Kfir Luzzatto's Blog, page 2

Scientific Salesmanship

The other day, I got an email that went like this:

Hi Kfir, it's been a long time since we were in touch—my bad. I hope everything is good and you're still going strong like the last time we spoke.

I jumped to the signature to see who was writing to me. The name didn't ring a bell. I squeezed my brow, trying to think of some details about this person. I meet so many people that, once in a while, I forget someone if I only met him briefly a long time ago. When that happens, it becomes a matter of principle for me to find out who he was and about what we met. I can spend a lot of time doing that, rummaging through emails and other sources of information, and that's what I did this time, too.

And then it hit me: I don't know this bird from Adam; the approach by an alleged friend was a marketing ruse to get my attention, but to realize it, I had to keep reading the email. This was the most annoying attempt to sell me something ever. Why should this imbecile think it would work baffles me.

Now I had a problem on my hands: how should I respond? Should I write a strong response, pointing out how much I resented having my time wasted by his stupid email? Or perhaps I should simply delete the email and forget about it.

When in doubt, I never make rash decisions. I picked up a little book of essays by Robert Benchley that I keep in my library, to which I go when I need a chuckle. It is titled After 1903—What? (Fun fact: it was actually published in 1938.) I quickly found the essay I was looking for: "Scientific Salesmanship." The following is an excerpt:

ONE of the chief requisites of a good salesman today, next to having something to sell, is the ability to find a customer. From then on things are pretty easy sailing. Finding a customer, and knowing the secret of how to approach him, is the new Science of Salesmanship. Of course, it always has been the science of salesmanship, but it is only recently that they have spelled it with a capital "S." That comes extra. The Phoenician traders, along back in 1500 B.C., didn't know anything about the reaction of certain sales phrases on certain brain centers. All they knew was to get business. They did all right, too. They managed to make calls on about two-thirds of the world. The other third hadn't been discovered yet. But, nowadays, a real up-to-the-minute salesman must study facial contours in his prospective customers…

…They've got it all mapped out. A round-faced buyer is supposed to be a push-over for items of luxury…Triangular-faced customers are supposed to be more amenable to logic and reason. The square-faced ones should be "led, not forced." People with a wide space between the eyes are an easy market for canned goods and free seeds…

…Sometime salesmen will come to realize that the thing can work both ways. When I am confronted by a square-jawed salesman, who knows exactly how to sell me, I wouldn't buy his product if it were concentrated Breath of Life. A triangular-faced talker gets no farther with me. But a good, round-faced, luxury-loving, inefficient salesman, who doesn't know quite how to go about it, could sell me that old Civil War mortar out on Governors Island.

We customers have our scientific methods, too.

Reading it relieved my annoyance, and I realized that the poor guy who sent me that email was more to be pitied than censured; he wouldn't be doing much business in this way. So, of course, I had to write back and tell him he was an idiot; it was the charitable thing to do.

I wonder how you would have reacted in my place.

Down with Tolstoy!

I think too little attention is paid to the roots of our failure to discover and read some great books. Two main reasons for the mishap are our obsession with "the new," and the "Best Books of" lists. Let's dissect them.

We are always eager to see new things, authors, and books. Novelty appeals to us, and that's fine, but the fixation with release dates is absurd. If a new book doesn't take off in the first six months after its release, some people believe it's not worth reading. The truth is that the success of a new book has much more to do with its marketing, the political atmosphere, serendipity, and the weather than with its quality. Everybody can name a lousy book that has sold millions of copies for reasons nobody understands and a fantastic book that has gone almost unnoticed.

But where we are really missing out is with great books that were recognized as such years or decades ago but are not on our radar now because nobody advertises them. The author is dead, the publisher has other fish to fry, and the novel gets forgotten except by a few enthusiasts. I have long lists of books like that: John Whyndam's The Day of the Triffids, if you like horror-leaning science fiction, Franz Molnar's The Paul Street Boys, for a poignant YA drama, or any one of Rex Stout's Nero Wolfe mysteries, for a fast-paced and entertaining sleuth, are just three examples.

