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349
The Journal of a Disappointed Man
·
W. N. P. Barbellion
322
But,
by
Jove,
I
wreak
vengeance
on
my
familiars,
and
on
those
brethren
even
weaker
than
myself.
They
get
my
concentrated
gall,
my
sulphurous
fulminations,
and
would
wonder
to
read
this
confession.
Cynicism
For
an
unusually
long
time
after
I
grew
up,
I
maintained
a
beautiful
confidence
in
the
goodness
of
mankind.
Rumours
did
reach
me,
but
I
brushed
them
aside
as
slanders.
I
was
an
ingénu,
unsuspecting,
credulous.
I
thoroughly
believed
that
men
and
women
and
I
were
much
better
than
we
actually
are.
I
have
not
come
to
the
end
of
my
disillusions
even
now.
I
still
rub
my
eyes
on
occasion.
I
simply
can't
believe
that
we
are
such
humbugs,
hypocrites,
self-deceivers.
And
strange
to
say
it
is
the
"good"
people
above
all
who
most
bitterly
disappoint
me.
Give
me
a
healthy
liar,
or
a
thief,
or
a
vagabond,
and
he
arouses
no
expectations,
and
so
I
get
no
heart-burning.
It
is
the
good,
the
honest,
the
true,
who
cheat
me
of
my
boyhood's
beliefs....
I
am
a
cynic
then,
but
not
a
reckless
cynic--a
careworn
unhappy
cynic
without
the
cynic's
pride.
"It
is
easy
to
be
cynical,"
someone
admonished
me.
"Unfortunately
it
is,"
I
said.
We
are
so
cold,
so
aloof,
so
self-centred
even
the
warmest
friends.
Men
of
piety
love
God,
but
their
love
for
each
other
is
so
commonly
but
a
poor
thing.
My
own
affections
are
always
frosted
over
with
the
Englishman's
reserve.
I
hesitate
as
if
I
were
not
sure
of
them.
I
am
afraid
of
self-deception,
I
hate
to
find
out
either
myself
or
others.
And
yet
I
am
always
doing
so.
Mine
is
a
restlessly
analytical
brain.
I
dissect
everyone,
even
those
I
love,
and
my
discoveries
frequently
sting
me
to
the
quick.
"To
the
pure
all
things
are
pure,"
whence
I
should
conclude
I
suppose
that
it
is
the
beam
in
my
own
eye.
But
I
would
not
tolerate
being
deceived
concerning
either
my
own
beam
or
other
people's
motes.
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