Chapter 22
I HAVE a folder in my private filing cabinet marked “FTD”—short for “Fool Things I Have Done”. I put in that folder written records of the fools things I have been guilty of. I sometimes dictate these memos to my secretary, but sometimes they are so personal, so stupid, that I am ashamed to dictate them, so I write them out in longhand.
I can still recall some of the criticisms of Dale Carnegie that I put in my “FTD” folders fifteen years ago. If I had been utterly honest with myself, I would now have a filing cabinet bursting out at the seams with these “FTD” memos. I can truthfully repeat what King Saul said more than twenty centuries ago: “I have played the fool and have erred exceedingly.”
When I get out my “FTD” folders and re-read the criticisms I have written of myself, they help me deal with the toughest problem I shall ever face: the management of Dale Carnegie. I used to blame my troubles on other people; but as I have grown older—and wiser, I hope—I have realised that I myself, in the last analysis, am to blame for almost all my misfortunes. Lots of people have discovered that, as they grow older. “No one but myself,” said Napoleon at St. Helena, “no one but myself can be blamed for my fall. I have been my own greatest enemy—the cause of my own disastrous fate.”
Let me tell you about a man I know who was an artist when it came to self-appraisal and self-management. His name was H. P. Howell. When the news of his sudden death in the drugstore of the Hotel Ambassador in New York was flashed across the nation on July 31, 1944, Wall Street was shocked, for he was a leader in American finance—chairman of the board of the Commercial National Bank and Trust Company, 56 Wall Street, and a director of several large corporations. He grew up with little formal education, started out in life clerking in a country store, and later became credit manager for U.S. Steel—and was on his way to position and power.
“For years I have kept an engagement book showing all the appointments I have during the day,” Mr. Howell told me when I asked him to explain the reasons for his success. “My family never makes any plans for me on Saturday night, for the family knows that I devote a part of each Saturday evening to self-examination and a review and appraisal of my work during the week. After dinner I go off by myself, open my engagement book, and think over all the interviews, discussions and meetings that have taken place since Monday morning. I ask myself: ‘What mistakes did I make that time?’ ‘What did I do that was right—and in what way could I have improved my performance?’ ‘What lessons can I learn from that experience?’ I sometimes find that this weekly review makes me very unhappy. Sometimes I am astonished by my own blunders. Of course, as the years have gone by, these blunders have become less frequent. This system of self-analysis, continued year after year, has done more for me than any other one thing I have ever attempted.”
Maybe H.P. Howell borrowed his idea from Ben Franklin. Only Franklin didn’t wait until Saturday night. He gave himself a severe going—over every night. He discovered that he had thirteen serious faults. Here are three of them: wasting time, stewing around over trifles, arguing and contradicting people. Wise old Ben Franklin realised that, unless he eliminated these handicaps, he wasn’t going to get very far. So he battled with one of his shortcomings every day for a week, and kept a record of who had won each day’s slugging match. The next day, he would pick out another bad habit, put on the gloves, and when the bell rang he would come out of his corner fighting. Franklin kept up this battle with his faults every week for more than two years.
No wonder he became one of the best-loved and most influential men America ever produced!
Elbert Hubbard said: “Every man is a damn fool for at least five minutes every day. Wisdom consists in not exceeding that limit.”
The small man flies into a rage over the slightest criticism, but the wise man is eager to learn from those who have censured him and reproved him and “disputed the passage with him”. Walt Whitman put it this way: “Have you learned lessons only of those who admired you, and were tender with you, and stood aside for you? Have you not learned great lessons from those who rejected you, and braced themselves against you, or disputed the passage with you?”
Instead of waiting for our enemies to criticise us or our work, let’s beat them to it. Let’s be our own most severe critic. Let’s find and remedy all our weaknesses before our enemies get a chance to say a word. That is what Charles Darwin did. In fact, he spent fifteen years criticising—well, the story goes like this: When Darwin completed the manuscript of his immortal book, The Origin of Species, he realised that the publication of his revolutionary concept of creation would rock the intellectual and religious worlds. So he became his own critic and spent another fifteen years, checking his data, challenging his reasoning, criticising his conclusions.
