The beginning and ending of the secret of handling Arabs is unremitting study of them.

The desert is an ocean in which no oar is dipped.

I loved you, so I drew these tides of men into my hands/and wrote my will across the sky in stars

Half a calamity is better than a whole one.

This creed of the desert seemed inexpressible in words, and indeed in thought.

I've been and am absurdly over-estimated. There are no supermen and I'm quite ordinary, and will say so whatever the artistic results. In that point I'm one of the few people who tell the truth about myself.

Suppose we were (as we might be) an influence, an idea, a thing intangible, invulnerable, without front or back, drifting about like a gas? Armies were like plants, immobile, firm-rooted, nourished through long stems to the head. We might be a vapour, blowing where we listed Ours should be a war of detachment. We were to contain the enemy by the silent threat of a vast, unknown desert