As if that difficulty was not obstacle enough to our discovery of amazing books, we are misguided by the various "Best Books" lists. Take, for instance, the New York Times "Best Book of 125 Years," or Reader's Digest's "100 Best Books of All Time," or Britannica's "Greatest Book Ever Written." They all have Leo Tolstoy's Anna Karenina at the top of their lists. To those influential lists, I say, Give Me A Break!

I have no dispute with the experts, and I don't deny that Anna Karenina is "considered to be one of the greatest works of literature ever written." Granted. But that doesn't make it "a good book to read" by today's standards. To the modern reader, a book must flow and have a pace and rhythm that make it pleasurable and engaging because it is written in a way nobody wrote two hundred years ago. To Tolstoy (and other contemporary nineteenth-century writers), the beauty resided in telling the story with long, winding descriptions that may drive a modern reader up the wall. Take, for instance, a random passage from Chapter 3:

"Stepan Arkadyevitch had not chosen his political opinions or his views; these political opinions and views had come to him of themselves, just as he did not choose the shapes of his hat and coat, but simply took those that were being worn. And for him, living in a certain society—owing to the need, ordinarily developed at years of discretion, for some degree of mental activity—to have views was just as indispensable as to have a hat. If there was a reason for his preferring liberal to conservative views, which were held also by many of his circle, it arose not from his considering liberalism more rational, but from its being in closer accordance with his manner of life. The liberal party said that in Russia everything is wrong, and certainly Stepan Arkadyevitch had many debts and was decidedly short of money. The liberal party said that marriage is an institution quite out of date, and that it needs reconstruction; and family life certainly afforded Stepan Arkadyevitch little gratification, and forced him into lying and hypocrisy, which was so repulsive to his nature. The liberal party said, or rather allowed it to be understood, that religion is only a curb to keep in check the barbarous classes of the people."

I mean, What?!

If you are a literature scholar who wants to explore the roots of the Russian novel, by all means, read Anna Karenina—all 1205 painful pages. But if you are a regular person looking for a book that will engage your imagination and take you into the story as you feverishly and vicariously live breathtaking events through the eyes of the protagonist, Tolstoy is not for you. I am not trying to disparage old Leo, mind you—who am I to criticize him? All I'm saying is that Anna Karenina is not in a fair fight with The Hunger Games.

So, what should you do? There is only one solution: ask your friends who read a lot to recommend books released at least ten years ago (preferably much earlier). If they want to remain your friends, they will not recommend Anna Karenina to you. I will try to be that friend to you and, from time to time, will recommend great books you may have missed. After all, we readers must look after each other; the ways of the Lord are infinite, but the total reading time He has granted us is not.

The Guy You Don't Know

Everybody has a guy they don't know. But to some of us, he may become a very oppressive presence. Take mine, for example.

I live in a charming and friendly residential area where it is not uncommon for people you only know by sight to greet you when they meet you in the street. That's why, at first, I wasn't bothered by having the guy I don't know smile at me and, sometimes, even add a friendly wave of his hand. Little did I know.

The blow arrived one day when, no longer satisfied with smiling and waving, the guy I don't know got closer, grabbed my hand, and spoke his fateful words:

"It's been ages since we've gotten together," he said. We should organize a game of poker like in the old days."

I know what I should have told him, and I've kicked myself several times since for holding my peace. I should have said, "Dude, I have no idea who you are. You are mistaking me for somebody else." Instead, I cowardly bleated, "I no longer play poker." How could I be so stupid?

"No problem, we'll do something else. The important thing is that we get together," the guy I don't know responded with a smile.

My life has been hell ever since. The guy I don't know keeps popping up when I least expect it. He asks after my kids and tells me what happened to alleged mutual schoolmates I have never heard about. Once a mere phantom who haunted me outside the grocery store, he now seems to be permanently walking back and forth by my house, and I have to time my trips outside and duck between the parked vehicles to minimize our encounters.

The worst part is that now it is too late to tell him what I should have said the first time. The dynamic of my relationship with the guy I don't know has created unwritten rules that my upbringing does not allow me to break. Social conventions now exist in the universe where the guy I don't know and I move, and they govern what I can and cannot do in this relationship that grows asphyxiating by the day.

