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349
The Journal of a Disappointed Man
·
W. N. P. Barbellion
51
May
14.
Returned
home.
I
hate
living
in
this
little
town.
If
some
one
dies,
he
is
sure
to
be
some
one
you
had
a
joke
with
the
night
before.
A
suicide--ten
to
one--implicates
your
bosom
friend,
or
else
the
little
man
at
the
bookshop
cut
him
down.
There
have
been
three
deaths
since
I
came
home--I
knew
them
all.
It
depresses
me.
The
town
seems
a
mortuary
with
all
these
dead
bodies
lying
in
it.
Lucky
for
you,
if
you're
a
fat,
rubicund,
unimaginative
physician.
May
16.
Two
more
people
dead--one
a
school
friend.
Sat
on
a
seat
on
the
river
bank
and
read
the
Journal
of
Animal
Behaviour.
It
made
me
long
to
be
at
work.
I
foamed
at
the
mouth
to
be
sitting
there
perforce
in
an
overcoat
on
a
seat
doing
nothing
like
a
pet
dove.
A
weak
heart
makes
crossing
a
road
an
adventure
and
turns
each
day
into
a
dangerous
expedition.
May
18.
A
dirty
ragamuffin
on
the
river's
bank
held
up
a
tin
can
to
me
with
the
softly
persuasive
words,--
"'Ere,
Mister,
BAIT."
"What
are
you
going
to
do
with
it?"
"Fish."
"What
for?"
"Salmon."
We
have
all
tried
to
catch
salmon
with
a
bent
pin.
No
matter
though
if
no
salmon
be
caught.
Richard
Jefferies
said,
"If
there
be
no
immortality
still
we
shall
have
had
the
glory
of
that
thought."
May
19.
Old
Diaries
Spent
some
happy
time
reading
over
old
diaries.
I
was
grieved
and
surprised
to
find
how
much
I
had
forgotten.
To
forget
the
past
so
easily
seems
scarcely
loyal
to
oneself.
I
am
so
selfishly
absorbed
in
my
present
self
that
I
have
grown
not
to
care
a
damn
about
that
ever
increasing
collection
of
past
selves--those
dear,
dead
gentlemen
who
one
after
the
other
have
tenanted
the
temple
of
this
flesh
and
handed
on
the
torch
of
my
life
and
personal
identity
before
creeping
away
silently
and
modestly
to
rest.
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