Too much power is not good for a person, or for a nation. It leads to hubris, to the childish illusion of omnipotence, and, even when driven by good intentions, to abuse.
In the case of the United States, the illusion of being exceptional, the idea that the "Greatest Nation in the History of the World" can do anything, is doubtless fed by the manner of the country's inception. France and the United States are the only Western democracies born from revolutions. Like France, the American republic likes to claim that it represents not only the hopes of humankind, but universal values. The American way is the global way, or it jolly well should be.
What the French call la mission civilisatrice has also been a driving force for Americans. The national destiny is to civilize the benighted world. To believers in this mission -- who are not always in the mainstream of U.S. politics, but have enjoyed a remarkable resurgence in the decade since the 9/11 attacks -- it is not sufficient for the United States to be an example to the world. It is incumbent on the republic to export freedom and democracy, by force if necessary.
This is the Napoleonic side of U.S. foreign policy. As was true of France, the Napoleonic urge is rooted in the Christian tradition. French and American democracies may be secular, but the missionary zeal and the claims of universality surely owe something to the countries' religious past.
Still, the illusion of American omnipotence was held in check by other powers, notably by the British Empire, and later by the Soviet Union, for much of America's history. This is not to extol the virtues of the Soviet system, which were limited, to say the least. But Moscow at a minimum played the role of keeping things in perspective.
After 1989, there was ostensibly nothing to stop the American dream of shaping the world to its liking. You might say it was America's Palmerstonian moment, when it acted like Victorian England's Lord Palmerston, who believed that Britain's duty was to use its might to reorder other nations, from Belgium to Afghanistan to China. Bush the Elder was still too cautious to fully embrace Palmerston's liberal interventionism. His son was not. It was 9/11 that released American hubris in full force.
"We don't want to fight, but by Jingo if we do: We've got the ships, we've got the men, we've got the money too.…" These were the words of a popular music-hall ditty in London in the 1870s, but they might have been sung in the streets of Washington around 2003.
But this American hubris, mixed with an atmosphere of paranoia, has brought disastrous results for others, and for the United States itself. Unnecessary wars, sometimes undertaken with true missionary zeal, are bleeding the country's treasury and costing countless lives.
Not all the costs are direct. The gradual militarization of American society -- the ritual genuflections to "our men and women in uniform," the bloated military budgets, the fawning attitude to generals -- has resulted in something more often associated with tin-pot dictatorships in the developing world: crumbling bridges, potholed roads, rotten schools, and an overbearing military loaded with all the best and latest hardware.

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