Текст книги "Hero: The Life and Legend of Lawrence of Arabia "

Автор книги: Michael Korda

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It is clear that Lawrence was going through something like a nervous breakdown at the time of his second enlistment, and perhaps long before. The elements are hard to define exactly, but they included the huge task he had set for himself in rewriting Seven Pillars of Wisdom;what we would now call post-traumatic stress; a sense of displacement at his inability to find a settled and secure place for himself in civilian life; and, above all, his increasing discomfort at the gap between the public perception of him as a hero and his own intense feelings of worthlessness and self-contempt. Lawrence could suppress much of his angst when he was involved in something that interested him, but without a focus for his enormous energy, without something that could take his mind off himself, he was consumed by his own demons. Lawrence never reached quite the level of misery that George Orwell would describe ten years later in Down and Out in Paris and London,and he managed to keep up a social life that prevented other people from perceiving just how severely depressed he was; but between the time he returned to Britain from the Middle East and his enlistment in the Royal Tank Corps he went through a bleak period of confusion, self-reproach, and alienation that would have broken the will of a lesser man.

Lawrence’s first impression of the RTC did not improve with time. Admittedly, he was predisposed to dislike it. “The Army is muck, stink, and a desolate abomination,” he wrote, and he never changed his mind. Every day that he put on the khaki uniform merely made him more bitterly nostalgic for the blue-gray of the RAF.

Lawrence’s friends in the great world never quite understood either of his enlistments—those who were civilians, or who knew the services only as officers, found it hard to understand the degree to which “other ranks” clung to the esprit de corps they felt for their particular regiment or service. Lawrence, after making a place for himself as an airman, found serving as a private soldier in the army a tremendous letdown. He complained that he felt “queerly homesick whenever I see a blue uniform in the street.” With the exception of a couple of other men in his hut, Lawrence’s fellow recruits appalled him. He complained to his friend Lionel Curtis—who, like Lawrence, was a fellow of All Souls—about their “prevailing animality of spirit, whose unmixed bestiality frightens me and hurts me…. This sort of thing must be madness and sometimes I wonder how far mad I am, and if a madhouse would not be my next (and merciful) stage. Merciful compared to this place, which hurts me, body and soul. It’s terrible to hold myself voluntarily here: and yet I want to stay here till it no longer hurts me: till the burnt child no longer feels the fire.”

In a letter to Trenchard, Lawrence was more composed, carefully comparing the army with the RAF in the spirit of an inspecting officer. The army, he reported, was more lavish than the RAF in providing food, bedding, hot baths, libraries, and fuel (presumably coke for the cast-iron stove in the hut), and the officers “speak and act with complete assurance, believing themselves better than ourselves: and they are: whereas in the RAF I had an uncomfortable feeling that we were better than the officers.” In the the army, officers still enjoyed a natural and untroubled sense of class superiority. In the RAF, officers were uncomfortably conscious that many of the other ranks knew more about aero engines, or radios, or the intricate riggings of an aircraft, or even flying than any officer did, whereas, in the army the mere fact of holding the king’s commission was enough to demand and receive respect from the other ranks; the gulf between officers and men was enormous.

To Curtis, Lawrence was franker: “It’s a horrible life and the other fellows fit it.” The endless drill and PT sapped Lawrence’s strength—this was not just a matter of his wounds; he was also far older than the other recruits. Lawrence hated it all, and even the fact that “self-degradation” was his own game did not accustom him to “this cat-calling carnality seething up and down the hut, fed by streams of fresh matter from twenty lecherous mouths…. A filthy business all of it, and yet Hut 12 shows me the truth behind Freud.” Lawrence—who, after all, had pioneered the use of armored cars in the desert—was also disappointed that there was no apparent interest in teaching the recruits anything about tanks. It was sixteen weeks of uninterrupted, soul-destroying “square bashing,” gimlet-eyed inspections, and PT.

At the end of his training, he was assigned to an easy job as a clerk in the quartermaster’s stores—very likely this was a sign that those who had gotten him into the army were still trying to protect him as best they could. He had plenty of time on his hands to work on the revisions of Seven Pillars of Wisdomand write letters. Once he was settled in the job, he moved his new Brough “Superior” motorcycle up to Bovington, provoking the envy and admiration of his fellow soldiers (who knew that it cost the equivalent of several years of a soldier’s pay). He earned some relief from bullying by giving joyrides on it to a favored few. This too must have made Private Shaw seem like an unusual kind of soldier, both to the officers and to the men. Lawrence soon increased the curiosity by renting a nearby cottage called Clouds Hill, in Moreton, about a mile and a half from the camp, where he could get away from the army altogether when he had free time.

