Simon and schuster

PRINCIPLE 9 
Make the other person happy about doing the thing you suggest. 
In a Nutshell 
BE A LEADER 
A leader’s job often includes changing your people’s attitudes and behavior. Some suggestions to 
accomplish this: 
 
PRINCIPLE 1 
Begin with praise and honest appreciation. 
 
PRINCIPLE 2 
Call attention to people’s mistakes indirectly. 
 
PRINCIPLE 3 
Talk about your own mistakes before criticizing the other person. 
 
PRINCIPLE 4 
Ask questions instead of giving direct orders. 
 
PRINCIPLE 5 
Let the other person save face. 
 
PRINCIPLE 6 
Praise the slightest improvement and praise every improvement. Be “hearty in your approbation and 
lavish in your praise.” 
 
PRINCIPLE 7 
Give the other person a fine reputation to live up to. 
 
PRINCIPLE 8 
Use encouragement. Make the fault seem easy to correct. 
 
PRINCIPLE 9 
Make the other person happy about doing the thing you suggest.
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“A Shortcut To Distinction” 
by Lowell Thomas 
 
 
This biographical information about Dale Carnegie was written as an introduction to the original edition of 
How to Win Friends and Influence People. 
It 
is 
reprinted in this edition to give the readers additional 
background on Dale Carnegie. 
 
