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349
The Journal of a Disappointed Man
·
W. N. P. Barbellion
93
Stagnancy
A
stagnant
day.
Lay
still
in
the
Park
all
day
with
just
sufficient
energy
to
observe.
The
Park
was
almost
empty.
Every
one
but
me
at
work.
Nothing
is
more
dreary
than
a
pleasure
ground
on
workdays.
There
was
one
man
a
little
way
off
throwing
a
ball
to
a
clever
dog.
Behind
me
on
the
path,
some
one
came
along
wheeling
a
pram.
I
listened
in
a
kind
of
coma
to
the
scrunching
of
the
gravel
in
the
distance
a
long
time
after
the
pram
was
out
of
sight.
Far
away--the
tinkle
of
Church
bells
in
a
village
across
the
river,
and,
in
front,
the
man
still
throwing
the
ball
to
his
clever
dog.
May
25.
Death
...
I
suppose
the
truth
is
I
am
at
last
broken
to
the
idea
of
Death.
Once
it
terrified
me
and
once
I
hated
it.
But
now
it
only
annoys
me.
Having
lived
with
the
Bogey
for
so
long,
and
broken
bread
with
him
so
often,
I
am
used
to
his
ugliness,
tho'
his
persistent
attentions
bore
me.
Why
doesn't
he
do
it
and
have
done
with
me?
Why
this
deference,
why
does
he
pass
me
everything
but
the
poison?
Why
am
I
such
an
unconscionably
long
time
dying?
What
embitters
me
is
the
humiliation
of
having
to
die,
to
have
to
be
pouring
out
the
precious
juices
of
my
life
into
the
dull
Earth,
to
be
no
longer
conscious
of
what
goes
on,
no
longer
moving
abroad
upon
the
Earth
creating
attraction
and
repulsions,
pouring
out
one's
ego
in
a
stream.
To
think
that
the
women
I
have
loved
will
be
marrying
and
forget,
and
that
the
men
I
have
hated
will
continue
on
their
way
and
forget
I
ever
hated
them--the
ignominy
of
being
dead!
What
voluble
talker
likes
his
mouth
to
be
stopped
with
earth,
who
relishes
the
idea
of
the
carrion
worm
mining
in
the
seat
of
the
intellect?
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