Imported from USA
About the Author
Dale Carnegie (1888-1955) described himself as a "simple country boy" from Missouri but was also a pioneer
of the self-improvement genre. Since the 1936 publication of his first book, How to Win Friends and Influence People, he
has touched millions of readers and his classic works continue to impact lives to this day.
Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.
"If You Want to Gather Honey, Don't Kick Over the Beehive"
On May 7, 1931, the most sensational manhunt New York City had ever known had come to its climax. After weeks of search,
"Two Gun" Crowley -- the killer, the gunman who didn't smoke or drink -- was at bay, trapped in his sweetheart's
apartment on West End Avenue.
One hundred and fifty policemen and detectives laid siege to his top-floor hideaway. They chopped holes in the roof;
they tried to smoke out Crowley, the "cop killer," with tear gas. Then they mounted their machine guns on surrounding
buildings, and for more than an hour one of New York's fine residential areas reverberated with the crack of pistol fire
and the rat-tat-tat of machine guns. Crowley, crouching behind an overstuffed chair, fired incessantly at the police.
Ten thousand excited people watched the battle. Nothing like it had ever been seen before on the sidewalks of New York.
When Crowley was captured, Police Commissioner E. P. Mulrooney declared that the two-gun desperado was one of the most
dangerous criminals ever encountered in the history of New York. "He will kill," said the Commissioner, "at the drop of
But how did "Two Gun" Crowley regard himself? We know, because while the police were firing into his apartment, he wrote
a letter addressed "To whom it may concern." And, as he wrote, the blood flowing from his wounds left a crimson trail on
the paper. In his letter Crowley said: "Under my coat is a weary heart, but a kind one -- one that would do nobody any
A short time before this, Crowley had been having a necking party with his girl friend on a country road out on Long
Island. Suddenly a policeman walked up to the car and said: "Let me see your license."
Without saying a word, Crowley drew his gun and cut the policeman down with a shower of lead. As the dying officer fell,
Crowley leaped out of the car, grabbed the officer's revolver, and fired another bullet into the prostrate body. And
that was the killer who said: "Under my coat is a weary heart, but a kind one -- one that would do nobody any harm."
Crowley was sentenced to the electric chair. When he arrived at the death house in Sing Sing, did he say, "This is what
I get for killing people"? No, he said: "This is what I get for defending myself."
The point of the story is this: "Two Gun" Crowley didn't blame himself for anything.
Is that an unusual attitude among criminals? If you think so, listen to this:
"I have spent the best years of my life giving people the lighter pleasures, helping them have a good time, and all I
get is abuse, the existence of a hunted man."
That's Al Capone speaking. Yes, America's most notorious Public Enemy -- the most sinister gang leader who ever shot up
Chicago. Capone didn't condemn himself. He actually regarded himself as a public benefactor -- an unappreciated and
misunderstood public benefactor.
And so did Dutch Schultz before he crumpled up under gangster bullets in Newark. Dutch Schultz, one of New York's most
notorious rats, said in a newspaper interview that he was a public benefactor. And he believed it.
I have had some interesting correspondence with Lewis Lawes, who was warden of New York's infamous Sing Sing prison for
many years, on this subject, and he declared that "few of the criminals in Sing Sing regard themselves as bad men. They
are just as human as you and I. So they rationalize, they explain. They can tell you why they had to crack a safe or be
quick on the trigger finger. Most of them attempt by a form of reasoning, fallacious or logical, to justify their
antisocial acts even to themselves, consequently stoutly maintaining that they should never have been imprisoned at
If Al Capone, "Two Gun" Crowley, Dutch Schultz, and the desperate men and women behind prison walls don't blame
themselves for anything -- what about the people with whom you and I come in contact?
John Wanamaker, founder of the stores that bear his name, once confessed: "I learned thirty years ago that it is foolish
to scold. I have enough trouble overcoming my own limitations without fretting over the fact that God has not seen fit
to distribute evenly the gift of intelligence."
Wanamaker learned this lesson early, but I personally had to blunder through this old world for a third of a century
before it even began to dawn upon me that ninety-nine times out of a hundred, people don't criticize themselves for
anything, no matter how wrong it may be.
Criticism is futile because it puts a person on the defensive and usually makes him strive to justify himself. Criticism
is dangerous, because it wounds a person's precious pride, hurts his sense of importance, and arouses resentment.
B. F. Skinner, the world-famous psychologist, proved through his experiments that an animal rewarded for good behavior
will learn much more rapidly and retain what it learns far more effectively than an animal punished for bad behavior.
