Title: Seven Pillars of Wisdom - chadpearce.com

Title: Seven Pillars of Wisdom
Author: T.E. Lawrence (1888-1935) To S.A. I loved you, so I drew these tides of men into my hands
and wrote my will across the sky in stars
To earn you Freedom, the seven-pillared worthy house,
that your eyes might be shining for me
When we came. Death seemed my servant on the road, till we were near
and saw you waiting:
When you smiled, and in sorrowful envy he outran me
and took you apart:
Into his quietness. Love, the way-weary, groped to your body, our brief wage
ours for the moment
Before earth's soft hand explored your shape, and the blind
worms grew fat upon
Your substance. Men prayed me that I set our work, the inviolate house,
as a menory of you.
But for fit monument I shattered it, unfinished: and now
The little things creep out to patch themselves hovels
in the marred shadow
Of your gift. Mr Geoffrey Dawson persuaded All Souls College to give me leisure,
in 1919-1920, to write about the Arab Revolt. Sir Herbert Baker let me
live and work in his Westminster houses. The book so written passed in 1921 into proof; where it was fortunate in
the friends who criticized it. Particularly it owes its thanks to Mr. and
Mrs. Bernard Shaw for countless suggestions of great value and diversity:
and for all the present semicolons. It does not pretend to be impartial. I was fighting for my hand, upon my
own midden. Please take it as a personal narrative piece out of memory.
I could not make proper notes: indeed it would have been a breach of my
duty to the Arabs if I had picked such flowers while they fought. My
superior officers, Wilson, Joyce, Dawnay, Newcombe and Davenport could
each tell a like tale. The same is true of Stirling, Young, LIoyd and
Maynard: of Buxton and Winterton: of Ross, Stent and Siddons: of Peake,
Homby, Scott-Higgins and Garland: of Wordie, Bennett and MacIndoe: of
Bassett, Scott, Goslett, Wood and Gray: of Hinde, Spence and Bright: of
Brodie and Pascoe, Gilman and Grisenthwaite, Greenhill, Dowsett and Wade:
of Henderson, Leeson, Makins and Nunan. And there were many other leaders or lonely fighters to whom this
self-regardant picture is not fair. It is still less fair, of course, like
all war-stories, to the un-named rank and file: who miss their share of
credit, as they must do, until they can write the despatches. T. E. S.
Cranwell, 15.8.26 LIST OF CONTENTS
INTRODUCTORY CHAPTER
INTRODUCTION. Foundations of Revolt
BOOK ONE. The Discovery of Feisal
BOOK TWO. Opening the Arab Offensive
BOOK THREE. A Railway Diversion
BOOK FOUR. Extending to Akaba
BOOK FIVE. Marking Time
BOOK SIX. The Raid upon the Bridges
BOOK SEVEN. The Dead Sea Campaign
BOOK EIGHT. The Ruin of High Hope
BOOK NINE. Balancing for a Last Effort
BOOK TEN. The House is Perfected
EPILOGUE
INTRODUCTORY CHAPTER
The story which follows was first written out in Paris during the Peace
Conference, from notes jotted daily on the march, strengthened by some
reports sent to my chiefs in Cairo. Afterwards, in the autumn of 1919,
this first draft and some of the notes were lost. It seemed to me
historically needful to reproduce the tale, as perhaps no one but myself
in Feisal's army had thought of writing down at the time what we felt,
what we hoped, what we tried. So it was built again with heavy repugnance
in London in the winter of 1919-20 from memory and my surviving notes. The
record of events was not dulled in me and perhaps few actual mistakes
crept in--except in details of dates or numbers--but the outlines and
significance of things had lost edge in the haze of new interests. Dates and places are correct, so far as my notes preserved them: but the
personal names are not. Since the adventure some of those who worked with
me have buried themselves in the shallow grave of public duty. Free
use has been made of their names. Others still possess themselves, and
here keep their secrecy. Sometimes one man carried various names. This may
hide individuality and make the book a scatter of featureless puppets,
rather than a group of living people: but once good is told of a man, and
again evil, and some would not thank me for either blame or praise. This isolated picture throwing the main light upon myself is unfair to my
British colleagues. Especially I am most sorry that I have not told what
the non-commissioned of us did. They were but wonderful, especially when
it is taken into account that they had not the motive, the imaginative
vision of the end, which sustained officers. Unfortunately my concern was
limited to this end, and the book is just a designed procession of Arab
freedom from Mecca to Damascus. It is intended to rationalize the
campaign, that everyone may see how natural the success was and how
inevitable, how little dependent on direction or brain, how much less on
the outside assistance of the few British. It was an Arab war waged and
led by Arabs for an Arab aim in Arabia. My proper share was a minor one, but because of a fluent pen, a free
