If the country were more polarized, you'd expect to find it in the polls. You don't. After scouring surveys, sociologist Paul DiMaggio of Princeton University concluded that "the public actually has become more unified in attitudes toward race, gender and crime since the 1970s." One standard poll item asks respondents to react to this statement: "I don't have much in common with people of other races." In 1987, 23 percent agreed; by 2002, only 15 percent did. Of course, strong disagreements (on abortion, for instance) remain. But these disguise large areas of consensus; 80 percent or more of Americans regularly support environmental regulation.

What's even more absurd is the idea that regions have -- after jet travel, interstate highways, air conditioning, TV and mass migration -- become more different. Texas and New York have more in common now than in 1950 or 1960.

What's actually happened is that politics, and not the country, has become more polarized. By politics, I mean elected officials, party activists, advocates, highly engaged voters and commentators (TV talking heads, pundits). In his search for polarization, sociologist DiMaggio examined many subgroups by age, race, sex and education. None exhibited more polarization, with one exception: people who identified as "strong" Republicans or Democrats. That's about 30 percent of adults.

The result is a growing disconnect between politics -- and political commentary -- and ordinary life. Politics is increasingly a world unto itself, inhabited by people convinced of their own moral superiority: conspicuously, the religious right among Republicans; and upscale liberal elites among Democrats. Their agendas are hard to enact because they're minority agendas. So politicians instinctively focus on delivering psychic benefits. Each side strives to make its political "base" feel good about itself. People should be confirmed in their moral superiority.