Later studies have shown that the same applies to humans. By criticizing, we do not make lasting changes and often incur
Hans Selye, another great psychologist, said, "As much as we thirst for approval, we dread condemnation."
The resentment that criticism engenders can demoralize employees, family members and friends, and still not correct the
situation that has been condemned.
George B. Johnston of Enid, Oklahoma, is the safety coordinator for an engineering company. One of his responsibilities
is to see that employees wear their hard hats whenever they are on the job in the field. He reported that whenever he
came across workers who were not wearing hard hats, he would tell them with a lot of authority of the regulation and
that they must comply. As a result he would get sullen acceptance, and often after he left, the workers would remove the
He decided to try a different approach. The next time he found some of the workers not wearing their hard hat, he asked
if the hats were uncomfortable or did not fit properly. Then he reminded the men in a pleasant tone of voice that the
hat was designed to protect them from injury and suggested that it always be worn on the job. The result was increased
compliance with the regulation with no resentment or emotional upset.
You will find examples of the futility of criticism bristling on a thousand pages of history. Take, for example, the
famous quarrel between Theodore Roosevelt and President Taft -- a quarrel that split the Republican party, put Woodrow
Wilson in the White House, and wrote bold, luminous lines across the First World War and altered the flow of history.
Let's review the facts quickly. When Theodore Roosevelt stepped out of the White House in 1908, he supported Taft, who
was elected President. Then Theodore Roosevelt went off to Africa to shoot lions. When he returned, he exploded. He
denounced Taft for his conservatism, tried to secure the nomination for a third term himself, formed the Bull Moose
party, and all but demolished the G.O.P. In the election that followed, William Howard Taft and the Republican party
carried only two states -- Vermont and Utah. The most disastrous defeat the party had ever known.
Theodore Roosevelt blamed Taft, but did President Taft blame himself? Of course not. With tears in his eyes, Taft said:
"I don't see how I could have done any differently from what I have."
Who was to blame? Roosevelt or Taft? Frankly, I don't know, and I don't care. The point I am trying to make is that all
of Theodore Roosevelt's criticism didn't persuade Taft that he was wrong. It merely made Taft strive to justify himself
and to reiterate with tears in his eyes: "I don't see how I could have done any differently from what I have."
Or, take the Teapot Dome oil scandal. It kept the newspapers ringing with indignation in the early 1920s. It rocked the
nation! Within the memory of living men, nothing like it had ever happened before in American public life. Here are the
bare facts of the scandal: Albert B. Fall, secretary of the interior in Harding's cabinet, was entrusted with the
leasing of government oil reserves at Elk Hill and Teapot Dome -- oil reserves that had been set aside for the future
use of the Navy. Did Secretary Fall permit competitive bidding? No sir, He handed the fat, juicy contract outright to
his friend Edward L. Doheny. And what did Doheny do? He gave Secretary Fall what he was pleased to call a "loan" of one
hundred thousand dollars. Then, in a high-handed manner, Secretary Fall ordered United States Marines into the district
to drive off competitors whose adjacent wells were sapping oil out of the Elk Hill reserves. These competitors, driven
off their ground at the ends of guns and bayonets, rushed into court -- and blew the lid off the Teapot Dome scandal. A
stench arose so vile that it ruined the Harding Administration, nauseated an entire nation, threatened to wreck the
Republican party, and put Albert B. Fall behind prison bars.
Fall was condemned viciously -- condemned as few men in public life have ever been. Did he repent? Never! Years later
Herbert Hoover intimated in a public speech that President Harding's death had been due to mental anxiety and worry
because a friend had betrayed him. When Mrs. Fall heard that, she sprang from her chair, she wept, she shook her fists
at fate and screamed: "What! Harding betrayed by Fall? No! My husband never betrayed anyone. This whole house full of
gold would not tempt my husband to do wrong. He is the one who has been betrayed and led to the slaughter and
There you are; human nature in action, wrongdoers, blaming everybody but themselves. We are all like that. So when you
and I are tempted to criticize someone tomorrow, let's remember Al Capone, "Two Gun" Crowley and Albert Fall. Let's
realize that criticisms are like homing pigeons. They always return home. Let's realize that the person we are going to
correct and condemn will probably justify himself or herself, and condemn us in return; or, like the gentle Taft, will
say: "I don't see how I could have done any differently from what I have."
On the morning of April 15, 1865, Abraham Lincoln lay dying in a hall bedroom of a cheap lodging house directly across
the street from Ford's Theater, where John Wilkes Booth had shot him. Lincoln's long body lay stretched diagonally
across a sagging bed that was too short for him. A cheap reproduction of Rosa Bonheur's famous painting The Horse Fair
hung above the bed, and a dismal gas jet flickered yellow light.
