position	that	feelings	are	typically
indispensable
	for	rational	decisions;
they	point	us	in	the	proper	direction,	where	dry	logic	can	then	be	of
best	use.	While	the	world	often	confronts	us	with	an	unwieldy	array
of	choices	(How	should	you	invest	your	retirement	savings?	Whom
should	you	marry?),	the	emotional	learning	that	life	has	given	us
(such	as	the	memory	of	a	disastrous	investment	or	a	painful	breakup)
sends	signals	that	streamline	the	decision	by	eliminating	some	options
and	highlighting	others	at	the	outset.	In	this	way,	Dr.	Damasio	argues,
the	emotional	brain	is	as	involved	in	reasoning	as	is	the	thinking
brain.
The	emotions,	then,	matter	for	rationality.	In	the	dance	of	feeling
and	thought	the	emotional	faculty	guides	our	moment-to-moment
decisions,	working	hand-in-hand	with	the	rational	mind,	enabling—or
disabling—thought	itself.	Likewise,	the	thinking	brain	plays	an
executive	role	in	our	emotions—except	in	those	moments	when
emotions	surge	out	of	control	and	the	emotional	brain	runs	rampant.
In	a	sense	we	have	two	brains,	two	minds—and	two	different	kinds
of	intelligence:	rational	and	emotional.	How	we	do	in	life	is
determined	by	both—it	is	not	just	IQ,	but
emotional
	intelligence	that


emotional
	intelligence	that
matters.	Indeed,	intellect	cannot	work	at	its	best	without	emotional
intelligence.	Ordinarily	the	complementarity	of	limbic	system	and


neocortex,	amygdala	and	prefrontal	lobes,	means	each	is	a	full	partner
in	mental	life.	When	these	partners	interact	well,	emotional
intelligence	rises—as	does	intellectual	ability.
This	turns	the	old	understanding	of	the	tension	between	reason	and
feeling	on	its	head:	it	is	not	that	we	want	to	do	away	with	emotion
and	put	reason	in
its	place,	as	Erasmus	had	it,	but	instead	find	the
intelligent	balance	of	the	two.	The	old	paradigm	held	an	ideal	of
reason	freed	of	the	pull	of	emotion.	The	new	paradigm	urges	us	to
harmonize	head	and	heart.	To	do	that	well	in	our	lives	means	we
must	first	understand	more	exactly	what	it	means	to	use	emotion
intelligently.


PART	TWO
THE	NATURE	OF
EMOTIONAL
INTELLIGENCE


3
When	Smart	Is	Dumb
Exactly	why	David	Pologruto,	a	high-school	physics	teacher,	was
stabbed	with	a	kitchen	knife	by	one	of	his	star	students	is	still
debatable.	But	the	facts	as	widely	reported	are	these:
Jason	H.,	a	sophomore	and	straight-A	student	at	a	Coral	Springs,
Florida,	high	school,	was	fixated	on	getting	into	medical	school.	Not
just	any	medical	school—he	dreamt	of	Harvard.	But	Pologruto,	his
physics	teacher,	had	given	Jason	an	80	on	a	quiz.	Believing	the	grade
—a	mere	B—put	his	dream	in	jeopardy,	Jason	took	a	butcher	knife	to
school	and,	in	a	confrontation	with	Pologruto	in	the	physics	lab,
stabbed	his	teacher	in	the	collarbone	before	being	subdued	in	a
struggle.
A	judge	found	Jason	innocent,	temporarily	insane	during	the
incident—a	panel	of	four	psychologists	and	psychiatrists	swore	he	was
psychotic	during	the	fight.	Jason	claimed	he	had	been	planning	to
commit	suicide	because	of	the	test	score,	and	had	gone	to	Pologruto	to
tell	him	he	was	killing	himself	because	of	the	bad	grade.	Pologruto
told	a	different	story:	“I	think	he	tried	to	completely	do	me	in	with	the