Built in 1808, Clouds Hill was more or less derelict. By coincidence Lawrence was renting it from “a distant cousin” of his father, a Chapman, for two shillings sixpence a week. Bit by bit Lawrence took on the task of making it habitable. He made a few friends in the Tank Corps; and to one of them, Corporal Dixon, who seemed comparatively well read, he even confided his real identity when Dixon asked him what he thought of all the stories about Colonel Lawrence, and whether he thought it was just “a stunt” on the part of the RAF to encourage recruiting. Dixon and a few other friends from Bovington helped Lawrence with the work that needed to be done; and by applying his own gift for building and decoration, he very shortly completed the basics. The cottage was small, damp (because of the overhanging trees), and secluded, and it would eventually become not just his hideaway from Bovington, but his only home. Like a snail’s shell, it would gradually be reshaped exactly to Lawrence’s Spartan ideas about living; indeed it became almost an extension of his personality.

One of the friends from Bovington was John (“Jock”) Bruce, a tough, dour young Scotsman, about nineteen years old when Lawrence first methim. In a letter to Charlotte Shaw over a year later, Lawrence described him as “inarticulate, excessively uncomfortable,” which is putting it mildly, since everybody else seems to have found Bruce more than a little menacing: a silent, hulking figure always intensely protective of Lawrence. “Bruce feels like a block of granite,” Lawrence wrote to Charlotte, “with myself a squashed door-mat of fossilized bones between two layers.”** This is a very striking description of Bruce, whose role in Lawrence’s life would be precisely to make his friend and employer feel “squashed” by a giant, implacable, unmovable weight.

Long after Lawrence’s death, Bruce claimed to have been introduced to him early in 1922, in circumstances that seem curious and unlikely even today. According to Bruce, Lawrence was still working at the Colonial Office and was looking for somebody to do “odd jobs” for him. Bruce claimed to have briefly met Lawrence at “the Mayfair flat” of “a Mr. Murray,” presumably an acquaintance of Lawrence’s. The son of a bankrupt milk distributor in Aberdeen, Bruce was there to be interviewed by Murray “for a position which was to become vacant presently,” having been recommended for the job by his family doctor in Scotland, a friend of Murray.

In Bruce’s account of this supposed “job interview,” there is a louche sexual undertone. If Murray was interviewing Bruce for a job, one wonders why “Colonel Lawrence” (as he still was) would be watching from the sidelines. Bruce was no fool. “Lawrence did nothing without a purpose,” he was to write later, “and using people was his masterpiece.” Unkind as this judgment may sound, there is undeniably a certain amount of truth to it, at least so far as Lawrence’s dealings with Bruce are concerned. Not everybody fell under Lawrence’s spell. For example, Harold Nicolson—diplomat, author, and husband of Vita Sackville-West—wrote of Lawrence unflatteringly: “His disloyalty reminded one of the boy who would suck up to the headmaster and then sneak to him about what went on in the school. Even when he became a colonel, he was not the sort of colonel whom one would gladly leave in the office when confidential papers were lying on the desk. So sensitive a man, it seemed to me, ought to have possessed a finer sense of mercy: when, in his gentle voice, he told tales of a massacre, his lips assumed an ugly curl.” Much as Bruce was to fall and remain under Lawrence’s spell, there is no denying that Lawrence was manipulative and deceptive in dealing with him over the years.

Forty-five years later, when Bruce sold his eighty-five-page typewritten account of their relationship to the Sunday Times,he described this meeting with Lawrence in detail; but like a great many other things in his story, this description is unverified, and much of it is improbable. He described how Lawrence put him through a series of tests, and, apparently satisfied, eventually revealed that he wanted Bruce to whip him from time to time, and would pay him what amounted to a retainer to do so.

The one certain truth in Bruce’s account is that he took on the role of being Lawrence’s chief administer of corporal punishment, but it is more likely that this did not begin until after Lawrence’s enlistment at Bovington, and that Lawrence first met Bruce there, as a fellow recruit in Hut 12. Even Lawrence’s youngest brother, Arnold, who was Lawrence’s literary executor, became sadly and reluctantly convinced that Bruce was telling the truth about this.

