its castles, whatever is best in Europe, I would root up, if I had my
say, and set down here between the Pyrenees and the Straits of
Gibraltar. At the same time, I should denationalize Shakespeare,
Dickens, Tolstoi and Dostoievski, making them Spaniards. I should see
that the best laws and the best customs were those of our country. But
wholly apart from this patriotism of desire, lies the reality. What is
to be gained by denying it? To my mind nothing is to be gained.

There are many to whom the only genuine patriotism is the patriotism of
lying, which in fact is more of a matter of rhetoric than it is of
feeling.

Our falsifying patriots are always engaged in furious combat with other
equally falsifying internationalists.

"Nothing but what we have is of any account," cries one party.

"No, it is what the other fellow has," cries the other.

Patriotism is telling the truth as to one's country, in a sympathetic
spirit which is guided and informed by a love of that which is best.

Now some one will say: "Your patriotism, then, is nothing but an
extension of your ego; it is purely utilitarian."

Absolutely so. But how can there be any other kind of patriotism?