It was a cold January night in 1935, but the weather couldn’t keep them away. Two thousand five 
hundred men and women thronged into the grand ballroom of the Hotel Pennsylvania in New York. Every 
available seat was filled by half-past seven. At eight o’clock, the eager crowd was still pouring in. The spacious 
balcony was soon jammed. Presently even standing space was at a premium, and hundreds of people, tired after 
navigating a day in business, stood up for an hour and a half that night to witness—what? 
A fashion show? 
A six-day bicycle race or a personal appearance by Clark Gable? 
No. These people had been lured there by a newspaper ad. Two evenings previously, they had seen this 
full-page announcement in the 
New York
Sun
staring them in the face: 
Learn to Speak Effectively Prepare for Leadership 
Old stuff? Yes, but believe it or not, in the most sophisticated town on earth, during a depression with 
20 percent of the population on relief, twenty-five hundred people had left their homes and hustled to the hotel 
in response to that ad. 
The people who responded were of the upper economic strata—executives, employers and 
professionals. 
These men and women had come to hear the opening gun of an ultramodern, ultrapractical course in 
“Effective Speaking and Influencing Men in Business”—a course given by the Dale Carnegie Institute of 
Effective Speaking and Human Relations. 
Why were they there, these twenty-five hundred business men and women? 
Because of a sudden hunger for more education because of the depression? 
Apparently not, for this same course had been playing to packed houses in New York City every season 
for the preceding twenty-four years. During that time, more than fifteen thousand business and professional 
people had been trained by Dale Carnegie. Even large, skeptical, conservative organizations such as the 
Westinghouse Electric Company, the McGraw-Hill Publishing Company, the Brooklyn Union Gas Company, 
the Brooklyn Chamber of Commerce, the American Institute of Electrical Engineers and the New York 
Telephone Company have had this training conducted in their own offices for the benefit of their members and 
executives. 
The fact that these people, ten or twenty years after leaving grade school, high school or college, come 
and take this training is a glaring commentary on the shocking deficiencies of our educational system. 
What do adults really want to study? That is an important question; and in order to answer it, the 
University of Chicago, the American Association for Adult Education, and the United Y.M.C.A. Schools made 
a survey over a two-year period. 
That survey revealed that the prime interest of adults is health. It also revealed that their second interest 
is in developing skill in human relationships—they want to learn the technique of getting along with and 
influencing other people. They don’t want to become public speakers, and they don’t want to listen to a lot of 
high-sounding talk about psychology; they want suggestions they can use immediately in business, in social 
contacts and in the home. 
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So that was what adults wanted to study, was it? 
“All right,” said the people making the survey. “Fine. If that is what they want, we’ll give it to them.” 
Looking around for a textbook, they discovered that no working manual had ever been written to help 
people solve their daily problems in human relationships. 
Here was a fine kettle of fish! For hundreds of years, learned volumes had been written on Greek and 
Latin and higher mathematics—topics about which the average adult doesn’t give two hoots. But on the one 
subject on which he has a thirst for knowledge, a veritable passion for guidance and help—nothing! 
This explained the presence of twenty-five hundred eager adults crowding into the grand ballroom of 
the Hotel Pennsylvania in response to a newspaper advertisement. Here, apparently, at last was the thing for 
which they had long been seeking. 
Back in high school and college, they had pored over books, believing that knowledge alone was the 
open sesame to financial—and professional rewards. 
But a few years in the rough-and-tumble of business and professional life had brought sharp 
disillusionment. They had seen some of the most important business successes won by men who possessed, in 
addition to their knowledge, the ability to talk well, to win people to their way of thinking, and to "sell" 
themselves and their ideas. 
They soon discovered that if one aspired to wear the captain’s cap and navigate the ship of business, 
personality and the ability to talk are more important than a knowledge of Latin verbs or a sheepskin from 
Harvard. 
The advertisement in the New York Sun promised that the meeting would be highly entertaining. It was. 
Eighteen people who had taken the course were marshaled in front of the loudspeaker—and fifteen of them were 
given precisely seventy-five seconds each to tell his or her story. Only seventy-five seconds of talk, then “bang” 
went the gavel, and the chairman shouted, “Time! Next speaker!” 
The affair moved with the speed of a herd of buffalo thundering across the plains. Spectators stood for 
an hour and a half to watch the performance. 
The speakers were a cross section of life: several sales representatives, a chain store executive, a baker, 
the president of a trade association, two bankers, an insurance agent, an accountant, a dentist, an architect, a 
druggist who had come from Indianapolis to New York to take the course, a lawyer who had come from Havana 
in order to prepare himself to give one important three-minute speech. 
The first speaker bore the Gaelic name Patrick J. O'Haire. Born in Ireland, he attended school for only 
four years, drifted to America, worked as a mechanic, then as a chauffeur. 
