave
so
little
behind
me,
such
a
few
paltry
pages
beside
what
I
have
it
in
me
to
do.
It
shatters
me.
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