As Lincoln lay dying, Secretary of War Stanton said, "There lies the most perfect ruler of men that the world has ever
What was the secret of Lincoln's success in dealing with people? I studied the life of Abraham Lincoln for ten years and
devoted all of three years to writing and rewriting a book entitled Lincoln the Unknown. I believe I have made as
detailed and exhaustive a study of Lincoln's personality and home life as it is possible for any being to make. I made a
special study of Lincoln's method of dealing with people. Did he indulge in criticism? Oh, yes. As a young man in the
Pigeon Creek Valley of Indiana, he not only criticized but he wrote letters and poems ridiculing people and dropped
these letters on the country roads where they were sure to be found. One of these letters aroused resentments that
burned for a lifetime.
Even after Lincoln had become a practicing lawyer in Springfield, Illinois, he attacked his opponents openly in letters
published in the newspapers. But he did this just once too often.
In the autumn of 1842 he ridiculed a vain, pugnacious politician by the name of James Shields. Lincoln lampooned him
through an anonymous letter published in the Springfield Journal. The town roared with laughter. Shields, sensitive and
proud, boiled with indignation. He found out who wrote the letter, leaped on his horse, started after Lincoln, and
challenged him to fight a duel. Lincoln didn't want to fight. He was opposed to dueling, but he couldn't get out of it
and save his honor. He was given the choice of weapons. Since he had very long arms, he chose cavalry broadswords and
took lessons in sword fighting from a West Point graduate; and, on the appointed day, he and Shields met on a sandbar in
the Mississippi River, prepared to fight to the death; but, at the last minute, their seconds interrupted and stopped
That was the most lurid personal incident in Lincoln's life. It taught him an invaluable lesson in the art of dealing
with people. Never again did he write an insulting letter. Never again did he ridicule anyone. And from that time on, he
almost never criticized anybody for anything.
Time after time, during the Civil War, Lincoln put a new general at the head of the Army of the Potomac, and each one in
turn -- McClellan, Pope, Burnside, Hooker, Meade -- blundered tragically and drove Lincoln to pacing the floor in
despair. Half the nation savagely condemned these incompetent generals, but Lincoln, "with malice toward none, with
charity for all," held his peace. One of his favorite quotations was "Judge not, that ye be not judged."
And when Mrs. Lincoln and others spoke harshly of the southern people, Lincoln replied: "Don't criticize them; they are
just what we would be under similar circumstances."
Yet if any man ever had occasion to criticize, surely it was Lincoln. Let's take just one illustration:
The Battle of Gettysburg was fought during the first three days of July 1863. During the night of July 4, Lee began to
retreat southward while storm clouds deluged the country with rain. When Lee reached the Potomac with his defeated army,
he found a swollen, impassable river in front of him, and a victorious Union Army behind him. Lee was in a trap. He
couldn't escape. Lincoln saw that. Here was a golden, heaven-sent opportunity -- the opportunity to capture Lee's army
and end the war immediately. So, with a surge of high hope, Lincoln ordered Meade not to call a council of war but to
attack Lee immediately. Lincoln telegraphed his orders and then sent a special messenger to Meade demanding immediate
And what did General Meade do? He did the very opposite of what he was told to do. He called a council of war in direct
violation of Lincoln's orders. He hesitated. He procrastinated. He telegraphed all manner of excuses. He refused
point-blank to attack Lee. Finally the waters receded and Lee escaped over the Potomac with his forces.
Lincoln was furious. "What does this mean?" Lincoln cried to his son Robert. "Great God! What does this mean? We had
them within our grasp, and had only to stretch forth our hands and they were ours; yet nothing that I could say or do
could make the army move. Under the circumstances, almost any general could have defeated Lee. If I had gone up there, I
could have whipped him myself."
In bitter disappointment, Lincoln sat down and wrote Meade this letter. And remember, at this period of his life Lincoln
was extremely conservative and restrained in his phraseology. So this letter coming from Lincoln in 1863 was tantamount
to the severest rebuke.
My dear General,
I do not believe you appreciate the magnitude of the misfortune involved in Lee's escape. He was within our easy grasp,
and to have closed upon him would, in connection with our other late successes, have ended the war. As it is, the war
will be prolonged indefinitely. If you could not safely attack Lee last Monday, how can you possibly do so south of the
river, when you can take with you very few -- no more than two-thirds of the force you then had in hand? It would be
unreasonable to expect and I do not expect that you can now effect much. Your golden opportunity is gone, and I am
distressed immeasurably because of it.
What do you suppose Meade did when he read the letter?
