I once interviewed Major—General Smedley Butler—old“Gimlet-Eye”. Old “Hell-Devil” Butler！Remember him？ Themost colourful， swashbuckling general who ever commanded theUnited States Marines.
He told me that when he was young， he was desperately eagerto be popular， wanted to make a good impression on everyone.
In those days the slightest criticism smarted and stung. But heconfessed that thirty years in the Marines had toughened hishide. “I have been berated and insulted，” he said， “and denouncedas a yellow dog， a snake， and a skunk. I have been cursed bythe experts. I have been called every possible combination ofunprintable cuss words in the English language. Bother me？Huh！
When I hear someone cussing me now， I never turn my head tosee who is talking.”
Maybe old “Gimlet-Eye” Butler was too indifferent tocriticism； but one thing is sure： most of us take the little jibesand javelins that are hurled at us far too seriously. I rememberthe time， years ago， when a reporter from the New York Sunattended a demonstration meeting of my adult-education classesand lampooned me and my work. Was I burned up？ I took it asa personal insult. I telephoned Gill Hodges， the Chairman of theExecutive Committee of the Sun， and practically demanded thathe print an article stating the facts—instead of ridicule. I wasdetermined to make the punishment fit the crime.
I am ashamed now of the way I acted. I realise now that halfthe people who bought the paper never saw that article. Half ofthose who read it regarded it as a source of innocent merriment.
Half of those who gloated over it forgot all about it in a few weeks.
I realise now that people are not thinking about you andme or caring what is said about us. They are thinking aboutthemselves—before breakfast， after breakfast， and right on untilten minutes past midnight. They would be a thousand times moreconcerned about a slight headache of their own than they wouldabout the news of your death or mine.
Even if you and I are lied about， ridiculed， double-crossed，knifed in the back， and sold down the river by one out of everysix of our most intimate friends—let’s not indulge in an orgyof self-pity. Instead， let’s remind ourselves that that’s preciselywhat happened to Jesus. One of His twelve most intimate friendsturned traitor for a bribe that would amount， in our modernmoney， to about nineteen dollars. Another one of His twelvemost intimate friends openly deserted Jesus the moment He gotinto trouble， and declared three times that he didn’t even knowJesus—and he swore as he said it. One out of six！ That is whathappened to Jesus. Why should you and I expect a better score？
I discovered years ago that although I couldn’t keep peoplefrom criticising me unjustly， I could do something infinitely moreimportant： I could determine whether I would let the unjustcondemnation disturb me.
Let’s be clear about this： I am not advocating ignoring allcriticism. Far from it. I am talking about ignoring only unjustcriticism. I once asked Eleanor Roosevelt how she handled unjustcriticism—and Allah knows she’s had a lot of it. She probably hasmore ardent friends and more violent enemies than any otherwoman who ever lived in the White House.
She told me that as a young girl she was almost morbidly shy，afraid of what people might say. She was so afraid of criticismthat one day she asked her aunt， Theodore Roosevelt’s sister foradvice. She said： “Auntie Bye， I want to do so-and-so. But I’mafraid of being criticised.”
