I Could Write For Hours On The

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.

In Peace-armies Discipline Meant The Hunt, Not Of An Average But Of An Absolute; The Hundred Per Cent Standard In Which The Ninety-nine Were Played Down To The Level Of The Weakest Man On Parade.... The Deeper The Discipline, The Lower Was The Individual Excellence; Also The More Sure The Performance.

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

All The Revision In The World Will Not Save A Bad First Draft: For The Architecture Of The Thing Comes, Or Fails To Come, In The First Conception, And Revision Only Affects The Detail And Ornament, Alas!

The Beduin Could Not Look For God Within Him: He Was Too Sure That He Was Within God.