Meade never saw that letter. Lincoln never mailed it. It was found among his papers after his death.
My guess is -- and this is only a guess -- that after writing that letter, Lincoln looked out of the window and said to
himself, "Just a minute. Maybe I ought not to be so hasty. It is easy enough for me to sit here in the quiet of the
White House and order Meade to attack; but if I had been up at Gettysburg, and if I had seen as much blood as Meade has
seen during the last week, and if my ears had been pierced with the screams and shrieks of the wounded and dying, maybe
I wouldn't be so anxious to attack either. If I had Meade's timid temperament, perhaps I would have done just what he
had done. Anyhow, it is water under the bridge now. If I send this letter, it will relieve my feelings, but it will make
Meade try to justify himself. It will make him condemn me. It will arouse hard feelings, impair all his further
usefulness as a commander, and perhaps force him to resign from the army."
So, as I have already said, Lincoln put the letter aside, for he had learned by bitter experience that sharp criticisms
and rebukes almost invariably end in futility.
Theodore Roosevelt said that when he, as President, was confronted with a perplexing problem, he used to lean back and
look up at a large painting of Lincoln which hung above his desk in the White House and ask himself, "What would Lincoln
do if he were in my shoes? How would he solve this problem?"
The next time we are tempted to admonish somebody, let's pull a five-dollar bill out of our pocket, look at Lincoln's
picture on the bill, and ask, "How would Lincoln handle this problem if he had it?"
Mark Twain lost his temper occasionally and wrote letters that turned the paper brown. For example, he once wrote to a
man who had aroused his ire: "The thing for you is a burial permit. You have only to speak and I will see that you get
it." On another occasion he wrote to an editor about a proofreader's attempts to "improve my spelling and punctuation."
He ordered: "Set the matter according to my copy hereafter and see that the proofreader retains his suggestions in the
mush of his decayed brain."
The writing of these stinging letters made Mark Twain feel better. They allowed him to blow off steam, and the letters
didn't do any real harm, because Mark Twain's wife secretly lifted them out of the mail. They were never sent.
Do you know someone you would like to change and regulate and improve? Good! That is fine. I am all in favor of it. But
why not begin on yourself? From a purely selfish standpoint, that is a lot more profitable than trying to improve others
-- yes, and a lot less dangerous. "Don't complain about the snow on your neighbor's roof," said Confucius, "when your
own doorstep is unclean."
When I was still young and trying hard to impress people, I wrote a foolish letter to Richard Harding Davis, an author
who once loomed large on the literary horizon of America. I was preparing a magazine article about authors, and I asked
Davis to tell me about his method of work. A few weeks earlier, I had received a letter from someone with this notation
at the bottom: "Dictated but not read." I was quite impressed. I felt that the writer must be very big and busy and
important. I wasn't the slightest bit busy, but I was eager to make an impression on Richard Harding Davis, so I ended
my short note with the words: "Dictated but not read."
He never troubled to answer the letter. He simply returned it to me with this scribbled across the bottom: "Your bad
manners are exceeded only by your bad manners." True, I had blundered, and perhaps I deserved this rebuke. But, being
human, I resented it. I resented it so sharply that when I read of the death of Richard Harding Davis ten years later,
the one thought that still persisted in my mind -- I am ashamed to admit -- was the hurt he had given me.
If you and I want to stir up a resentment tomorrow that may rankle across the decades and endure until death, just let
us indulge in a little stinging criticism -- no matter how certain we are that it is justified.
When dealing with people, let us remember we are not dealing with creatures of logic. We are dealing with creatures of
emotion, creatures bristling with prejudices and motivated by pride and vanity.
Bitter criticism caused the sensitive Thomas Hardy, one of the finest novelists ever to enrich English literature, to
give up forever the writing of fiction. Criticism drove Thomas Chatterton, the English poet, to suicide.
Benjamin Franklin, tactless in his youth, became so diplomatic, so adroit at handling people, that he was made American
Ambassador to France. The secret of his success? "I will speak ill of no man," he said, "...and speak all the good I
know of everybody."
Any fool can criticize, condemn and complain -- and most fools do.
But it takes character and self-control to be understanding and forgiving.
"A great man shows his greatness," said Carlyle, "by the way he treats little men."
Bob Hoover, a famous test pilot and frequent performer at air shows, was returning to his home in Los Angeles from an
air show in San Diego. As described in the magazine Flight Operations, at three hundred feet in the air, both engines
suddenly stopped. By deft maneuvering he managed to land the plane, but it was badly damaged although nobody was hurt.
Hoover's first act after the emergency landing was to inspect the airplane's fuel. Just as he suspected, the World War
II propeller plane he had been flying had been fueled with jet fuel rather than gasoline.
