General Press

T.E. Lawrence

Seven Pillars of Wisdom is a memoir of the soldier known as 'Lawrence of Arabia.’ Lawrence is a fascinating and controversial figure and his talent as a vivid and imaginative writer shines through on every page of his masterpiece. ‘Seven Pillars of Wisdom’ written between 1919 and 1926, is an extraordinary tale of action, politics and adventure. The story describes heroism through instances of war by a man who not only shaped events but was molded by them. The genre of the book can be related to many broad subjects like political history, military strategy, pathology or travel story. Lawrence, known as the defender of the empire, had found war in the Arab world and a long-lasting sideline to the War to End All Wars. This war produced more war during the time, in which, along with many other eminent writers, Lawrence was also involved. Seven Pillars of Wisdom provides a unique portrait of this extraordinary man and an insight into the birth of the Arab nation.

Seven Pillars of Wisdom

Francesco

Arab found no joy like the joy of voluntarily holding back. [...] He found luxury in abnegation, renunciation, self restraint.

The faith of the desert was impossible in the towns. [...] The idea, the ground-belief of all Semitic creeds was waiting there, but it had to be diluted to be made comprehensible to us.

Fahad would not hear of my resting quietly outside his tent, but with the reckless equality of the desert men urged me into an unfortunate place inside among his own vermin. There he plied me with bowl after bowl of diuretic camel-milk between questions about Europe, my home tribe, the English camel pastourages, the war in the Hejaz and the wars elsewhere, Egypt and Damascus, how Feisal was, why did we seek Abdulla, and by what perversity did I remain Christian, when their hearts and hands waited to welcome me to the Faith?

It sounded like a twentieth-century restatement of the wars of religion, where logical end was utter destruction of one creed, and whose protagonists believed that God's judgement would prevail. This might do for France and Germany, but would not represent the British attitude. Our Army was not intelligently maintaining a philosophic conception in Flanders or on the Canal. Efforts to make our men hate the enemy usually made them hate the fighting.

Beyrout was altogether new. It would have been bastard French in feeling as in language but for its Greek harbour and American college. Public opinion in it was that of the Christian merchants, fat men living by exchange; for Beyrout itself produced nothing. The next strongest component was the class of returned emigrants, happy on invested savings in the town of Syria which most resembled that Washington Street where they had made good. Beyrout was the door of Syria, a chromatic Levantine screen through which cheap or shop-soiled foreign influences entered: it represented Syria as much as Soho the Home Counties.

In Turkey things were scarce and precious, men less esteemed than equipment. Our cue was to destroy, not the Turk's army, but his minerals. The death of a Turskish bridge or rail, machine or gun or charge of high explosive, was more profitable to us than the death of a Turk. In the Arab Army at the moment we were chary both of materials and of men. Governments saw men only in mass, but our men, being irregulars, were not formations, but individuals. An individual death, like a pebble dropped in water, might make but a brief hole; yet rings of sorrow widened out therefrom. We could not afford casualties.

The Turks were stupid; the Germans behind them dogmatical. They would believe that rebellion was absolute like war, and deal with it on the analogy of war. Analogy in human things was fudge, anyhow; and war upon rebellion was messy and slow, like eating soup with a knife.

I had made a comfortable beginning of doctrine, but was left still to find an alternative end and means of war. Ours seemed unlike the ritual of which Foch was priest, and I recalled him, to see a difference in land between 

 and us. In his modern war - absolute war he called it - two nations professing incompatible philosophies put them to the test of force. Philosophically, it was idiotic, for while opinions were arguable, convictions needed shooting to be cured; [...]

The essence of the desert was the lonely moving individual, the son of the road, apart from the world as in a grave. These troops, in flocks like slow sheep, looked not worthy of the privilege of space.

My mind felt in the Indian rank and file something puny and confined, an air thinking themselves mean, almost a careful, esteemed subservience, unlike the abrupt wholesomeness of Beduin.

[Nuri Shaalan] the hard, silent, cynical old man, held the tribe between his fingers like a tool.

He was a rarity in the desert, a man without sense of argument. He would or would not, and there was no more to it. When others finished talking, he would announce his will in a few flat phrases, and wait calmly for obedience; which came, for he was feared. He was old and wise, which meant tired and disappointed: so old that it was my abiding wonder he should link himself to our enthusiasm.

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