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349
The Journal of a Disappointed Man
·
W. N. P. Barbellion
320
I
think
it
was
De
Quincey
who
said
Death
to
him
seemed
most
awful
in
the
summer.
On
the
contrary
the
earth
is
warm
then,
and
would
welcome
my
old
bones.
It
is
on
a
cold
night
by
the
winter
fire
that
the
churchyard
seems
to
me
the
least
inviting:
especially
horrible
it
is
the
first
evening
after
the
funeral.
March
10.
Have
had
a
relapse.
My
hand
I
fear
is
going.
Food
prices
are
leaping
up.
Woe
to
the
unfit
and
the
old
and
the
poor
in
these
coming
days!
We
shall
soon
have
nothing
left
in
our
pantries,
and
a
piece
of
Wrigley's
chewing
gum
will
be
our
only
comfort.
When
I
come
to
quit
this
world
I
scarcely
know
which
will
be
the
greater
regret:
the
people
I
have
never
met,
or
the
places
I
have
never
seen.
In
the
world
of
books,
I
rest
fairly
content:
I
have
read
my
fair
share.
To-day
I
read
down
the
column
of
to-morrow's
preachers
with
the
most
ludicrous
avidity,
ticking
off
the
Churches
I
have
visited:
St.
Paul's
and
the
Abbey,
the
Ethical
Church
in
Bayswater
and
Westminster
Cathedral.
But
the
Unitarians,
the
Christadelphians,
the
Theosophists,
the
Church
of
Christ
Scientist,
the
Buddhist
Society,
the
Brompton
Oratory,
the
Church
of
Humanity,
the
New
Life
Centre;
all
these
adventures
I
intended
one
day
to
make....
It
is
not
much
fun
ticking
off
things
you
have
done
from
a
list
if
you
have
done
very
little.
I
get
more
satisfaction
out
of
a
list
of
books.
But
Iona
and
the
Hebrides,
Edinburgh,
Brussels,
Buenos
Ayres,
Spitzbergen
(when
the
flowers
are
out),
the
Niagara
Falls
(by
moonlight),
the
Grindelwald,
Cairo--these
names
make
me
growl
and
occasionally
yelp
like
a
hurt
puppy,
although
to
outward
view
I
am
sitting
in
an
armchair
blowing
smoke-rings.
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