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349
The Journal of a Disappointed Man
·
W. N. P. Barbellion
326
I
sit
all
day
in
my
chair,
moving
8
feet
to
my
bed
at
night,
and
8
feet
from
it
to
my
chair
in
the
morning--and
wait.
The
assignation
is
certain.
"Life
is
a
coquetry
with
Death
that
wearies
me,
Too
sure
of
the
amour."
July
5.
It
is
odd
that
at
this
time
of
the
breaking
of
nations,
Destiny,
with
her
hands
so
full,
should
spare
the
time
to
pursue
a
non-combatant
atom
like
me
down
such
a
labyrinthine
side-track.
It
is
odd
to
find
her
determined
to
destroy
me
with
such
tremendous
thoroughness--one
would
have
thought
it
sufficient
merely
to
brush
the
dust
off
my
wings.
Why
this
deliberate,
slow-moving
malignity?
Perhaps
it
is
a
punishment
for
the
impudence
of
my
desires.
I
wanted
everything
so
I
get
nothing.
I
gave
nothing
so
I
receive
nothing.
I
am
not
offering
up
my
life
willingly--it
is
being
taken
from
me
piece
by
piece,
while
I
watch
the
pilfering
with
lamentable
eyes.
I
have
tendered
my
resignation
and
retire
on
a
small
gratuity.
July
7.
My
hand
gets
a
little
better.
But
it's
a
cat
and
mouse
game,
and
so
humiliating
to
be
the
mouse.
...
Parental
affection
comes
to
me
only
in
spasms,
and
if
they
hurt,
they
do
not
last
long.
Curiously
enough,
as
in
the
case
of
very
old
people,
my
consciousness
reverts
more
easily
to
conditions
long
past.
I
seem
unable
to
apprehend
all
the
significance
of
having
a
nine-months
old
daughter,
but
some
Bullfinches
or
Swallows
seen
thro'
the
window
rouse
me
more.
No
one
can
deny
I
have
loved
Birds
to
intoxication.
In
my
youth,
birds'
eggs,
and
little
nestlings
and
chickens
sent
me
into
such
raptures
I
could
never
tell
it
to
you
adequately....
I
am
too
tired
to
write
more.
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