Remember that no one ever kicks a dead dog.
Chapter 50
Do This—and Criticism Can’t Hurt You
I once interviewed Major—General Smedley Butler—old“Gimlet-Eye”。 Old “Hell-Devil” Butler！Remember him? Themost colourful， swashbuckling general who ever commanded theUnited States Marines.
He told me that when he was young， he was desperately eagerto be popular， wanted to make a good impression on everyone.
In those days the slightest criticism smarted and stung. But heconfessed that thirty years in the Marines had toughened hishide. “I have been berated and insulted，” he said， “and denouncedas a yellow dog， a snake， and a skunk. I have been cursed bythe experts. I have been called every possible combination ofunprintable cuss words in the English language. Bother me?Huh！
When I hear someone cussing me now， I never turn my head tosee who is talking.”
Maybe old “Gimlet-Eye” Butler was too indifferent tocriticism; but one thing is sure： most of us take the little jibesand javelins that are hurled at us far too seriously. I rememberthe time， years ago， when a reporter from the New York Sunattended a demonstration meeting of my adult-education classesand lampooned me and my work. Was I burned up? I took it asa personal insult. I telephoned Gill Hodges， the Chairman of theExecutive committee of the Sun， and practically demanded thathe print an article stating the facts—instead of ridicule. I wasdetermined to make the punishment fit the crime.
I am ashamed now of the way I acted. I realise now that halfthe people who bought the paper never saw that article. Half ofthose who read it regarded it as a source of innocent merriment.
Half of those who gloated over it forgot all about it in a few weeks.
I realise now that people are not thinking about you andme or caring what is said about us. They are thinking aboutthemselves—before breakfast， after breakfast， and right on untilten minutes past midnight. They would be a thousand times moreconcerned about a slight headache of their own than they wouldabout the news of your death or mine.
Even if you and I are lied about， ridiculed， double-crossed，knifed in the back， and sold down the river by one out of everysix of our most intimate friends—let’s not indulge in an orgyof self-pity. Instead， let’s remind ourselves that that’s preciselywhat happened to Jesus. One of His twelve most intimate friendsturned traitor for a bribe that would amount， in our modernmoney， to about nineteen dollars. Another one of His twelvemost intimate friends openly deserted Jesus the moment He gotinto trouble， and declared three times that he didn’t even knowJesus—and he swore as he said it. One out of six！ That is whathappened to Jesus. Why should you and I expect a better score?
I discovered years ago that although I couldn’t keep peoplefrom criticising me unjustly， I could do something infinitely moreimportant： I could determine whether I would let the unjustcondemnation disturb me.
Let’s be clear about this： I am not advocating ignoring allcriticism. Far from it. I am talking about ignoring only unjustcriticism. I once asked Eleanor Roosevelt how she handled unjustcriticism—and Allah knows she’s had a lot of it. She probably hasmore ardent friends and more violent enemies than any otherwoman who ever lived in the White House.
She told me that as a young girl she was almost morbidly shy，afraid of what people might say. She was so afraid of criticismthat one day she asked her aunt， Theodore Roosevelt’s sister foradvice. She said： “Auntie Bye， I want to do so-and-so. But I’mafraid of being criticised.”
Teddy Roosevelt’s sister looked her in the eye and said：“Neverbe bothered by what people say， as long as you know in your heartyou are right.” Eleanor Roosevelt told me that that bit of adviceproved to be her Rock of Gibraltar years later， when she was inthe White House. She told me “do what you feel in your heart tobe right-for you’ll be criticised， anyway. You’ll be damned if youdo， and damned if you don’t.” That is her advice.
When the late Matthew C. Brush， was president of theAmerican International Corporation at 40 Wall Street， I askedhim if he was ever sensitive to criticism; and he replied： “Yes， Iwas very sensitive to it in my early days. I was eager then to haveall the employees in the organisation think I was perfect. If theydidn’t， it worried me. I would try to please first one person whohad been sounding off against me; but the very thing I did topatch it up with him would make someone else mad. Then when Itried to fix it up with this person， I would stir up a couple of otherbumble-bees. I finally discovered that the more I tried to pacifyand to smooth over injured feelings in order to escape personalcriticism， the more certain I was to increase my enemies. Sofinally I said to myself： ‘If you get your head above the crowd，you’re going to be criticised. So get used to the idea.’ that helpedme tremendously. From that time on I made it a rule to do thevery best I could and then put up my old umbrella and let the rainof criticism drain off me instead of running down my neck.”
Deems Taylor went a bit further： he let the rain of criticismrun down his neck and had a good laugh over it—in public.
When he was giving his comments during the intermission of theSunday afternoon radio concerts of the New York Philharmonic—
Symphony Orchestra， one woman wrote him a letter calling him“a liar， a traitor， a snake and a moron”。 On the following week’sbroadcast， Mr. Taylor read this letter over the radio to millions oflisteners. In his book， Of Men & Music， he tells us that a few dayslater he received another letter from the same lady， “expressingher unaltered opinion that I was still a liar， a traitor， a snake anda moron. I have a suspicion，” adds Mr. Taylor， “that she didn’tcare for that talk.” We can’t keep from admiring a man who takescriticism like that. We admire his serenity， his unshaken poise，and his sense of humour.