lution there is. That consequently history, as indeed life, is notna part of science but that everything that is human, includingnscience, is part of the history of mankind. That therefore wenmust reject—or, more precisely, that we have outgrown—thendeterministic categories not only of Marx and Freud but probablynalso of Darwin and Einstein.nYou will understand that these convictions (they are convictionsnrather than opinions) and their frequent expositions innmy writing of history have not been suited to endear me to thenmanagers of intellectual commerce in our times. I havenlearned to live with this handicap—for handicap it is, and willnso remain for some time^through a fairly wearisome but notnaltogether unhappy life. But I have chosen to speak tonightnabout another predicament, a predicament that involves morenthan my professional career. This is the predicament of mynprovenance. It involves the problem where I belong; and wherenI find my home.nI think that I am the first recipient of the Weaver Awardnwho is not a native American. I need not say how much Inappreciate the, very American, generosity of those who haventendered this award,to me. Yet there are many American citizens,nnot born in this country, who have received all kindsnof awards because of all kinds of achievements. But I dare tonsay that my case is different: because the instrument of mynachievement as a historian has been the English language.nThat history consists of words rather than of “facts”—or, morenprecisely, that no fact can have any meaning independent ofnthe words in which it is thought, expressed, spoken, taught, ornwritten, is an essential principle of my writings and teaching ofnhistory. But in my case there is more to that.nI am very much aware of the condition that I belong to twoncountries, to two continents, perhaps to two worlds. I havenlived in this country for two-thirds of my life, indeed, fornthree-fourths of my conscious life; and yet I belong to my nativencountry Hungary as much as I belong to my adoptedncountry of Pennsylvania. This recognition impressed me againnand again this past spring when I spent five months in mynnative country, living and teaching there. But it was not independentnfrom another recognition: that America, more precisely,nPennsylvania, and Chester County within Pennsylvania,nis my home. This is so because of my American family,nmy American wife, my American children; this is so because ofnmy protracted (and nowadays perhaps unusual) residence innthe same place for about four decades. My participation in thenaffairs of my township, attempting to defend its landscape,nbelongs here, too, because of my affection for my part of thisncountry, whereby I come to the essence of the matter. I thinknthat I am a patriot while I am not a nationalist (in a passage innMein Kampf Hitler said the very opposite about himself); andnI think that this republic is in great and dire want of fewernnationalists and of more patriots, (though not necessarily ofnthe odd kind such as myself). A passage by Simone Weil expressesnthis poignantly. “We must not have any love othernthan charity. A nation cannot be an object of charity. But ancountry can be such, as landscape bearing traditions whichnare eternal. Every country can be that.” To this I add thatncharitable love is human and not natural; spiritual and notnmerely material. Nature has, indeed, it feels, no charity of itsnown. That is why I am opposed not only to those so-calledncapitalists who want to cover this land with more cement andnmore concrete but also to those so-called environmentalistsnwho have no feeling for landscape but who think that naturenand civilization are opposites, who think that the love of naturenconsists of the adoration and preservation of wilderness.nWhen Dr. Johnson said, “Patriotism is the last refuge ofnscoundrels,” he meant nationalism not patriotism, since thenword nationalism, in English, did not yet exist. (It is at least interestingnthat the Oxford English Dictionary marks its first appearancenin English within the same decade of communismnand capitalism.) Nationalism is a modern phenomenon. Nationalistnphenomena appear of course earlier in history, too; butnmodern nationalism is essentially different from patriotism.nPatriotism is traditionalist; nationalism isnideological. Patriotism is rooted to the land;nnationalism to the mythical image of a people,nof a community that so often is not a realncommunity. Patriotism is not a substitute fornreligion, whereas nationalism often is.nwhich is why I must distinguish the two. This is no place for anhistorical or even semantic analysis of the distinction betweennthem. Except that I must sum up the essentials, because theynhave affected, and continue to affect, myself. Patriotism growsnfrom a sense of belonging to a particular country; it is confidentnrather than self-conscious; it is essentially defensive. Nationalismnis self-conscious rather than confident; it is aggressive,nand suspicious of all other people within the same nationnwho do not seem to agree with some of the popular nationalistnideology. Patriotism is traditionalist; nationalism is ideological.nPatriotism is rooted to the land; nationalism to thenmythical image of a people, of a community that so often isnnot a real community. Patriotism is not a substitute for religion,nwhereas nationalism often is. It may fill the emotionalnneeds of insufficiently rooted people. It may be combinednwith hatred—and, as Chesterton said, it is not love (which isnalways personal and particular) but hatred that may unite otherwisenvery disparate men and women. Or, as Duff Coopernonce put it, “the jingo nationalist is always the first to denouncenhis fellow countrymen as traitors.”nHere is the source of my disagreements with some of ournconservatives with whom I otherwise tend to agree aboutnmany things. I shall not expound on the strange tendency tonexalt the virtues of untrammeled financial speculation, thenvirtues of inhuman technologies, and the dislike of conservationnby many who otherwise identify themselves as “conservatives.”nI am thinking of phrases and ideas such as, “What isngood for America is good for the world”; or “Make the worldnsafe for democracy”—once liberal and progressive (and, whennyou think of it, rather revolutionary) ideas expressed bynWoodrow Wilson, which seem to have been accepted andnpropagated wholeheartedly by some of our conservative ideologuesnand spokesmen in our times. No, ladies and gentlemen:nwhat is good for America is good for America; it is not ourntask to rriake the world safe for democracy; and democracynall over the world may make it a very unsafe thing indeed.nWhen I read the proposition of a now very eminent and self-nnn)ULY 1992/19n