Now, however, he was forty, he had a growing family and needed more money, so he tried selling 
trucks. Suffering from an inferiority complex that, as he put it, was eating his heart out, he had to walk up and 
down in front of an office half a dozen times before he could summon up enough courage to open the door. He 
was so discouraged as a salesman that he was thinking of going back to working with his hands in a machine 
shop, when one day he received a letter inviting him to an organization meeting of the Dale Carnegie Course in 
Effective Speaking. 
He didn’t want to attend. He feared he would have to associate with a lot of college graduates, that he 
would be out of place. 
His despairing wife insisted that he go, saying, “It may do you some good, Pat. God knows you need 
it.” He went down to the place where the meeting was to be held and stood on the sidewalk for five minutes 
before he could generate enough self-confidence to enter the room. 
The first few times he tried to speak in front of the others, he was dizzy with fear. But as the weeks 
drifted by, he lost all fear of audiences and soon found that he loved to talk—the bigger the crowd, the better. 
And he also lost his fear of individuals and of his superiors. He presented his ideas to them, and soon he had 
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been advanced into the sales department. He had become a valued and much liked member of his company. This 
night, in the Hotel Pennsylvania, Patrick O'Haire stood in front of twenty-five hundred people and told a gay, 
rollicking story of his achievements. Wave after wave of laughter swept over the audience. Few professional 
speakers could have equaled his performance. 
The next speaker, Godfrey Meyer, was a gray-headed banker, the father of eleven children. The first 
time he had attempted to speak in class, he was literally struck dumb. His mind refused to function. His story is 
a vivid illustration of how leadership gravitates to the person who can talk. 
He worked on Wall Street, and for twenty-five years he had been living in Clifton, New Jersey. During 
that time, he had taken no active part in community affairs and knew perhaps five hundred people. 
Shortly after he had enrolled in the Carnegie course, he received his tax bill and was infuriated by what 
he considered unjust charges. Ordinarily, he would have sat at home and fumed, or he would have taken it out in 
grousing to his neighbors. But instead, he put on his hat that night, walked into the town meeting, and blew off 
steam in public. 
As a result of that talk of indignation, the citizens of Clifton, New Jersey, urged him to run for the town 
council. So for weeks he went from one meeting to another, denouncing waste and municipal extravagance. 
There were ninety-six candidates in the field. When the ballots were counted, lo, Godfrey Meyer’s 
name led all the rest. Almost overnight, he had become a public figure among the forty thousand people in his 
community. As a result of his talks, he made eighty times more friends in six weeks than he had been able to 
previously in twenty-five years. 
And his salary as councilman meant that he got a return of 1,000 percent a year on his investment in the 
Carnegie course. 
The third speaker, the head of a large national association of food manufacturers, told how he had been 
unable to stand up and express his ideas at meetings of a board of directors. 
As a result of learning to think on his feet, two astonishing things happened. He was soon made 
president of his association, and in that capacity, he was obliged to address meetings all over the United States. 
Excerpts from his talks were put on the Associated Press wires and printed in newspapers and trade magazines 
throughout the country. 
In two years, after learning to speak more effectively, he received more free publicity for his company 
and its products than he had been able to get previously with a quarter of a million dollars spent in direct 
advertising. This speaker admitted that he had formerly hesitated to telephone some of the more important 
business executives in Manhattan and invite them to lunch with him. But as a result of the prestige he had 
acquired by his talks, these same people telephoned him and invited him to lunch and apologized to him for 
encroaching on his time. 
The ability to speak is a shortcut to distinction. It puts a person in the limelight, raises one head and 
shoulders above the crowd. And the person who can speak acceptably is usually given credit for an ability out of 
all proportion to what he or she really possesses. 
A movement for adult education has been sweeping over the nation; and the most spectacular force in 
that movement was Dale Carnegie, a man who listened to and critiqued more talks by adults than has any other 
man in captivity. According to a cartoon by "Believe-It-or-Not” Ripley, he had criticized 150,000 speeches. If 
that grand total doesn’t impress you, remember that it meant one talk for almost every day that has passed since 
Columbus discovered America. Or, to put it in other words, if all the people who had spoken before him had 
used only three minutes and had appeared before him in succession, it would have taken ten months, listening 
day and night, to hear them all. 
Dale Carnegie’s own career, filled with sharp contrasts, was a striking example of what a person can 
accomplish when obsessed with an original idea and afire with enthusiasm. 
Born on a Missouri farm ten miles from a railway, he never saw a streetcar until he was twelve years 
old; yet by the time he was forty-six, he was familiar with the far-flung corners of the earth, everywhere from 
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Hong Kong to Hammerfest; and, at one time, he approached closer to the North Pole than Admiral Byrd’s 