knife”	because	he	was	infuriated	over	the	bad	grade.
After	transferring	to	a	private	school,	Jason	graduated	two	years
later	at	the	top	of	his	class.	A	perfect	grade	in	regular	classes	would
have	given	him	a	straight-A,	4.0	average,	but	Jason	had	taken	enough
advanced	courses	to	raise	his	grade-point	average	to	4.614—way
beyond	A+.	Even	as	Jason	graduated	with	highest	honors,	his	old
physics	teacher,	David	Pologruto,	complained	that	Jason	had	never
apologized	or	even	taken	responsibility	for	the	attack.
1
The	question	is,	how	could	someone	of	such	obvious	intelligence	do
something	so	irrational—so	downright	dumb?	The	answer:	Academic
intelligence	has	little	to	do	with	emotional	life.	The	brightest	among
us	can	founder	on	the	shoals	of	unbridled	passions	and	unruly
impulses;	people	with	high	IQs	can	be	stunningly	poor	pilots	of	their
private	lives.
One	of	psychology’s	open	secrets	is	the	relative	inability	of	grades,


IQ,	or	SAT	scores,	despite	their	popular	mystique,	to	predict
unerringly	who	will	succeed	in	life.	To	be	sure,	there	is	a	relationship
between	IQ	and	life	circumstances	for	large	groups	as	a	whole:	many
people	with	very	low	IQs	end	up	in	menial	jobs,	and	those	with	high
IQs	tend	to	become	well-paid—but	by	no	means	always.
There	are	widespread	exceptions	to	the	myth	that	IQ	predicts
success—many	(or	more)	exceptions	than	cases	that	fit	the	rule.	At
best,	IQ	contributes	about	20	percent	to	the	factors	that	determine	life
success,	which	leaves	80	percent	to	other	forces.
2
	As	one	observer
notes,	“The	vast	majority	of	one’s	ultimate	niche	in	society	is
determined	by	non-IQ	factors,	ranging	from	social	class	to	luck.”
Even	Richard	Herrnstein	and	Charles	Murray,	whose	book
The	Bell
Curve
	imputes	a	primary	importance	to	IQ,	acknowledge	this;	as	they
point	out,	“Perhaps	a	freshman	with	an	SAT	math	score	of	500	had
better	not	have	his	heart	set	on	being	a	mathematician,	but	if	instead
he	wants	to	run	his	own	business,	become	a	U.S.	Senator	or	make	a
million	dollars,	he	should	not	put	aside	his	dreams.…	The	link


between	test	scores	and	those	achievements	is	dwarfed	by	the	totality
of	other	characteristics	that	he	brings	to	life.”
3
My	concern	is	with	a	key	set	of	these	“other	characteristics,”
emotional	intelligence:
	abilities	such	as	being	able	to	motivate	oneself
and	persist	in	the	face	of	frustrations;	to	control	impulse	and	delay
gratification;	to	regulate	one’s	moods	and	keep	distress	from
swamping	the	ability	to	think;	to	empathize	and	to	hope.	Unlike	IQ,
with	its	nearly	one-hundred-year	history	of	research	with	hundreds	of
thousands	of	people,	emotional	intelligence	is	a	new	concept.	No	one
can	yet	say	exactly	how	much	of	the	variability	from	person	to	person
in	life’s	course	it	accounts	for.	But	what	data	exist	suggest	it	can	be	as
powerful,	and	at	times	more	powerful,	than	IQ.	And	while	there	are
those	who	argue	that	IQ	cannot	be	changed	much	by	experience	or
education,	I	will	show	in	Part	Five	that	the	crucial	emotional
competencies	can	indeed	be	learned	and	improved	upon	by	children—
if	we	bother	to	teach	them.
EMOTIONAL	INTELLIGENCE	AND	DESTINY
I	remember	the	fellow	in	my	own	class	at	Amherst	College	who	had
attained	five	perfect	800	scores	on	the	SAT	and	other	achievement


