To make us love our country, our country ought to be lovely. My country, right or wrong; when right, to be kept right; when wrong, to be set right. I love America more than any other country in this world, and, exactly for this reason, I insist on the right to criticize her perpetually. While still young in “country years,” America is old enough to expect a settled sense of identity, yet it conspicuously lacks one. The loftier the ideal — say, full equality among citizens within the political system — the easier it is to fall short of it.