headquarters at Little America was to the South Pole. 
This Missouri lad who had once picked strawberries and cut cockleburs for five cents an hour became 
the highly paid trainer of the executives of large corporations in the art of self-expression. 
This erstwhile cowboy who had once punched cattle and branded calves and ridden fences out in 
western South Dakota later went to London to put on shows under the patronage of the royal family. 
This chap who was a total failure the first half-dozen times he tried to speak in public later became my 
personal manager. Much of my success has been due to training under Dale Carnegie. 
Young Carnegie had to struggle for an education, for hard luck was always battering away at the old 
farm in northwest Missouri with a flying tackle and a body slam. Year after year, the “102” River rose and 
drowned the corn and swept away the hay. Season after season, the fat hogs sickened and died from cholera, the 
bottom fell out of the market for cattle and mules, and the bank threatened to foreclose the mortgage. 
Sick with discouragement, the family sold out and bought another farm near the State Teachers’ 
College at Warrensburg, Missouri. Board and room could be had in town for a dollar a day, but young Carnegie 
couldn’t afford it. So he stayed on the farm and commuted on horseback three miles to college each day. At 
home, he milked the cows, cut the wood, fed the hogs, and studied his Latin verbs by the light of a coal-oil lamp 
until his eyes blurred and he began to nod. 
Even when he got to bed at midnight, he set the alarm for three o’clock. His father bred pedigreed 
Duroc-Jersey hogs—and there was danger, during the bitter cold nights, that the young pigs would freeze to 
death; so they were put in a basket, covered with a gunny sack, and set behind the kitchen stove. True to their 
nature, the pigs demanded a hot meal at 3 A.M. So when the alarm went off, Dale Carnegie crawled out of the 
blankets, took the basket of pigs out to their mother, waited for them to nurse, and then brought them back to the 
warmth of the kitchen stove. 
There were six hundred students in State Teachers’ College, and Dale Carnegie was one of the isolated 
half-dozen who couldn’t afford to board in town. He was ashamed of the poverty that made it necessary for him 
to ride back to the farm and milk the cows every night. He was ashamed of his coat, which was too tight, and his 
trousers, which were too short. Rapidly developing an inferiority complex, he looked about for some shortcut to 
distinction. He soon saw that there were certain groups in college that enjoyed influence and prestige—the 
football and baseball players and the chaps who won the debating and public-speaking contests. 
Realizing that he had no flair for athletics, he decided to win one of the speaking contests. He spent 
months preparing his talks. He practiced as he sat in the saddle galloping to college and back; he practiced his 
speeches as he milked the cows; and then he mounted a bale of hay in the barn and with great gusto and gestures 
harangued the frightened pigeons about the issues of the day. 
But in spite of all his earnestness and preparation, he met with defeat after defeat. He was eighteen at 
the time-sensitive and proud. He became so discouraged, so depressed, that he even thought of suicide. And then 
suddenly he began to win, not one contest, but every speaking contest in college. 
Other students pleaded with him to train them; and they won also. 
After graduating from college, he started selling correspondence courses to the ranchers among the 
sand hills of western Nebraska and eastern Wyoming. In spite of all his boundless energy and enthusiasm, he 
couldn’t make the grade. He became so discouraged that he went to his hotel room in Alliance, Nebraska, in the 
middle of the day, threw himself across the bed, and wept in despair. He longed to go back to college, he longed 
to retreat from the harsh battle of life; but he couldn’t. So he resolved to go to Omaha and get another job. He 
didn’t have the money for a railroad ticket, so he traveled on a freight train, feeding and watering two carloads 
of wild horses in return for his passage, After landing in south Omaha, he got a job selling bacon and soap and 
lard for Armour and Company. His territory was up among the Badlands and the cow and Indian country of 
western South Dakota. He covered his territory by freight train and stagecoach and horseback and slept in 
pioneer hotels where the only partition between the rooms was a sheet of muslin. He studied books on 
salesmanship, rode bucking bronchos, played poker with the Indians, and learned how to collect money. And 
when, for example, an inland storekeeper couldn’t pay cash for the bacon and hams he had ordered, Dale 
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Carnegie would take a dozen pairs of shoes off his shelf, sell the shoes to the railroad men, and forward the 
receipts to Armour and Company. 
He would often ride a freight train a hundred miles a day. When the train stopped to unload freight, he 
would dash uptown, see three or four merchants, get his orders; and when the whistle blew, he would dash down 
the street again lickety-split and swing onto the train while it was moving. 
Within two years, he had taken an unproductive territory that had stood in the twenty-fifth place and 
had boosted it to first place among all the twenty-nine car routes leading out of south Omaha. Armour and 
Company offered to promote him, saying: “You have achieved what seemed impossible.” But he refused the 
promotion and resigned, went to New York, studied at the American Academy of Dramatic Arts, and toured the 
country, playing the role of Dr. Hartley in