speech, and a certain adroitess of brain, I took upon myself, as I
describe it, a mock primacy. In reality I never had any office among the
Arabs: was never in charge of the British mission with them. Wilson,
Joyce, Newcombe, Dawnay and Davenport were all over my head. I flattered
myself that I was too young, not that they had more heart or mind in the
work, I did my best. Wilson, Newcombe, Dawnay, Davenport, Buxton,
Marshall, Stirling, Young, Maynard, Ross, Scott, Winterton, Lloyd, Wordie,
Siddons, Goslett, Stent Henderson, Spence, Gilman, Garland, Brodie,
Makins, Nunan,Leeson, Hornby, Peake, Scott-Higgins, Ramsay, Wood, Hinde,
Bright, MacIndoe, Greenhill, Grisenthwaite, Dowsett, Bennett, Wade, Gray,
Pascoe and the others also did their best. It would be impertinent in me to praise them. When I wish to say ill of
one outside our number, I do it: though there is less of this than was in
my diary, since the passage of time seems to have bleached out men's
stains. When I wish to praise outsiders, I do it: bur our family affairs
are our own. We did what we set out to do, and have the satisfaction of
that knowledge. The others have liberty some day to put on record their
story, one parallel to mine but not mentioning more of me than I of them,
for each of us did his job by himself and as he pleased, hardly seeing his
friends. In these pages the history is not of the Arab movement, but of me in it.
It is a narrative of daily life, mean happenings, little people. Here are
no lessons for the world, no disclosures to shock peoples. It is filled
with trivial things, partly that no one mistake for history the bones from
which some day a man may make history, and partly for the pleasure it gave
me to recall the fellowship of the revolt. We were fond together, because
of the sweep of the open places, the taste of wide winds, the sunlight,
and the hopes in which we worked. The moral freshness of the world-to-be
intoxicated us. We were wrought up in ideas inexpressible and vaporous,
but to be fou&ht for. We lived many lives in those whirling campaigns,
never sparing ourselves: yet when we achieved and the new world dawned,
the old men came out again and took our victory to re-make in the likeness
of the former world they knew. Youth could win, but had not learned to
keep: and was pitiably weak against age. We stammered that we had worked
for a new heaven and a new earth, and they thanked us kindly and made
their peace. All men dream: but nor equally, Those who dream by night in the dusty
recesses oftheir minds wake in the day to find that it was vanity: but
the dreamers of the day are dangerous men, for they may act their dream
with open eyes, to make it possible. This I did. I meant to make a new
nation, to restore! a lost influence, to give twenty millions of Semites
the foundations on which to build an inspired dream-palace of their
national thoughts. So high an aim called out the inherent nobility of
their minds, and made them play a generous part in events: but when we
won, it was charged against me that the British petrol royalties in
Mesopotamia were become dubious, and French Colonial policy ruined in the
Levant. I am afraid that I hope so. We pay for these things too much in honour and
in innocent lives. I went up the Tigris with one hundred Devon
Territorials, young, clean, delightful fellows, full of the power of
happiness and of making women and children glad. By them one saw vividly
how great it was to be their kin, and English. And we were casting them by
thousands into the fire to the worst of deaths, not to win the war but
that the corn and rice and oil of Mesopotamia might be ours. The only need
was to defeat our enemies (Turkey among them), and this was at last done
in the wisdom of Allenby with less than four hundred killed, by turning to
our uses the hands of the oppressed in Turkey. I am proudest of my thirty
fights in that I did not have any of our own blood shed. All our subject
provinces to me were not worth one dead Englishman. We were three years over this effort and I have had to hold back many
things which may not yet be said. Even so, parts of this book will be new
to nearly all who see it, and many will look for familiar things and not
find them. Once I reported fully to my chiefs, but learnt that they were
rewarding me on my own evidence. This was not as it should be. Honours may
be necessary in a professional army, as so many emphatic mentions in
despatches, and by enlisting we had put ourselves, willingly or not, in
the position of regular soldiers. For my work on the Arab front I had determined to accept nothing. The
Cabinet raised the Arabs to fight for us by definite promises of
self-government afterwards. Arabs believe in persons, not in institutions.
They saw in me a free agent of the British Government, and demanded from
me an endorsement of its written promises. So I had to join the
conspiracy, and, for what my word was worth, assured the men of their
reward. In our two years'