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349
The Journal of a Disappointed Man
·
W. N. P. Barbellion
324
March
15.
How
revolting
it
is
to
see
some
barren
old
woman
love-sick
over
a
baby,
bestowing
voluptuous
kisses
on
its
nose,
eyes,
hands,
feet,
utterly
intoxicated
and
chattering
incessantly
in
the
"little
language,"
and
hopping
about
like
an
infatuated
cock
grouse.
May
5.
The
nurse
has
been
here
now
for
over
five
weeks.
One
day
has
been
pretty
much
the
same
as
another.
I
get
out
of
bed
usually
about
tea-time
and
sit
by
the
window
and
churn
over
past,
present,
and
future.
However,
the
Swallows
have
arrived
at
last,
though
they
were
very
late,
and
there
are
also
Cuckoos,
Green
Wood-peckers,
Moorhens,
calling
from
across
the
park.
At
night,
when
the
moon
is
up,
I
get
a
great
deal
of
fun
out
of
an
extremely
self-inflated
Brown
Owl,
who
hoots
up
through
the
breadth
and
length
of
the
valley,
and
then
I
am
sure,
listens
with
satisfaction
to
his
echo.
Still,
I
have
much
sympathy
with
that
Brown
Owl
and
his
hooting.
What
I
do
(goodness
knows
what
E----
does),
is
to
drug
my
mind
with
print.
I
am
just
a
rag-bag
of
Smollett,
H.G.
Wells,
Samuel
Butler,
the
Daily
News,
the
Bible,
the
Labour
Leader,
Joseph
Vance,
etc.,
etc.
Except
for
an
occasional
geyser
of
malediction
when
some
particularly
acrid
memory
comes
uppermost
in
my
mind,
I
find
myself
submitting
with
a
surprising
calm
and
even
cheerfulness.
That
agony
of
frustration
which
gnawed
my
vitals
so
much
in
1913
has
disappeared,
and
I,
who
expected
to
go
down
in
the
smoke
and
sulphur
of
my
own
fulminations,
am
quite
as
likely
to
fold
my
hands
across
my
chest
with
a
truly
Christian
resignation.
Joubert
said,
"Patience
and
misfortune,
courage
and
death,
resignation
and
the
inevitable,
generally
come
together.
Indifference
to
life
generally
arises
with
the
impossibility
of
preserving
it"--how
cynical
that
sounds.
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