The More You Get Out of This Book, the More You’ll Get Out of life!

Try honestly to see things from the other person’s point 
of view.
1 6 6

---

9
m m -
What Everybody Wants
W
o u l d n
’
t
y o u
l i k e
t o
h a v e
a
m a g ic
p h r a s e
t h a t
w o u l d
s t o p
arguments, eliminate ill feeling, create good will, and make the 
other person listen attentively?
Yes? All right. H ere 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 th at and be 100 percent sincere, 
because if you w ere 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 experi­
ences. You would then be precisely what he was—and where 
h e was. For it is those things— and only those things—th at 
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 re­
member, the people who come to you irritated, bigoted, unreason­
ing, deserve very little discredit for being what they are. Feel
1 6 7

---

How 
t o
W
i n
F
r i e n d s
a n d
I
n f l u e n c e
P
e o p l e
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 o f 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 h er 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 b e a challenge, a sort of 
game I could play. I said to myself, “A fter all, if I w ere she, I 
would probably feel just as she does.” So, I determ ined to 
sympathize with her viewpoint. The next time I was in Philadel­
phia, I called her on the telephone. The conversation went 
something like this:
m e
: 
Mrs. So-and-So, you wrote me a letter a few weeks
ago, and I want to thank you for it. 
s h e
: 
(in incisive, cultured, well-bred tones): To whom
have I the honor of speaking?
1 6 8

---