amount to anything," and even the crows, winging their way across the
sky, incessantly shout at me from above: "Baroja, you will never amount
to anything."

And I am convinced that I never shall amount to anything.




THE PATRIOTISM OF DESIRE


I may not appear to be a very great patriot, but, nevertheless, I am.
Yet I am unable to make my Spanish or Basque blood an exclusive
criterion for judging the world. If I believe that a better orientation
may be acquired by assuming an international point of view, I do not
hold it improper to cease to feel, momentarily, as a Spaniard or a
Basque.

In spite of this, a longing for the accomplishment of what shall be for
the greatest good of my country, normally obsesses my mind, but I am
wanting in the patriotism of lying.

I should like to have Spain the best place in the world, and the Basque
country the best part of Spain.

The feeling is such a natural and common one that it seems scarcely
worth while to explain it.

The climate of Touraine or of Tuscany, the Swiss lakes, the Rhine and