attained	five	perfect	800	scores	on	the	SAT	and	other	achievement
tests	he	took	before	entering.	Despite	his	formidable	intellectual


abilities,	he	spent	most	of	his	time	hanging	out,	staying	up	late,	and
missing	classes	by	sleeping	until	noon.	It	took	him	almost	ten	years	to
finally	get	his	degree.
IQ	offers	little	to	explain	the	different	destinies	of	people	with
roughly	equal	promises,	schooling,	and	opportunity.	When	ninety-five
Harvard	students	from	the	classes	of	the	1940s—a	time	when	people
with	a	wider	spread	of	IQ	were	at	Ivy	League	schools	than	is	presently
the	case—were	followed	into	middle	age,	the	men	with	the	highest
test	scores	in	college	were	not	particularly	successful	compared	to
their	lower-scoring	peers	in	terms	of	salary,	productivity,	or	status	in
their	field.	Nor	did	they	have	the	greatest	life	satisfaction,	nor	the
most	happiness	with	friendships,	family,	and	romantic	relationships.
4
A	similar	follow-up	in	middle	age	was	done	with	450	boys,	most
sons	of	immigrants,	two	thirds	from	families	on	welfare,	who	grew	up
in	Somerville,	Massachusetts,	at	the	time	a	“blighted	slum”	a	few
blocks	from	Harvard.	A	third	had	IQs	below	90.	But	again	IQ	had
little	relationship	to	how	well	they	had	done	at	work	or	in	the	rest	of
their	lives;	for	instance,	7	percent	of	men	with	IQs	under	80	were


unemployed	for	ten	or	more	years,	but	so	were	7	percent	of	men	with
IQs	over	100.	To	be	sure,	there	was	a	general	link	(as	there	always	is)
between	IQ	and	socioeconomic	level	at	age	forty-seven.	But	childhood
abilities	such	as	being	able	to	handle	frustrations,	control	emotions,
and	get	on	with	other	people	made	the	greater	difference.
5
Consider	also	data	from	an	ongoing	study	of	eighty-one
valedictorians	and	salutatorians	from	the	1981	class	in	Illinois	high
schools.	All,	of	course,	had	the	highest	grade-point	averages	in	their
schools.	But	while	they	continued	to	achieve	well	in	college,	getting
excellent	grades,	by	their	late	twenties	they	had	climbed	to	only
average	levels	of	success.	Ten	years	after	graduating	from	high	school,
only	one	in	four	were	at	the	highest	level	of	young	people	of
comparable	age	in	their	chosen	profession,	and	many	were	doing
much	less	well.
Karen	Arnold,	professor	of	education	at	Boston	University,	one	of
the	researchers	tracking	the	valedictorians,	explains,	“I	think	we’ve
discovered	the	‘dutiful’—people	who	know	how	to	achieve	in	the
system.	But	valedictorians	struggle	as	surely	as	we	all	do.	To	know


that	a	person	is	a	valedictorian	is	to	know	only	that	he	or	she	is
exceedingly	good	at	achievement	as
measured	by	grades.	It	tells	you
nothing	about	how	they	react	to	the	vicissitudes	of	life.”
6
And	that	is	the	problem:	academic	intelligence	offers	virtually	no


