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336 pages, Hardcover
First published October 9, 2014


To S. A.
I loved you, so I drew these tides of men into my hands
and wrote my will across the sky in stars
To earn you Freedom, the seven pillared worthy house,
that your eyes might be shining for me
When we came.
Death seemed my servant on the road,
till we were near and saw you waiting:
When you smiled, and in sorrowful envy he outran me
and took you apart:
Into his quietness.
Love, the way-weary, groped to your body, our brief wage
ours for the moment
Before earth's soft hand explored your shape, and the blind
worms grew fat upon
Your substance.
Men prayed me that I set our work, the inviolate house,
as a memory of you.
But for fit monument I shattered it, unfinished: and now
The little things creep out to patch themselves hovels
in the marred shadow
Of your gift.

Kalaat es-Subeibeh, known as Nimrod’s Castle, was one of the strongest of the Crusader strongholds but it had long been abandoned, and when Lawrence reached it the following morning he found the inner courts choked with decades of brushwood and creeper. A different sort of visitor might have accepted that there was no way in, but Lawrence cleared a passage by setting fire to the undergrowth. ‘The owner was a little surprised but did not expostulate,’ he recorded, ‘as it was inaccessible to anything but a mountaineer or a spider. He had never got to it (entrance on the 1st floor of course, & the walls elsewhere still intact). It might have made a jolly bonfire from a distance, for there was a space of 30 yards square of old thorn trees.’ By the evening the owner was calm, the ashes cool, and Lawrence was able to inspect the castle.And there are—as with almost every single nonfiction book I have ever read—really cool facts you can pick up if you do more than skim for bullet points and topic sentences. Bear in mind, I am not castigating you if you are a synopsis-skimmer, though I find my enjoyment increases exponentially when I enter a non-fiction book with no expectations:
He and Woolley had introduced a system to announce new discoveries at the digs: a small fragment was greeted with a single shot, while a large carved slab might be seven or eight. It was fun, and it kept the men motivated for there was kudos in being able to shoot off one’s gun, as Woolley remembered when one of the men came to announce that he was quitting work. ‘Effendim, I cannot stand it,’ the man told Woolley. ‘This season so much has been found, there is shooting every day — now it is Hamdosh, ping-ping-ping, not it is Mustapha Aissa, ping-ping-ping, now another, but for me not one cartridge since work started. I must go, Effendim,or else you must put me where I shall find something. Honestly, I don’t want baksheesh — don’t give me money for it; it is the honour of the thing.’I taught myself how to slow down—how to stop skipping the descriptions to read only the dialogue in fantasy novels and start paying attention to every word as written—by fully reading every article in every issue of The New Yorker for years without ever reading the lede. Honestly, there is always—always!—a midpoint break where an unrelated subject is expounded and circuitously tied back into the main thesis with a kismetic grace that borders on sickening. I love it. It took me months to start reading the whole magazine; at first I only wanted to read about the topics I already thought were interesting—duh. But eventually I discovered that a story that purported to be about polar bears would discuss magnetic fields and then merge the two topics into a discussion of global circumnavigation; you never, ever knew what was going to be discussed in the article if your selection criteria were based solely off the table of contents. Each paragraph might bring something wildly new and wholly unexpected; now extrapolate that feeling of discovery over each new page of an entire book. Now across every book that has ever been written. Now you’re as excited as I am reading each and every word you read.