[b]T.E. Lawrence
The fringes of their deserts were strewn with broken faiths.[/b]
And broken bones. If not actual skeletons.
Immorality, I know. Immortality, I cannot judge.
And now?
We had been hopelessly labouring to plough waste lands; to make nationality grow in a place full of the certainty of God…
They still are.
Do not try to do too much with your own hands. Better the Arabs do it tolerably than that you do it perfectly. It is their war, and you are to help them, not to win it for them. Actually, also, under the very odd conditions of Arabia, your practical work will not be as good as, perhaps, you think it is.
Not quite the white man’s burden as it were.
The printing press is the greatest weapon in the armory of the modern commander.
That and all the weapons of mass destruction.
Half-way through the labour of an index to this book I recalled the practice of my ten years’ study of history; and realized that I had never used the index of a book fit to read.
Does this make sense?