Bruce’s attempt to place Lawrence in the underground world of male sadomasochism in London, however, must be taken with a very large grain of salt. Admittedly, Lawrence had an interest in flagellation long before his treatment at the hands of the Turks at Deraa. He and his friend the poet James Elroy Flecker, an unapologetic masochist, had talked about the pleasures of being whipped when they were together in Lebanon beforethe war. Richard Meinertzhagen claimed that Lawrence behaved provocatively toward him in Paris, infuriating him to the point where he put “little Lawrence” over his knee and smacked his bottom. Lawrence, he reported, “made no attempt to resist and told me later that he could easily understand a woman submitting to rape once a strong man hugged her.” Meinertzhagen, however was something less than a reliable witness, since he revised and retyped his diary entries years after the event. Arnold Lawrence compared his brother to a medieval penitent who sought punishment for his sins, real or imagined, and this was certainly an element in Lawrence’s need to be whipped. Still, it is hard to draw the line between penance and pleasure, even for Lawrence.

Lawrence’s desire to be whipped is not by itself a very shocking or very unusual feature of upper-class English life ninety years ago—indeed corporal punishment is something of a staple of English humor. This is not to say that sadomasochism in various forms is not equally prevalent in most national cultures—for instance, one thinks of Germany, Austria (Dr. Leopold von Sacher-Masoch was an Austrian), and France (birthplace of the Marquis de Sade himself)—but in England, the connection between whipping and sexual arousal has always been at once a source of snickering humor and an activity which is only barely repressed or hidden. At a time when prostitutes still advertised with a card thumbtacked to their front door, the number of those who offered “Lessons in discipline” never failed to provoke comments from foreign tourists. It would be idle to speculate on the reasons for this, except to note that among those of the upper middle class and the upper class who attended English boarding schools, whipping on the bare buttocks, whether inflicted by masters or by older boys, was not only common but usual—it was considered salutary and character-building—and it sometimes led to a certain confusion between pain and pleasure in later life.

Lawrence’s mother, a believer in the old adage “Spare the rod, spoil the child,” boasted of slapping young Ned on his bare buttocks, and appears to have singled him out for this punishment, since he was by far the most rebellious of her boys. Knowing what we do of Sarah Lawrence’s nature, it seems doubtful that a beating inflicted by her would have been gentle. One imagines that she meant it to hurt, and that she believed the Lord would expect her to put her whole strength into each blow; she was not the woman to do things by half, particularly when it came to punishing wickedness or disobedience. It may be that early in Lawrence’s life there was therefore a certain mingling of pleasure with fear and pain—and that however hard he tried to suppress any erotic arousal, he was not capable of eliminating it altogether. The connection between erotic arousal and his mother would certainly explain in part his lifelong flight from her desire for his love. As for the connection between his involuntary erotic arousal when being brutally beaten and sodomized by the Turks, that is not only obvious in Lawrence’s own account, but also quite sufficient to explain his extreme dislike of being touched, as well as his lifelong determination to avoid any kind of sexual intimacy.

At this point in his life Lawrence apparently required infrequent sessions of severe pain inflicted by another man. What is more interesting than Lawrence’s need for punishment, however, is the bizarre lengths to which he went in order to persuade Bruce that somebody else was orderingthe punishment. It is useless to speculate on the degree to which the whippings may have produced erotic arousal or even ejaculation—i.e., pleasure as opposed to punishment—and neither Lawrence nor Bruce is alive to tell us. But it is quite clear that some measure of both was involved, and that Bruce was picked partly because Lawrence guessed he was reliable, and partly because, like Sarah Lawrence, he would not resort to half measures. Even in a photograph of the young John Bruce, there is something in the eyes and the broad, inflexible mouth that suggests he would consider it his duty to make every blow hurt as much a possible.

The degree of artifice, dissimulation, imagination, and careful planning over time, which Lawrence brought to bear on the task of recruiting Bruce to his purposes, is nothing short of astonishing, and suggests just why Lawrence was regarded as a genius at intelligence and clandestine warfare. In this case, the cover story was as bizarre as the end purpose. Lawrence knew exactly how to manipulate Bruce: money alone would never be his primary motive; Bruce needed to believe in the morality of what he was doing; he needed to believe that he was enforcing punishment ordered by an older authority figure, and inflicting it on somebody who deserved it.

