“I would rather walk the sidewalk in front of a person’s officefor two hours before an interview，” said Dean Donham of theHarvard business school， “than step into that office without aperfectly clear idea of what I was going to say and what thatperson—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 forthe sake of emphasis.
I would rather walk the sidewalk in front of a person’s officefor two hours before an interview than step into that officewithout a perfectly clear idea of what I was going to say andwhat that persob—from my knowledge of his or her interestsand motives—was likely to answer.
If， as a result of reading this book， you get only one thing—anincreased tendency to think always in terms of the other person’spoint of view， and see things from that person’s angle as well asyour own—if you get only that one thing from this book， it mayeasily 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.
Chapter 18
What Everybody Wants
Wouldn’t you like to have a magic phrase that would stoparguments， eliminate ill feeling， create good will， and make theother person listen attentively?
Yes? All right. Here it is： “I don’t blame you one iota for feelingas you do. If I were you I would undoubtedly feel just as you do.”
An answer like that will soften the most cantankerous old cussalive. And you can say that and be 100 percent sincere， becauseif you were the other person you， of course， would feel just as hedoes. The only reason， for example， that you are not a rattlesnakeis that your mother and father weren’t rattlesnakes. You deservevery little credit for being what you are—and remember， thepeople who come to you irritated， bigoted， unreasoning， deservevery little discredit for being what they are. Feel sorry for the poordevils. 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 hungeringand thirsting for sympathy. Give it to them， and they will loveyou.
I once gave a broadcast about the author of Little Women，Louisa May Alcott. Naturally， I knew she had lived and writtenher immortal books in Concord， Massachusetts. But， withoutthinking what I was saying， I spoke of visiting her old home inConcord， New Hampshire. If I had said New Hampshire onlyonce， it might have been forgiven. But， alas and alack！ I said ittwice， 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， whohad been reared in Concord， Massachusetts， and who was thenliving in Philadelphia， vented her scorching wrath upon me. Shecouldn’t have been much more bitter if I had accused Miss Alcottof being a cannibal from New Guinea. As I read the letter， I saidto myself， “Thank God， I am not married to that woman.” I feltlike writing and telling her that although I had made a mistakein geography， she had made a far greater mistake in commoncourtesy. That was to be just my opening sentence. Then I wasgoing to roll up my sleeves and tell her what I really thought. ButI didn’t. I controlled myself. I realized that any hotheaded foolcould do that—and that most fools would do just that.
I wanted to be above fools. So I resolved to try to turn herhostility into friendliness. It would be a challenge， a sort of gameI could play. I said to myself， “After all， if I were she， I wouldprobably feel just as she does.” So， I determined to sympathizewith her viewpoint. The next time I was in Philadelphia， I calledher on the telephone. The conversation went something like this：Mrs. So-and-So， you wrote me a letter a few weeks ago， andI want to thank you for it.
（in incisive， cultured， well-bred tones） To whom have I thehonor of speaking?
I am a stranger to you. My name is Dale Carnegie. Youlistened to a broadcast I gave about Louisa May Alcott afew Sundays ago， and I made the unforgivable blunder ofsaying that she had lived in Concord， New Hampshire. Itwas a stupid blunder， and I want to apologize for it. It wasso nice of you to take the time to write me.
I am sorry， Mr. Carnegie， that I wrote as I did. I lost mytemper. I must apologize.
ME：
SHE：
ME：
SHE：
No！ No！ You are not the one to apologize; I am. Any schoolchild would have known better than to have said what Isaid. I apologized over the air the following Sunday， and Iwant to apologize to you personally now.
I was born in Concord， Massachusetts. My family hasbeen prominent in Massachusetts affairs for two centuries，and I am very proud of my native state. I was really quitedistressed to hear you say that Miss Alcott had lived in NewHampshire. But I am really ashamed of that letter.
I assure you that you were not one-tenth as distressed asI am. My error didn’t hurt Massachusetts， but it did hurtme. It is so seldom that people of your standing and culturetake the time to write people who speak on the radio， and Ido hope you will write me again if you detect an error in mytalks.
You know， I really like very much the way you haveaccepted my criticism. You must be a very nice person. Ishould like to know you better.
So， because I had apologized and sympathized with her pointof view， she began apologizing and sympathizing with my pointof view， I had the satisfaction of controlling my temper， thesatisfaction of returning kindness for an insult. I got infinitely morereal fun out of making her like me than I could ever have gottenout of telling her to go and take a jump in the Schuylkill River，Every man who occupies the White House is faced almostdaily with thorny problems in human relations. President Taftwas no exception， and he learned from experience the enormouschemical value of sympathy in neutralizing the acid of hardfeelings. In his book Ethics in Service， Taft gives rather anamusing illustration of how he softened the ire of a disappointedand ambitious mother.