preparation	for	the	turmoil—or	opportunity—life’s	vicissitudes	bring.
Yet	even	though	a	high	IQ	is	no	guarantee	of	prosperity,	prestige,	or
happiness	in	life,	our	schools	and	our	culture	fixate	on	academic
abilities,	ignoring
emotional
	intelligence,	a	set	of	traits—some	might
call	it	character—that	also	matters	immensely	for	our	personal
destiny.	Emotional	life	is	a	domain	that,	as	surely	as	math	or	reading,
can	be	handled	with	greater	or	lesser	skill,	and	requires	its	unique	set
of	competencies.	And	how	adept	a	person	is	at	those	is	crucial	to
understanding	why	one	person	thrives	in	life	while	another,	of	equal
intellect,	dead-ends:	emotional	aptitude	is	a
meta-ability
,	determining
how	well	we	can	use	whatever	other	skills	we	have,	including	raw
intellect.
Of	course,	there	are	many	paths	to	success	in	life,	and	many
domains	in	which	other	aptitudes	are	rewarded.	In	our	increasingly
knowledge-based	society,	technical	skill	is	certainly	one.	There	is	a
children’s	joke:	“What	do	you	call	a	nerd	fifteen	years	from	now?”
The	answer:	“Boss.”	But	even	among	“nerds”	emotional	intelligence
offers	an	added	edge	in	the	workplace,	as	we	shall	see	in	Part	Three.


Much	evidence	testifies	that	people	who	are	emotionally	adept—who
know	and	manage	their	own	feelings	well,	and	who	read	and	deal
effectively	with	other	people’s	feelings—are	at	an	advantage	in	any
domain	of	life,	whether	romance	and	intimate	relationships	or	picking
up	the	unspoken	rules	that	govern	success	in	organizational	politics.
People	with	well-developed	emotional	skills	are	also	more	likely	to	be
content	and	effective	in	their	lives,	mastering	the	habits	of	mind	that
foster	their	own	productivity;	people	who	cannot	marshal	some
control	over	their	emotional	life	fight	inner	battles	that	sabotage	their
ability	for	focused	work	and	clear	thought.
A	DIFFERENT	KIND	OF	INTELLIGENCE
To	the	casual	observer,	four-year-old	Judy	might	seem	a	wallflower
among	her	more	gregarious	playmates.	She	hangs	back	from	the
action	at	playtime,	staying	on	the	margins	of	games	rather	than
plunging	into	the	center.	But	Judy	is	actually	a	keen	observer	of	the
social	politics	of	her	preschool	classroom,	perhaps	the	most
sophisticated	of	her	playmates	in	her	insights	into	the	tides	of	feeling
within	the	others.
Her	sophistication	is	not	apparent	until	Judy’s	teacher	gathers	the


four-year-olds
around	to	play	what	they	call	the	Classroom	Game.	The
Classroom	Game—a	dollhouse	replica	of	Judy’s	own	preschool
classroom,	with	stick	figures	who	have	for	heads	small	photos	of	the
students	and	teachers—is	a	test	of	social	perceptiveness.	When	Judy’s
teacher	asks	her	to	put	each	girl	and	boy	in	the	part	of	the	room	they
like	to	play	in	most—the	art	corner,	the	blocks	corner,	and	so	on—
Judy	does	so	with	complete	accuracy.	And	when	asked	to	put	each
boy	and	girl	with	the	children	they	like	to	play	with	most,	Judy	shows
she	can	match	best	friends	for	the	entire	class.
Judy’s	accuracy	reveals	that	she	has	a	perfect	social	map	of	her
class,	a	level	of	perceptiveness	exceptional	for	a	four-year-old.	These
are	the	skills	that,	in	later	life,	might	allow	Judy	to	blossom	into	a	star
in	any	of	the	fields	where	“people	skills”	count,	from	sales	and
management	to	diplomacy.
That	Judy’s	social	brilliance	was	spotted	at	all,	let	alone	this	early,
was	due	to	her	being	a	student	at	the	Eliot-Pearson	Preschool	on	the
campus	of	Tufts	University,	where	Project	Spectrum,	a	curriculum
that	intentionally	cultivates	a	variety	of	kinds	of	intelligence,	was
then	being	developed.	Project	Spectrum	recognizes	that	the	human


