I prefer lies to truth, especially when the lies are about me.

The Beduin of the desert, born and grown up in it, had embraced with all his sour this nakedness too harsh for volunteers, for the reason, felt but inarticulate, that there he found himself indubitably free.

To me an unnecessary action, or shot, or casualty, was not only waste but sin.

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

Do not try and do too much with your own hands. Better the Arabs do it tolerably than you do it perfectly. It is their war, and you are to help them, not win it for them.

Misery, anger, indignation, discomfort-those conditions produce literature. Contentment-never. So there you are.

I could write for hours on the lustfulness of moving Swiftly.