“The attack on Pearl Harbour was one of the greatest tragediesin American history， but as far as I was concerned， it was oneof the best things that ever happened to me. That terrible crisisgave me strength that I never dreamed I possessed. It tookmy attention off myself and focused it on others. It gave mesomething big and vital and important to live for. I no longer hadtime to think about myself or care about myself.”
A third of the people who rush to psychiatrists for help couldprobably cure themselves if they would only do as MargaretYates did： get interested in helping others. My idea？ No， that isapproximately what Carl Jung said. And he ought to know—ifanybody does. He said： “About one-third of my patients aresuffering from no clinically definable neurosis， but from thesenselessness and emptiness of their lives.”
To put it another way， they are trying to thumb a ride throughlife—and the parade passes them by. So they rush to a psychiatristwith their petty， senseless， useless lives. Having missed the boat，they stand on the wharf， blaming everyone except themselves anddemanding that the world cater to their self-centred desires.
You may be saying to yourself now： “Well， I am not impressedby these stories. I myself could get interested in a couple oforphans I met on Christmas Eve； and if I had been at PearlHarbour， I would gladly have done what Margaret Tayler Yatesdid. But with me things are different： I live an ordinary humdrumlife. I work at a dull job eight hours a day. Nothing dramatic ever happens to me. How can I get interested in helping others？ Andwhy should I？ What is there in it for me？”
A fair question. I’ll try to answer it. However humdrum yourexistence may be， you surely meet some people every day of yourlife. What do you do about them？ Do you merely stare throughthem， or do you try to find out what it is that makes them tick？
How about the postman， for example—he walks hundreds of milesevery year， delivering mail to your door； but have you ever takenthe trouble to find out where he lives， or ask to see a snapshot ofhis wife and his kids？ Did you ever ask him if his feet get tired， orif he ever gets bored？
What about the grocery boy， the newspaper vendor， the chapat the corner who polishes your shoes？ These people are human—bursting with troubles， and dreams， and private ambitions. Theyare also bursting for the chance to share them with someone. Butdo you ever let them？ Do you ever show an eager， honest interestin them or their lives？ That’s the sort of thing I mean. You don’thave to become a Florence Nightingale or a social reformer tohelp improve the world—your own private world； you can starttomorrow morning with the people you meet！
What’s in it for you？ Much greater happiness！ Greatersatisfaction， and pride in yourself！ Aristotle called this kind ofattitude “enlightened selfishness”. Zoroaster said： “Doing goodto others is not a duty. It is a joy， for it increases your own healthand happiness.” And Benjamin Franklin summed it up verysimply—“When you are good to others，” said Franklin， “you arebest to yourself.”
“No discovery of modern psychology，” writes Henry C. Link，director of the Psychological Service Centre in New York， “nodiscovery of modern psychology is， in my opinion， so importantas its scientific proof of the necessity of self-sacrifice or disciplineto self-realisation and happiness.”
Thinking of others will not only keep you from worrying aboutyourself； it will also help you to make a lot of friends and have a lotof fun. How？ Well， I once asked Professor William Lyon Phelps， ofYale， how he did it； and here is what he said：
“I never go into a hotel or a barber-shop or a store withoutsaying something agreeable to everyone I meet. I try to saysomething that treats them as an individual—not merely a cogin a machine. I sometimes compliment the girl who waits on mein the store by telling her how beautiful her eyes areor her hair.
I will ask a barber if he doesn’t get tired standing on his feet allday. I’ll ask him how he came to take up barbering—how long hehas been at it and how many heads of hair he has cut. I’ll helphim figure it out. I find that taking an interest in people makesthem beam with pleasure. I frequently shake hands with a redcapwho has carried my grip. It gives him a new lift and freshens himup for the whole day. One extremely hot summer day， I wentinto the dining car to have lunch. The crowded car was almostlike a furnace and the service was slow. When the steward finallygot around to handing me the menu， I said： ‘the boys back therecooking in that hot kitchen certainly must be suffering today.’
the steward began to curse. At first， I thought he was angry.
‘Good God Almighty，’ he exclaimed， ‘the people come in hereand complain about the food. They kick about the slow serviceand growl about the heat and the prices. I have listened to theircriticisms for nineteen years and you are the first person and theonly person that has ever expressed any sympathy for the cooksback there in the boiling kitchen. I wish to God we had morepassengers like you.’