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349
The Journal of a Disappointed Man
·
W. N. P. Barbellion
97
I
went--and
of
course
everything
passed
off
in
the
most
normal
manner.
She
is
a
very
pretty
girl--like
velvet.
Before
dinner,
we
walked
in
the
garden--and
talked
only
of
flowers.
June
4.
On
the
Hill,
this
morning,
felt
the
thrill
of
the
news
of
my
own
Death:
I
mean
I
imagined
I
heard
the
words,--
"You've
heard
the
news
about
B----?"
Second
Voice:
"No,
what?"
"He's
dead."
Silence.
Won't
all
this
seem
piffle
if
I
don't
die
after
all!
As
an
artist
in
life
I
ought
to
die;
it
is
the
only
artistic
ending
--and
I
ought
to
die
now
or
the
Third
Act
will
fizzle
out
in
a
long
doctor's
bill.
June
5.
A
New
Pile
in
the
Pier
Watched
some
men
put
a
new
pile
in
the
pier.
There
was
all
the
usual
paraphernalia
of
chains,
pulleys,
cranes,
and
ropes,
with
a
massive
wooden
pile
swinging
over
the
water
at
the
end
of
a
long
wire
hawser.
Everything
was
in
the
massive
style--even
the
men--very
powerful
men,
slow,
ruminative,
silent
men.
Nothing
very
relevant
could
be
gathered
from
casual
remarks.
The
conversation
was
without
exception
monosyllabic:
"Let
go,"
or
"Stand
fast."
But
by
close
attention
to
certain
obscure
movements
of
the
man
on
the
ladder
near
the
water's
edge,
it
gradually
came
thro'
to
my
consciousness
that
all
these
powerful,
silent
men
were
up
against
some
bitter
difficulty.
I
cannot
say
what
it
was.
The
burly
monsters
were
silent
about
the
matter....
In
fact
they
appeared
almost
indifferent--and
tired,
oh!
so
very
tired
of
the
whole
business.
The
attitude
of
the
man
nearest
me
was
that
for
all
he
cared
the
pile
could
go
on
swinging
in
mid-air
to
the
crack
of
Doom.
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