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349
The Journal of a Disappointed Man
·
W. N. P. Barbellion
317
March
2.
I
ask
myself:
what
are
my
views
on
death,
the
next
world,
God?
I
look
into
my
mind
and
discover
I
am
too
much
of
a
mannikin
to
have
any.
As
for
death,
I
am
a
little
bit
of
trembling
jelly
of
anticipation.
I
am
prepared
for
anything,
but
I
am
the
complete
agnostic;
I
simply
don't
know.
To
have
views,
faith,
beliefs,
one
needs
a
backbone.
This
great
bully
of
a
universe
overwhelms
me.
The
stars
make
me
cower.
I
am
intimidated
by
the
immensity
surrounding
my
own
littleness.
It
is
futile
and
presumptuous
for
me
to
opine
anything
about
the
next
world.
But
I
hope
for
something
much
freer
and
more
satisfying
after
death,
for
emancipation
of
the
spirit
and
above
all
for
the
obliteration
of
this
puny
self,
this
little,
skulking,
sharp-witted
ferret.
A
Potted
Novel
(1)
He
was
an
imaginative
youth,
and
she
a
tragedy
queen.
So
he
fell
in
love
with
her
because
she
was
melancholy
and
her
past
tragic.
"She
is
capable
of
tragedy,
too,"
he
said,
which
was
a
high
encomium.
But
he
was
also
an
ambitious
youth
and
all
for
dalliance
in
love.
"Marriage,"
said
he
sententiously,
"is
an
economic
trap."
And
then,
a
little
wistfully:
"If
she
were
a
bit
more
melancholy
and
a
bit
more
beautiful
she
would
be
quite
irresistible."
(2)
But
he
was
a
miserable
youth,
too,
and
in
the
anguish
of
loneliness
and
lovelessness
a
home
tempted
him
sorely.
Still,
he
dallied.
She
waited.
Ill-health
after
all
made
marriage
impossible.
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