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349
The Journal of a Disappointed Man
·
W. N. P. Barbellion
313
February
3.
This
morning
on
arriving
at
S.
Kensington,
went
straight
to
a
Chemist's
shop,
but
finding
someone
inside,
I
drew
back,
and
went
on
to
another.
"Have
you
any
morphia
tabloids?"
I
asked
a
curly-haired,
nice-looking,
smiling
youth,
who
leaned
with
both
hands
on
the
counter
and
looked
at
me
knowingly,
as
if
he
had
had
unlimited
experience
of
would-be
morphi
nomaniacs.
"Yes,
plenty
of
them,"
he
said,
fencing.
And
then
waited.
"Can
you
supply
me?"
I
asked,
feeling
very
conscious
of
myself.
He
smiled
once
more,
shook
his
head
and
said
it
was
contrary
to
the
Defence
of
the
Realm
Act.
I
made
a
sorry
effort
to
appear
ingenuous,
and
he
said:
"Of
course,
it
is
only
a
palliative."
With
a
solemn
countenance
intended
to
indicate
pain
I
answered:
"Yes,
but
palliatives
are
very
necessary
sometimes,"
and
I
walked
out
of
the
hateful
shop
discomfited.
February
6.
Am
busy
re-writing,[1]
editing
and
bowdlerising
my
journals
for
publication
against
the
time
when
I
shall
have
gone
the
way
of
all
flesh.
No
one
else
would
prepare
it
for
publication
if
I
don't.
Reading
it
through
again,
I
see
what
a
remarkable
book
I
have
written.
If
only
they
will
publish
it!
February
7.
Chinese
Lanterns
The
other
morning
as
I
dressed,
I
could
see
the
sun
like
a
large
yellow
moon
rising
on
a
world,
stiff,
stark,
its
contours
merely
indicated
beneath
a
winding-sheet
of
snow.
Further
around
the
horizon
was
another
moon--the
full
moon
itself--yellow
likewise,
but
setting.
It
was
the
strangest
picture
I
ever
saw.
I
might
well
have
been
upon
another
planet;
I
could
not
have
been
more
surprised
even
at
a
whole
ring
of
yellow
satellites
arranged
at
regular
intervals
all
around
the
horizon.
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