the public domain. In the beginning, I am afraid I
didn’t even attempt to see the other people’s point of
view. When I saw a fire blazing under the trees, I was so
unhappy about it, so eager to do the right thing, that I
did the wrong thing. I would ride up to the boys, warn
them that they could be jailed for starting a fire, order
with a tone of authority that it be put out; and, if they
refused, I would threaten to have them arrested. I was
merely unloading my feelings without thinking of their
point of view.
The result? They obeyed – obeyed sullenly and with
resentment. After I rode on over the hill, they probably
rebuilt the fire and longed to burn up the whole park.
With the passing of the years, I acquired a trifle more
knowledge of human relations, a little more tact, a somewhat
greater tendency to see things from the other person’s
standpoint. Then, instead of giving orders, I would
ride up to a blazing fire and begin something like this:
“Having a good time, boys? What are you going to
cook for supper? . . . I loved to build fires myself when I
was a boy – and I still love to. But you know they are
very dangerous here in the park. I know you boys don’t
mean to do any harm, but other boys aren’t so careful.
They come along and see that you have built a fire; so
they build one and don’t put it out when they go home
and it spreads among the dry leaves and kills the trees.
We won’t have any trees here at all if we aren’t more
careful, You could be put in jail for building this fire. But
I don’t want to be bossy and interfere with your pleasure.
I like to see you enjoy yourselves; but won’t you
please rake all the leaves away from the fire right now
– and you’ll be careful to cover it with dirt, a lot of dirt,
before you leave, won’t you? And the next time you want
to have some fun, won’t you please build your fire over
the hill there in the sandpit? It can’t do any harm there.
. . . Thanks so much, boys. Have a good time.”
What a difference that kind of talk made! It made the
boys want to cooperate. No sullenness, no resentment.
They hadn’t been forced to obey orders. They had saved
their faces. They felt better and I felt better because I
had handled the situation with consideration for their
point of view.
Seeing things through another person’s eyes may ease
tensions when personal problems become overwhelming.
Elizabeth Novak of New South Wales, Australia,
was six weeks late with her car payment. “On a Friday,”
she reported, “I received a nasty phone call from the
man who was handling my account informing me if I did
not come up with $122 by Monday morning I could anticipate
further action from the company. I had no way
of raising the money over the weekend, so when I received
his phone call first thing on Monday morning I
expected the worst. Instead of becoming upset I looked
at the situation from his point of view. I apologized most
sincerely for causing him so much inconvenience and
remarked that I must be his most troublesome customer
as this was not the first time I was behind in my payments.
His tone of voice changed immediately, and he
reassured me that I was far from being one of his really
troublesome customers. He went on to tell me several
examples of how rude his customers sometimes were,
how they lied to him and often tried to avoid talking to
him at all. I said nothing. I listened and let him pour out
his troubles to me. Then, without any suggestion from
me, he said it did not matter if I couldn’t pay all the
money immediately. It would be all right if I paid him
$20 by the end of the month and made up the balance
whenever it was convenient for me to do so.”
Tomorrow, before asking anyone to put out a fire or
buy your product or contribute to your favorite charity,
why not pause and close your eyes and try to think the
whole thing through from another person’s point of
view? Ask yourself: “Why should he or she want to do
it?” True, this will take time, but it will avoid making
enemies and will get better results – and with less friction
and less shoe leather.
“I would rather walk the sidewalk in front of a person’s
office for two hours before an interview,” said
Dean Donham of the Harvard business school, “than
step into that office without a perfectly clear idea of what
I was going to say and what that person – from my
knowledge of his or her interests and motives – was
likely to answer.”
That is so important that I am going to repeat it in
italics for the sake of emphasis.
I would rather walk the sidewalk in front of a person’s
office for two hours before an interview than step
into that office without a perfectly clear idea of what I
was going to say and what that persob – from my
knowledge of his or her interests and motives – was
likely to answer.
If, as a result of reading this book, you get only one
thing – an increased tendency to think always in terms
of the other person’s point of view, and see things from
that person’s angle as well as your own – if you get only
that one thing from this book, it may easily prove to be
one of the stepping – stones of your career.
PRINCIPLE 8
Try honestly to see things from the other
person’s point of view.
9
WHAT EVERYBODY WANTS
Wouldn’t you like to have a magic phrase that would
stop arguments, eliminate ill feeling, create good will,
and make the other person listen attentively?
Yes? All right. Here it is: “I don’t blame you one iota
for feeling as you do. If I were you I would undoubtedly
feel just as you do.”
