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349
The Journal of a Disappointed Man
·
W. N. P. Barbellion
328
I
get
out
of
bed
about
ten,
wash
and
sit
by
the
window
in
my
blue
striped
pyjama
suit.
It
is
so
hot
I
need
no
additional
clothing.
E----
comes
in,
brushes
my
hair,
sprinkles
me
with
lavender
water,
lights
my
cigarette,
and
gives
me
my
book-rest
and
books.
She
forgets
nothing.
From
my
window
I
look
out
on
a
field
with
Beech
hedge
down
one
side
and
beyond,
tall
trees--one
showing
in
outline
exactly
like
the
profile
of
a
Beefeater's
head,
more
especially
at
sunset
each
evening
when
the
tree
next
behind
is
in
shadow.
The
field
is
full
of
blue
Scabious
plants,
Wild
Parsley
and
tall
grass--getting
brown
now
in
the
sun.
Great
numbers
of
White
Butterflies
are
continually
rocking
themselves
across--they
go
over
in
coveys
of
four
or
five
at
a
time--I
counted
50
in
five
minutes,
which
bodes
ill
for
the
cabbages.
Not
even
the
heaviest
thunder
showers
seem
to
debilitate
their
kinetic
ardour.
They
rock
on
like
white
aeroplanes
in
a
hail
of
machine-gun
bullets.
Then
there
are
the
Swallows
and
Martins
cutting
such
beautiful
figures
thro'
the
air
that
one
wishes
they
carried
a
pencil
in
their
bills
as
they
fly
and
traced
the
lines
of
flight
on
a
Bristol
board.
How
I
hanker
after
the
Swallows!
so
free
and
gay
and
vigorous.
This
autumn,
as
they
prepare
to
start,
I
shall
hang
on
every
twitter
they
make,
and
on
every
wing-beat;
and
when
they
have
gone,
begin
sadly
to
set
my
house
in
order,
as
when
some
much
loved
visitors
have
taken
their
departure.
I
am
appreciating
things
a
little
more
the
last
few
days.
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