In Bruce’s account, Lawrence hatched a story that contained just enough truth to sound plausible. He had borrowed from friends and from “a merchant bank” money that he could not repay, and had gone to a wealthy uncle, the “Old Man,” who had inherited money that ought to have gone to Lawrence’s father. The Old Man “called him a bastard not fit to live among decent people,” who had “turned his back on God, lost an excellent position at the Colonial Office, become financially involved ‘with the damned Jews,’ insulted a Bishop and insulted King George at Buckingham Palace.” That Lawrence was “a bastard” was true, and many people did wrongly believe that he had insulted the king by refusing to accept his decorations. The story about the bishop involved an altercation between the Anglican bishop of Jerusalem and Lawrence over Jewish immigration, which had led Lawrence to declare indignantly that the bishop was not fit “to black Weizmann’s boots.” In short, Lawrence trolled through his life to find and adapt to his purpose stories that might persuade an elderly relative to punish him. More important, they were stories about acts that Bruce might believe were both reprehensible and true.

Lawrence claimed that his “uncle” was intent on saving the family honor—one of the “threats” Lawrence invented was that if he didn’t do exactly as the Old Man demanded, down to the smallest detail, “a meeting of the family would have to be called to see what was to be done with him.” This was well calculated to appeal to Bruce, who had a strong sense of family and who respected his milkman father in Aberdeen. The character that Lawrence apparently created for the Old Man is interesting. So far as one can judge, it resembled no male relative Lawrence knew, certainly not his father, whom Lawrence remembers as having stopped once when Ned was a child to upbraid a carter for whipping a horse. In reading Bruce’s account of what Lawrence had to say about his “uncle,” it seems more than likely that Lawrence built up his character from that of his mother, and merely switched genders, since Bruce was more likely to accept a male authority figure. The old Man’s strict moral judgment, his unforgiving sense of right and wrong, his absolute conviction that he knew what was best for Lawrence, and his belief in the value of punishment, pain, and discipline are exactly the qualities that Lawrence found so difficult to accept in his mother. The criticism of his own conduct that Lawrence imputes to the Old Man is exactly what his mother would have said, and the old Man’s power to influence and interfere with Lawrence’s life is what kept him away from home as much as possible.

The intensity with which Lawrence won Bruce’s compliance and his determination that Bruce must agree to do whatever the Old Man told him to do are both impressive and frightening. Lawrence was creating a detailed and plausible fictional world, and assigning Bruce a role in a psychodrama, which would continue off and on until the end of Lawrence’s life. Bruce later professed to have been shocked when Lawrence mentioned that the Old Man might call on him to inflict “corporal punishment,” but this was surely face-saving on Bruce’s part nearly half a century after the fact. It seems much more likely that Bruce guessed what Lawrence wanted from the beginning.

The first of the whippings Bruce claimed to have given Lawrence took place in Clouds Hill, the tiny brick cottage whose roof would soon be replaced. (Lawrence paid for the new roof by selling the gold dagger* he had bought in Mecca.) Lawrence was still elaborating on the fantasy that was intended to give him control over Bruce. The Old Man, he told Bruce, was disappointed because Lawrence had missed church parades, and had dispatched a bircht† with which Lawrence was to be whipped. This time Lawrence backed up the request with “an unsigned, typed letter which he said was from The Old Man,” instructing Bruce that he was not only to carry out the whipping, but “to report in writing … [and] to describe Lawrence’s demeanour and behaviour under punishment.” Bruce, the letter promised, would be paid for the whipping. These whippings (and the payments) would be continued at infrequent intervals over the next twelve years, and step by step the letters from the Old Man grew in terms of the complexity of his demands, his requests for accurate reports of Lawrence’s reaction, and the loving details of the instruments of punishment to be used. Each of these letters was of course written with great care by Lawrence himself, prescribing down to the last detail the punishments that were to be inflicted on him. When the Old Man requested a reply from Bruce, Bruce handed his letter to Lawrence, for forwarding.