Upon returning to the airport, he asked to see the mechanic who had serviced his airplane. The young man was sick with
the agony of his mistake. Tears streamed down his face as Hoover approached. He had just caused the loss of a very
expensive plane and could have caused the loss of three lives as well.
You can imagine Hoover's anger. One could anticipate the tongue-lashing that this proud and precise pilot would unleash
for that carelessness. But Hoover didn't scold the mechanic; he didn't even criticize him. Instead, he put his big arm
around the man's shoulder and said, "To show you I'm sure that you'll never do this again, I want you to service my F-51
Often parents are tempted to criticize their children. You would expect me to say "don't." But I will not. I am merely
going to say, "Before you criticize them, read one of the classics of American journalism, 'Father Forgets.'" It
originally appeared as an editorial in the People's Home Journal. We are reprinting it here with the author's
permission, as condensed in the Reader's Digest:
"Father Forgets" is one of those little pieces which -- dashed off in a moment of sincere feeling -- strikes an echoing
chord in so many readers as to become a perennial reprint favorite. Since its first appearance, "Father Forgets" has
been reproduced, writes the author, W. Livingston Larned, "in hundreds of magazines and house organs, and in newspapers
the country over. It has been reprinted almost as extensively in many foreign languages. I have given personal
permission to thousands who wished to read it from school, church, and lecture platforms. It has been 'on the air' on
countless occasions and programs. Oddly enough, college periodicals have used it, and high-school magazines. Sometimes a
little piece seems mysteriously to 'click.' This one certainly did."
W. Livingston Larned
Listen, son: I am saying this as you lie asleep, one little paw crumpled under your cheek and the blond curls stickily
wet on your damp forehead. I have stolen into your room alone. Just a few minutes ago, as I sat reading my paper in the
library, a stifling wave of remorse swept over me. Guiltily I came to your bedside.
There are the things I was thinking, son: I had been cross to you. I scolded you as you were dressing for school because
you gave your face merely a dab with a towel. I took you to task for not cleaning your shoes. I called out angrily when
you threw some of your things on the floor.
At breakfast I found fault, too. You spilled things. You gulped down your food. You put your elbows on the table. You
spread butter too thick on your bread. And as you started off to play and I made for my train, you turned and waved a
hand and called, "Goodbye, Daddy!" and I frowned, and said in reply, "Hold your shoulders back!"
Then it began all over again in the late afternoon. As I came up the road I spied you, down on your knees, playing
marbles. There were holes in your stockings. I humiliated you before your boyfriends by marching you ahead of me to the
house. Stockings were expensive -- and if you had to buy them you would be more careful! Imagine that, son, from a
Do you remember, later, when I was reading in the library, how you came in timidly, with a sort of hurt look in your
eyes? When I glanced up over my paper, impatient at the interruption, you hesitated at the door. "What is it you want?"
You said nothing, but ran across in one tempestuous plunge, and threw your arms around my neck and kissed me, and your
small arms tightened with an affection that God had set blooming in your heart and which even neglect could not wither.
And then you were gone, pattering up the stairs.
Well, son, it was shortly afterwards that my paper slipped from my hands and a terrible sickening fear came over me.
What has habit been doing to me? The habit of finding fault, of reprimanding -- this was my reward to you for being a
boy. It was not that I did not love you; it was that I expected too much of youth. I was measuring you by the yardstick
of my own years.
And there was so much that was good and fine and true in your character. The little heart of you was as big as the dawn
itself over the wide hills. This was shown by your spontaneous impulse to rush in and kiss me good night. Nothing else
matters tonight, son. I have come to your bedside in the darkness, and I have knelt there, ashamed!
It is a feeble atonement; I know you would not understand these things if I told them to you during your waking hours.
But tomorrow I will be a real daddy! I will chum with you, and suffer when you suffer, and laugh when you laugh. I will
bite my tongue when impatient words come. I will keep saying as if it were a ritual: "He is nothing but a boy -- a
I am afraid I have visualized you as a man. Yet as I see you now, son, crumpled and weary in your cot, I see that you
are still a baby. Yesterday you were in your mother's arms, your head on her shoulder. I have asked too much, too much.
Instead of condemning people, let's try to understand them. Let's try to figure out why they do what they do. That's a
lot more profitable and intriguing than criticism; and it breeds sympathy, tolerance and kindness. "To know all is to
As Dr. Johnson said: "God himself, sir, does not propose to judge man until the end of his days.."
Why should you and I?
Don't criticize, condemn or complain.
Copyright © 1936 by Dale Carnegie