Always Avoid the Acute Angle

I attended religious schools through the eighth grade. I expected to continue this in my freshman year, but my father opted to enroll me in a public school. I’m unsure of the reason behind this decision, as my father never discussed it with me nor asked for my input. Perhaps it was due to the prevailing attitude of the times, or maybe it was simply his personality. Despite not being consulted, I didn’t feel particularly upset about it and just went along with it. Similar to my dad’s choice, my acceptance was influenced by both the times and my own character.

One of the effects of changing schools was leaving behind friends I had known and gone to school with for years. In my new school, I felt like an outsider. I was, after all, truly the new kid. My religion differed from most of my classmates, and my education differed. I felt a tremendous desire to be accepted in my new place, to fit in. I also must admit that I was what many would label a nerd today. I took a nerdish approach to solving my problem. I looked for a book to help me. And I found one that sounded perfect, How to Win Friends and Influence People by Dale Carnegie.

I didn’t realize that even then, for a fourteen-year-old boy to be reading that book would be considered a bit odd. Today, however, the book’s title, at least, seems perfect. Many people on Facebook are out to maximize their number of “friends.” And YouTube and TikTok are all about influencers. A half-century later, I still have a copy of the book. It’s on my Kindle, not printed, but I still have it. True, I have forgotten most of the anecdotes Mr. Carnegie used to teach me how to win friends—I wasn’t so interested in influencing people—but one of them I remember vividly, although I must tell you that I have still not learned its lesson—the story is in Part III of the book, in Chapter 10. I will provide some background.

Mr. Carnegie was working for a famous pilot from World War I. The man was Australian and had been knighted in England. On one occasion, Mr. Carnegie attended a festive meal in honor of his employer. During the dinner, a man seated to Carnegie’s right told a story hinged on a quotation. He incorrectly attributed the quote to the Bible. Carnegie knew that the passage was not from the Bible but from Shakespeare. Determined to set the man straight, Carnegie publicly corrected the speaker and rightly said the quote was from Shakespeare. Rather than thank Carnegie for his unasked-for education, the storyteller doubled down on his position. He knew, so he said, that the statement was from the Bible.

Seated on Carnegie’s left was a man he had known for many years, a good friend. The man was also a scholar of Shakespeare. At some point in their argument, Carnegie and the storyteller agreed to submit their question to Carnegie’s friend for a decision. The friend kicked Carnegie under the table, turned to him, and said that he was wrong, that the quotation was indeed from the Bible.

On their way home, Carnegie confronted his friend. He told him that he must know that the text was found in Shakespeare, not the Bible. The friend did know and identified the play, the act, and the scene. I want to share the friend’s answer as recorded by Carnegie:

‘Yes, of course,’ he replied, ‘Hamlet, Act Five, Scene Two. But we were guests at a festive occasion, my dear Dale. Why prove to a man he is wrong? Is that going to make him like you? Why not let him save his face? He didn’t ask for your opinion. He didn’t want it. Why argue with him? Always avoid the acute angle.’ The man who said that taught me a lesson I’ll never forget. I not only had made the storyteller uncomfortable, but had put my friend in an embarrassing situation. How much better it would have been had I not become argumentative. [Carnegie, Dale. How To Win Friends and Influence People (p. 144). Sanage Publishing House. Kindle Edition. ]

Carnegie’s conclusion: “It was a sorely needed lesson because I had been an inveterate arguer.” [Ibid, (p. 144).]

Oh, if only I could comprehend this lesson! I read it for the first time almost sixty years ago and still have not learned it. Just this past Sabbath, at my lunch table, I made a mistake similar to Carnegie’s and took upon myself the education of someone who was a guest and a friend. My wife, if she were a bit taller or my legs a bit longer, would surely have kicked me, and rightly so, under our dinner table.

In my study, in a glass cabinet against the wall on my left, where I keep my most precious things, I have a plaque presented to me by one of my former supervisors. She knew me well. The plaque has engraved upon it a statement attributed to Michelangelo, creator of the Sistine Chapel, and the glorious statue of David. He said in his eighty-seventh year, ‘Ancora Imparo.’ (“I am still learning.”) On my last birthday, I turned seventy-three. In the next fourteen years, may it be His will, I hope to learn the lesson I should have learned so long ago, late, but better than never.

All the best,
Gershon