Lawrence, after his beating at Deraa, had been able to remember every detail of the “Circassian riding whip” which was used on him: “tapering from the thickness of a thumb at the grip (which was wrapped in silver, with a knob inlaid in a black design) down to a hard point much finer than a pencil.” In the letters Bruce claimed to have received from the Old Man, Lawrence was just as precise, even fussy, in describing the details of what he wanted, how it was to be done, and what it was to be done with. It is, in fact, an amazing work of fantasy, backed up with carefully forged letters that were designed to convince Bruce, and succeeded. The letters may have been overkill—there is no evidence that Bruce needed anything like this much persuasion—but their tone is very revealing. It is that of “Colonel Lawrence,” direct, explicit, a person of the officer class who expects obedience from a social inferior. Nowhere is it clearer that “Colonel Lawrence” was still alive and well, than in these bizarre letters. “Private Meek,” as Bernard Shaw would call him in Too True to Be Good,treated Bruce with kid gloves—for Bruce was a difficult and demanding character. But the former lieutenant-colonel gave Bruce the commands, which, except for their subject matter, read like those a wealthy landowner might send to a farm manager. The letters Lawrence wrote as the Old Man are works of genius—with Dickensian skill, he managed to create, layer by layer, detail by detail, a crusty, demanding, difficult character whom one might almost expect to see in the next seat in a first-class railway compartment on the way “up” to London—neatly suited; his bowler hat, gloves, and umbrella beside him; with a regimental tie, a white mustache, and a monocle; reading the Timeswith furious concentration—a figure straight out of an Osbert Lancaster cartoon.

The combination of the cottage and Bruce made the army almost bearable for Lawrence, although he never grew used to wearing the hated khaki uniform or to the mindless violence and profanity of his fellow soldiers. He seldom spent a night in the cottage—he used it instead as a refuge during his ample spare time, and took a few friends there, like Bruce and Corporal Dixon. Over time, he added a phonograph, a radio, a library of books—in size, in austerity, and as a place to work it became the exact equivalent of the small cottage his parents had built for the young Lawrence in the garden of their house. It was not Lawrence’s home in any conventional sense—as E. M. Forster pointed out, “it was rather his pied-а-terre, the place where his feet touched the earth for a moment, and found rest.” The army made few demands on Lawrence and he was thus able to devote a good deal of time to the project of printing a limited edition of Seven Pillars of Wisdom.In addition he had his weekends free for a social life far more intense and well-connected than that of any other private soldier in the British army.

During this time, the Shaws became central figures in Lawrence’s life, and Robert Graves introduced Lawrence to Thomas Hardy, who lived near Bovington, in Dorsetshire—"Hardy country,” where many of his novels are set. The Hardys too became close friends, and their home, Max Gate, was another place of escape for Lawrence. Other friends in this period included the Kenningtons, the novelist E. M. Forster, the poet Siegfried Sassoon, Lionel Curtis, and John Buchan. Any portrait of Lawrence that fails to reflect his extraordinary gifts for friendship, conversation, and correspondence fails to reflect the man. Monastic and self-punishing as he might be, Lawrence was the very reverse of a military version of a cloistered monk; he was instead constantly on the move, constantly engaged with people, invited everywhere. Hardy, like Doughty, he came to admire and love. “Hardy is so pale,” he wrote, “so quiet, so refined in essence: and the camp is such a hurly-burly. When I come back I feel as if I’d woken from a sleep: not an exciting sleep, but a restful one…. It is strange to pass from the noise of the sergeants company into a peace so secure that in it not even Mrs. Hardy’s tea-cups rattle on the tray.”

Still, it was not just the sight of the small, slim figure in khaki, puttees, and leather gauntlets arriving on his huge, glistening bike that alarmed his friends in 1923, but the impression he gave that he cared nothing for his life and was looking for a way to end it. The Kenningtons were disturbed by his “nihilistic” thoughts. Lawrence confided to Curtis, in a series of long, heartfelt letters, his “craving for real risk.” To Shaw he confessed, “I haven’t been in the mood for anything lately except high-speed motorbiking on the worst roads.” Of course motorcycles always appear suicidal to those who don’t ride one, and Lawrence was an excellent rider; nevertheless, he was riding perhaps the most powerful motorcycle one could buy in 1923, and boasted of the risks he took.* This was no pose. Lawrence’s unhappiness—intensified by intense feelings of guilt—was deepening into despair, and his friends feared that suicide was possible. He wrote alarmingly to Hogarth, and even more alarmingly to Curtis, about his dislike of all animal life, especially his own, and of his antics on his motorcycle, when he “swerved at 60 M.P.H. onto the grass by the roadside, trying vainly to save a bird.” Shaw was moved to write directly to Prime Minister Stanley Baldwin, urging him to give Lawrence “a position of a pensioned commanding officer in dignified private circumstances,” and put to an end the “shocking tomfoolery” of Lawrence’s service in the ranks, which he compared to “Belisarius begging for oboles in an ungrateful country,” and warning darkly of the embarrassing consequences if Britain’s most famous war hero took his own life. Baldwin was unable to do this; he took Lawrence’s case up with Trenchard, though he failed to change Trenchard’s mind about readmitting Lawrence into the RAF. Hogarth, who had been doubtful about the approach to Baldwin in the first place, wrote with slightly weary realism to Shaw: “Lawrence is not normal in many ways and it is extraordinarily difficult to do anything for him…. He will not work in any sort of harness unless this is padlocked on to him. He enlisted in order to have the padlocks rivetted on to him.”