Suppose someone denounced you as “a damn fool”—what would you do? Get angry? Indignant? Here is what Lincoln did: Edward M. Stanton, Lincoln’s Secretary of War, once called Lincoln “a damn fool”. Stanton was indignant because Lincoln had been meddling in his affairs. In order to please a selfish politician, Lincoln had signed an order transferring certain regiments. Stanton not only refused to carry out Lincoln’s orders but swore that Lincoln was a damn fool for ever signing such orders. What happened? When Lincoln was told what Stanton had said, Lincoln calmly replied: “If Stanton said I was a damned fool, then I must be, for he is nearly always right. I’ll just step over and see for myself.”
Lincoln did go to see Stanton. Stanton convinced him that the order was wrong, and Lincoln withdrew it. Lincoln welcomed criticism when he knew it was sincere, founded on knowledge, and given in a spirit of helpfulness.
You and I ought to welcome that kind of criticism, too, for we can’t even hope to be right more than three times out of four. At least, that was all Theodore Roosevelt said he could hope for, when he was in the White House. Einstein, the most profound thinker now living, confesses that his conclusions are wrong ninety-nine per cent of the time!
“The opinions of our enemies,” said La Rochefoucauld, “come nearer to the truth about us than do our own opinions.”
I know that statement may be true many times; yet when anyone starts to criticise me, if I do not watch myself, I instantly and automatically leap to the defensive—even before I have the slightest idea what my critic is going to say. I am disgusted with myself every time I do it. We all tend to resent criticism and lap up praise, regardless of whether either the criticism or the praise be justified. We are not creatures of logic. We are creatures of emotions. Our logic is like a canoe tossed about on a deep, dark, stormy sea of emotion. Most of us have a pretty good opinion of ourselves as we are now. But in forty years from now, we may look back and laugh at the persons we are today.
William Allen White—” the most celebrated small-town newspaper editor in history”—looked back and described the young man he had been fifty years earlier as “swell-headed … a fool with a lot of nerve … a supercilious young Pharisee … a complacent reactionary.” Twenty years from now maybe you and I may be using similar adjectives to describe the persons we are today. We may. … who knows? In previous chapters, I have talked about what to do when you are unjustly criticised. But here is another idea: when your anger is rising because you feel you have been unjustly condemned, why not stop and say: “Just a minute. … I am far from perfect. If Einstein admits he is wrong ninety-nine per cent of the time, maybe I am wrong at least eighty per cent of the time. Maybe I deserve this criticism. If I do, I ought to be thankful for it, and try to profit by it.”
Charles Luckman, president of the Pepsodent Company, spends a millions dollars a year putting Bob Hope on the air. He doesn’t look at the letters praising the programme, but he insists on seeing the critical letters. He knows he may learn something from them.
The Ford Company is so eager to find out what is wrong with its management and operations that it recently polled the employees and invited them to criticise the company.
I know a former soap salesman who used even to ask for criticism. When he first started out selling soap for Colgate, orders came slowly. He worried about losing his job. Since he knew there was nothing wrong with the soap or the price, he figured that the trouble must be himself. When he failed to make a sale, he would often walk around the block trying to figure out what was wrong. Had he been too vague? Did he lack enthusiasm? Sometimes he would go back to the merchant and say: “I haven’t come back here to try to sell you any soap. I have come back to get your advice and your criticism. Won’t you please tell me what I did that was wrong when I tried to sell you soap a few minutes ago? You are far more experienced and successful than I am. Please give me your criticism. Be frank. Don’t pull your punches.”
This attitude won him a lot of friends and priceless advice.
What do you suppose happened to him? Today, he is president of the Colgate-Palmolive-Peet Soap Company—the world’s largest makers of soap. His name is E. H. Little. Last year, only fourteen people in America had a larger income than he had: $240,141. It takes a big man to do what H. P. Howell, Ben Franklin, and E. H. Little did. And now, while nobody is looking, why not peep into the mirror and ask yourself whether you belong in that kind of company.
To keep from worrying about criticism, here is :
Rule 3: Let’s keep a record of the fool things we have done and criticise ourselves. Since we can’t hope to be perfect, let’s do what E.H. Little did: let’s ask for unbiased, helpful, constructive criticism.
Part Six In A Nutshell.
How To Keep From Worrying About Criticism
RULE 1: Unjust criticism is often a disguised compliment. It often means that you have aroused jealousy and envy. Remember that no one ever kicks a dead dog.
RULE 2: Do the very best you can; and then put up your old umbrella and keep the rain of criticism from running down the back of your neck.
RULE 3: Let’s keep a record of the fool things we have done and criticise ourselves. Since we can’t hope to be perfect, let’s do what E. H. Little did: let’s ask for unbiased, helpful, constructive criticism.
