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349
The Journal of a Disappointed Man
·
W. N. P. Barbellion
90
It
is
too
inconceivably
horrible
to
be
buried
in
the
Earth
in
such
splendid
spring
weather.
Who
can
tell
me
what
is
in
store
for
me?...
Life
opens
to
me,
I
catch
a
glimpse
of
a
vision,
and
the
doors
clang
to
again
noiselessly.
It
is
dark.
That
will
be
my
history.
Am
developing
a
passionate
belief
in
my
book
and
a
fever
of
haste
to
complete
it
before
the
congé
définitif.
April
29.
Saw
M----
again,
who
said
my
symptoms
were
alarming
certainly,
but
he
was
sure
no
definite
diagnosis
could
be
made.
April
30.
Went
with
M----
to
see
a
well-known
nerve
specialist--Dr.
H----.
He
could
find
no
symptoms
of
a
definite
disease,
tho'
he
asked
me
suspiciously
if
I
had
ever
been
with
women.
Ordered
two
months'
complete
rest
in
the
country.
H----
chased
me
round
his
consulting
room
with
a
drum-stick,
tapping
my
nerves
and
cunningly
working
my
reflexes.
Then
he
tickled
the
soles
of
my
feet
and
pricked
me
with
a
pin--all
of
which
I
stood
like
a
man.
He
wears
a
soft
black
hat,
looks
like
a
Quaker,
and
reads
the
Verhandlungen
d.
Gesellschaft
d.
Nervenarzten.
M----
is
religious
and
after
I
had
disclosed
my
physique
to
him
yesterday
(for
the
99th
time)
he
remained
on
his
knees
by
the
couch
in
his
consulting
room
(after
working
my
reflexes)
for
a
moment
or
two
in
the
attitude
of
prayer.
When
the
Doctor
prays
for
you--better
call
in
the
undertaker.
My
epitaph
"He
played
Ludo
well."
The
game
anyhow
requires
moral
stamina--ask
H----.
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