What saved Lawrence in 1923 was work: not in the army, where his job—"half-clerk, half-storeman"—hardly taxed his ability, but on his ever more complicated and expensive plans to get Seven Pillars of Wisdomprinted and published as he wanted it to be. Lawrence’s attitude toward his immense book alternated between a sense of failure and a glimmering of hope, sustained by those of his friends who had read it, and whose judgment resembled Siegfried Sassoon’s, who wrote to him: “Damn you, how long do you expect me to go on reassuring you about your bloody masterpiece: It is a great book, blast you.” E. M. Forster wrote to him in the same vein: “I can’t cheer you up over the book. No one could. You have got depressed and muddled over it and are quite incapable of seeing how good it is.”

In the latter part of 1923, hope took the upper hand. Lawrence decided to take on himself the printing and binding of a subscribers’ edition of 100 copies of Seven Pillars of Wisdom,aimed at “the ungodly rich.” The book would be lavishly printed and illustrated, and printed according to Lawrence’s frequently eccentric or antiquarian opinions, and each copy would be bound in a different material or style. The book would cost thirty guineas; it would be ready in a year and a half; and Lawrence estimated that the total cost of producing it would be about Ј3,000. Since each subscriber would have to pay his or her thirty guineas up front, the book would be self-financed. This was an outrageously optimistic business plan. In the end it would cost Lawrence about Ј13,000* to produce the subscribers’ edition, a crippling debt; and the number of copies went up considerably because he insisted on giving the book to those of his friends who could not afford the subscription and to people he loved or respected too much to accept money from them, such as Storrs, whose check he tore up. (Those who held on to their copies would have had a windfall—they could be resold instantly for many times thirty guineas, and the last one auctioned in the United States, in 2001, went for more than $100,000.)

For the next three years, Lawrence was constantly occupied with the problems of printing his book, as well as with elaborate subterfuges he concocted with the rival American publishers Frank Doubleday and George H. Doran (who would eventually merge in 1927 to form one company), intended to protect his copyright in the United States. Lawrence brought to his role as a publisher the same attention to detail and energy that he brought to everything he set his hand to, managing one of the most intricate and complicated jobs in the history of book production from his bunk in a barracks, or from the NAAFI reading room of a military camp. (The intricacy and complications were largely due to his own demands and prejudices about book design.) Of course, as is so often the case with Lawrence, he wanted to eat his cake and have it too. On the one hand, he wanted his friends to be able to read the book in the form of a sumptuous, private, limited edition; on the other hand, he wanted to avoid reviews and to prevent the general public from reading it at all.

Both Robert Graves and Bernard Shaw expressed concern about libelous material in the 1922 “Oxford” text—libel is always a big problem for authors in Britain, because of the strictness of British libel law as compared with that of the United States—but it does not seem to have been a fear of lawsuits that held Lawrence back from publishing his book in the normal way. Any British publisher would have had the text read for libel, and a solicitor who specialized in libel law might have suggested comparatively small changes that would have protected Lawrence and his publisher, rather than large cuts. More likely, the truth is that in writing Seven Pillars of WisdomLawrence had, like most authors of a memoir, expressed his own version of events, and was not eager to have it contradicted or debated in public. Much of the factual material in the book has since been confirmed by the release in the 1970s of many if not most of the documents, but throughout the book Lawrence, consciously or unconsciously, attributed to himself decisions and actions that were often initiated by others. No doubt, as he wrote, revised, and rewrote Seven Pillars of Wisdom,getting with each revision farther away in time from the events, he made himself increasingly the hero of the book. He did not falsify events or invent them, as he has been accused of doing, but he put himself at the center of the story, and by 1923 he was not anxious to expose himself to criticism, or to objections from others who had served in the Middle East.