An answer like that will soften the most cantankerous
old cuss alive. And you can say that and be 100 percent
sincere, because if you were the other person you, of
course, would feel just as he does. Take Al Capone, for
example. Suppose you had inherited the same body and
temperament and mind that Al Capone had. Suppose
you had had his environment and experiences. You
would then be precisely what he was – and where he
was. For it is those things – and only those things – that
made him what he was. The only reason, for example,
that you are not a rattlesnake is that your mother and
father weren’t rattlesnakes.
You deserve very little credit for being what you are
– and remember, the people who come to you irritated,
bigoted, unreasoning, deserve very little discredit for
being what they are. Feel sorry for the poor devils. Pity
them. Sympathize with them. Say to yourself: “There,
but for the grace of God, go I.”
Three-fourths of the people you will ever meet are
hungering and thirsting for sympathy. Give it to them,
and they will love you.
I once gave a broadcast about the author of Little
Women, Louisa May Alcott. Naturally, I knew she had
lived and written her immortal books in Concord, Massachusetts.
But, without thinking what I was saying, I
spoke of visiting her old home in Concord. New Hampshire.
If I had said New Hampshire only once, it might
have been forgiven. But, alas and alack! I said it twice, I
was deluged with letters and telegrams, stinging messages
that swirled around my defenseless head like a
swarm of hornets. Many were indignant. A few insulting.
One Colonial Dame, who had been reared in Concord,
Massachusetts, and who was then living in Philadelphia,
vented her scorching wrath upon me. She couldn’t have
been much more bitter if I had accused Miss Alcott of
being a cannibal from New Guinea. As I read the letter,
I said to myself, “Thank God, I am not married to that
woman.” I felt like writing and telling her that although
I had made a mistake in geography, she had made a far
greater mistake in common courtesy. That was to be just
my opening sentence. Then I was going to roll up my
sleeves and tell her what I really thought. But I didn’t.
I controlled myself. I realized that any hotheaded
fool could do that – and that most fools would do just
that.
I wanted to be above fools. So I resolved to try to turn
her hostility into friendliness. It would be a challenge, a
sort of game I could play. I said to myself, “After all, if
I were she, I would probably feel just as she does.”
So, I determined to sympathize with her viewpoint.
The next time I was in Philadelphia, I called her on the
telephone. The conversation went something like
this:
ME: Mrs. So-and-So, you wrote me a letter a few weeks
ago, and I want to thank you for it.
SHE: (in incisive, cultured, well-bred tones): To whom
have I the honor of speaking?
ME: I am a stranger to you. My name is Dale Carnegie.
You listened to a broadcast I gave about Louisa May
Alcott a few Sundays ago, and I made the unforgivable
blunder of saying that she had lived in Concord,
New Hampshire. It was a stupid blunder, and
I want to apologize for it. It was so nice of you to
take the time to write me.
SHE : I am sorry, Mr. Carnegie, that I wrote as I did. I lost
my temper. I must apologize.
ME: No! No! You are not the one to apologize; I am. Any
school child would have known better than to have
said what I said. I apologized over the air the following
Sunday, and I want to apologize to you personally
now.
SHE : I was born in Concord, Massachusetts. My family
has been prominent in Massachusetts affairs for two
centuries, and I am very proud of my native state. I
was really quite distressed to hear you say that Miss
Alcott had lived in New Hampshire. But I am really
ashamed of that letter.
ME: I assure you that you were not one-tenth as distressed
as I am. My error didn’t hurt Massachusetts,
but it did hurt me. It is so seldom that people of
your standing and culture take the time to write
people who speak on the radio, and I do hope you
will write me again if you detect an error in my
talks.
SHE: You know, I really like very much the way you have
accepted my criticism. You must be a very nice person.
I should like to know you better.
So, because I had apologized and sympathized with
her point of view, she began apologizing and sympathizing
with my point of view, I had the satisfaction of
controlling my temper, the satisfaction of returning
kindness for an insult. I got infinitely more real fun out
of making her like me than I could ever have gotten out
of telling her to go and take a jump in the Schuylkill
River,
Every man who occupies the White House is faced
almost daily with thorny problems in human relations.
President Taft was no exception, and he learned from
experience the enormous chemical value of sympathy in
neutralizing the acid of hard feelings. In his book Ethics
in Service, Taft gives rather an amusing illustration of
how he softened the ire of a disappointed and ambitious
mother.