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349
The Journal of a Disappointed Man
·
W. N. P. Barbellion
335
What
delights
me
is
to
recall
that
our
love
has
evolved.
It
did
not
suddenly
spring
into
existence
like
some
beautiful
sprite.
It
developed
slowly
to
perfection--it
was
forged
in
the
white
heat
of
our
experiences.
That
is
why
it
will
always
remain.
September
1.
Your
love,
darling,
impregnates
my
heart,
touches
it
into
calm,
strongly
beating
life
so
that
when
I
am
with
you,
I
forget
I
am
a
dying
man.
It
is
too
difficult
to
believe
that
when
we
die
true
love
like
ours
disappears
with
our
bodies.
My
own
experience
makes
me
feel
that
human
love
is
the
earnest
after
death
of
a
great
reunion
of
souls
in
God
who
is
love.
When
as
a
boy
I
was
bending
the
knee
to
Haeckel,
the
saying,
"God
is
Love,"
scarcely
interested
me.
I
am
wiser
now.
You
must
not
think
I
am
still
anything
but
an
infidel
(as
the
churchmen
say),--I
should
hate
not
to
be
taken
for
an
infidel--and
you
must
not
be
surprised
that
an
embittered,
angry,
hateful
person
like
myself
should
believe
in
a
Gospel
of
Love.
I
am
embittered
because
an
intense
desire
to
love
has
in
many
instances[3]
been
baulked
by
my
own
idealising
yet
also
analytical
mind.
I
have
wanted
to
love
men
blindly,
yet
I
am
always
finding
them
out,
and
the
disappointment
chills
the
heart.
Hence
my
malice
and
venom:
which,
dear,
do
not
misconstrue.
I
am
as
greedy
as
an
Octopus,
ready
out
of
love
to
take
the
whole
world
into
my
inside--that
seat
of
the
affections!--but
I
am
also
as
sensitive
as
an
Octopus,
and
quickly
retract
my
arms
into
the
rocky,
impregnable
recess
where
I
live.
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