Sometimes, I dream I mustered the courage to tell him the truth, but then I wake up and realize it has all been an unattainable fantasy.

If only I knew his name…

True Story

Sometimes, reality is stranger than fiction; life can be incredibly imaginative. So, I'd like to tell you about the night I spent on a bench with two prostitutes.

I bet you would like me to explain that statement a little bit more.

Let me start by saying it is not what you think (shame on you!). I was fifteen and a half years old at the time, and I lived in Milan, Italy. There was a girl I liked who lived in Genoa, some seventy-five miles away; it was early August, school was out, and there wasn't much to do until we left for our summer vacation. I had some money in my pocket – enough to buy me a second-class train ticket to Genoa, and a couple of sandwiches and a coke to keep body and soul together. So, as befitting a hot-blooded Italian teenager, without giving much thought to what would happen next, I jumped on an asthmatic train that took its sweet time getting me there. Once on the train, I realized that it would have been smarter of me to call ahead and make sure that she was in town, but those were days when the cellular phone had not been invented yet, so all I could do was pray.

I reached Genoa at about 9:00 p.m. and navigated the short distance from the station to my girl's house. I knocked on her door and prepared to savor her delight at seeing me. She opened the door, blinked, and then asked, wide-eyed, "What are you doing here?"

"I'm happy to see you too," I retorted, a bit stung by her lack of enthusiasm. "School's out, so I thought I'd come to see you."

"At this hour? You're crazy," she whispered. "Come on in. Wait here," she added, closing the door behind me, "I'll talk to Mother."

Soon, excited voices came from within the apartment, and I grew uncomfortable as I caught bits of the conversation.

"He's not going to sleep under the same roof with you!" the mother ruled.

"But why? What's the problem?"

"It's not proper."

"But he has nowhere else to go, and he hasn't had dinner," came my girl's pleading voice.

"Well, that's not my fault, is it? He can come back tomorrow morning, and I'll give him breakfast," was her mother's final verdict.

So that was it, and having been kicked out, I had little choice but to return to the train station. Luckily, the night was warm, so I resigned myself to a fitful sleep, curled up on a seat in the waiting area, which was almost empty at that time of night. The seat was uncomfortable, but being inside the stationhouse gave me a feeling of safety, and soon, I fell asleep.

An unkind hand shook me awake, and through the mists of sleep, I saw a uniformed figure standing before me.

"You can't sleep here. Go away," he ordered.

"But … I had a late train and have nowhere to go until morning," I pleaded.

"See that?" he said, pointing to a No-Loitering sign. "If you don't leave immediately, I'll call the police."

It was no use pleading; he didn't care. I walked out to look for a place to while away the rest of the night. I chose a bench in a small garden near the station, and I sat there, feeling miserable, too scared that I might get mugged to go to sleep.

Now, Genoa is an ancient port renowned for its seafood and for its ladies of ill repute. Songs have been written about them and the alleys in which they conduct their business; the one I had chosen turned out to be an active venue. I had been alone for some time when two women passed by and stopped beside me.

"What are you doing here, boy?" asked one of them.

"I'm just sitting," I said. "I don't have any money," I added defensively.

"We weren't going to take money from you," the other said, laughing. Why, you're just a child…"

The first one explained, "This is our bench. Why don't you go home?"

I looked at them; one was about my mother's age, and the other looked younger. They spoke with the funny Genoa accent, but other than that, they seemed polite and kind. They inspired confidence, so I told them about my predicament and why I had nowhere to go. "Keep us company, then," they said simply and sat on the bench with me.

They sat with me for hours, talking about their lives, their homes, the sea, and every topic that occurred to them. Once, a man stopped by, and the young one went away for half an hour and then returned. Other than that, we were treated as invisible people by the few passers-by who averted their gaze from our bench. I guess I was scaring away the customers, but that didn't seem to bother my newly-found friends; they talked candidly about themselves and the tough times and asked me many questions about my family and life in the big city. Later, I grew so exhausted that I fell asleep with my head on one of the ladies' shoulders, and they let me sleep until first light.

When they woke me up to tell me that they were leaving, I felt an inexplicable pang of sadness and a sense of loss.

"I have a boy almost your age," said the older woman, as if that explained everything. I didn't know how to respond, so I kept silent.

"You need to wash your face," said the younger woman. "You can use the drinking fountain over there."

I felt they were lingering, waiting for something to happen. Perhaps they waited for me to say something, but I didn't know what to say. At last, we parted simply with thanks and goodbyes.

I regret that I have forgotten their names. I couldn't tell you what we talked about most of the time because we were simply having a conversation. Nothing of momentous importance was said, but the simple fact that they cared enough to sit with me and watch over me created a human contact that was amazingly genuine and disinterested for the few hours that it lasted.

That night taught me a precious lesson. I never again stereotyped anybody or judged people without first trying to establish a human rapport with them, and I never will.

Why Books Hypnotize Us

As a (non-practicing) clinical hypnotherapist, I have come to see books as powerful hypnotic agents that can transport us into a state of trance. That helps me both when reading and when writing a book.

What is Hypnosis?

Hypnosis is a heightened state of focus. It is characterized by extreme suggestibility, relaxation, and heightened imagination. When guided by a hypnotist, you are focused on the words he uses and the sound of his voice. It's not like sleep because you are alert and fully conscious, but you tune out most of the stimuli around you and focus intently on the subject, to the near exclusion of any other thought.

So when you get immersed in a book and focus on the words, the story becomes your primary object, and the room around you is forgotten; you are in a state of trance in which you can really enjoy what you are reading. Reading is not the only example of everyday hypnosis; you can be hypnotized, for instance, by the water running in the shower, watching a movie, and, most dangerously, driving.

Which Book Will Hypnotize You?

For a story to hypnotize you, its plot must be enthralling because you can't go into a trance if you are bored. That is entirely subjective because if you are not into alien body snatchers, for example, you will not get lost in a book that focuses on them.

But now comes the objective part. While in a "reading hypnotic trance," much of your activity is essentially "daydreaming." To allow you to really enjoy the story, the book must be written so that you can visualize the characters, the surroundings, and the events that are needed for you to daydream your own evolution of the plot. In other words, the book must have a flow that takes you along. Long and tedious descriptions will cause your attention to wander and take you out of your trance.

Books to Remember

You surely have read books that stayed with you for quite a while after reading, and perhaps you are reminded of them now and then. Why does that happen only with a few books? The simple explanation is, of course, that those are "good books." But what does that say about their hypnotic power? To understand it, we must take a quick look at what a "post-hypnotic" suggestion is.

Broadly speaking, a post-hypnotic suggestion is one given to the subject while in the hypnotic state (or trance), which will cause him to behave in a certain way while in his normal, non-hypnotic state. For instance, a post-hypnotic suggestion given to a person wishing to lose weight could be that seeing a cheesecake will trigger a feeling of fullness (or disgust).

When we are hypnotized by a book, passages we read are sometimes etched in our minds, much like a post-hypnotic suggestion. For instance, I can't see a can of spray of any kind without being reminded of Philip K. Dick's "Ubik" (if you haven't read it, go grab a copy, you will thank me!), simply because a can of spray plays a significant role in that great book.

When We Can't Be Hypnotized

Of course, external factors can also prevent us from going into a trance, but those depend on your concentration power. I can easily get lost in a book pretty much everywhere, but some people may find it challenging to go into a "reading trance" on the subway or on a noisy beach. That's not too bad if you are reading escapist literature, which is purely recreational and requires little or no emotional participation, but I would not recommend it for books that require a reader's involvement.

So, next time you read a good book, allow yourself to drift into that pleasant, blurry state in which you are fully immersed in the story. You may even want to try setting the stage for your trance, reading in a pleasant, quiet environment free from distractions. The Internet is full of useful tips on how to promote a trance. And if you find that these suggestions heightened your reading pleasure, please drop me a line.