then	being	developed.	Project	Spectrum	recognizes	that	the	human
repertoire	of	abilities	goes	far	beyond	the	three	R’s,	the	narrow	band
of	word-and-number	skills	that	schools	traditionally	focus	on.	It
acknowledges	that	capacities	such	as	Judy’s	social	perceptiveness	are
talents	that	an	education	can	nurture	rather	than	ignore	or	even
frustrate.	By	encouraging	children	to	develop	a	full	range	of	the
abilities	that	they	will	actually	draw	on	to	succeed,	or	use	simply	to
be	fulfilled	in	what	they	do,	school	becomes	an	education	in	life	skills.
The	guiding	visionary	behind	Project	Spectrum	is	Howard	Gardner,
a	psychologist	at	the	Harvard	School	of	Education.
7
	“The	time	has
come,”	Gardner	told	me,	“to	broaden	our	notion	of	the	spectrum	of
talents.	The	single	most	important	contribution	education	can	make	to
a	child’s	development	is	to	help	him	toward	a	field	where	his	talents
best	suit	him,	where	he	will	be	satisfied	and	competent.	We’ve
completely	lost	sight	of	that.	Instead	we	subject	everyone	to	an
education	where,	if	you	succeed,	you	will	be	best	suited	to	be	a
college	professor.	And	we	evaluate	everyone	along	the	way	according
to	whether	they	meet	that	narrow	standard	of	success.	We	should


to	whether	they	meet	that	narrow	standard	of	success.	We	should
spend	less	time	ranking	children	and	more	time	helping	them	to
identify	their	natural	competencies	and	gifts,	and	cultivate	those.
There	are	hundreds	and	hundreds	of	ways	to	succeed,	and	many,
many	different	abilities	that	will	help	you	get	there.”
8


If	anyone	sees	the	limits	of	the	old	ways	of	thinking	about
intelligence,	it	is	Gardner.	He	points	out	that	the	glory	days	of	the	IQ
tests	began	during	World	War	I,	when	two	million	American	men
were	sorted	out	through	the	first	mass
paper-and-pencil	form	of	the	IQ
test,	freshly	developed	by	Lewis	Terman,	a	psychologist	at	Stanford.
This	led	to	decades	of	what	Gardner	calls	the	“IQ	way	of	thinking”:
“that	people	are	either	smart	or	not,	are	born	that	way,	that	there’s
nothing	much	you	can	do	about	it,	and	that	tests	can	tell	you	if	you
are	one	of	the	smart	ones	or	not.	The	SAT	test	for	college	admissions
is	based	on	the	same	notion	of	a	single	kind	of	aptitude	that
determines	your	future.	This	way	of	thinking	permeates	society.”
Gardner’s	influential	1983	book
Frames	of	Mind	was
	a	manifesto
refuting	the	IQ	view;	it	proposed	that	there	was	not	just	one,
monolithic	kind	of	intelligence	that	was	crucial	for	life	success,	but
rather	a	wide	spectrum	of	intelligences,	with	seven	key	varieties.	His
list	includes	the	two	standard	academic	kinds,	verbal	and
mathematical-logical	alacrity,	but	it	goes	on	to	include	the	spatial


capacity	seen	in,	say,	an	outstanding	artist	or	architect;	the	kinesthetic
genius	displayed	in	the	physical	fluidity	and	grace	of	a	Martha
Graham	or	Magic	Johnson;	and	the	musical	gifts	of	a	Mozart	or	YoYo
Ma.	Rounding	out	the	list	are	two	faces	of	what	Gardner	calls	“the
personal	intelligences”:	interpersonal	skills,	like	those	of	a	great
therapist	such	as	Carl	Rogers	or	a	world-class	leader	such	as	Martin
Luther	King,	Jr.,	and	the	“intrapsychic”	capacity	that	could	emerge,
on	the	one	hand,	in	the	brilliant	insights	of	Sigmund	Freud,	or,	with
less	fanfare,	in	the	inner	contentment	that	arises	from	attuning	one’s
life	to	be	in	keeping	with	one’s	true	feelings.
The	operative	word	in	this	view	of	intelligences	is
multiple:
Gardner’s	model	pushes	way	beyond	the	standard	concept	of	IQ	as	a
single,	immutable	factor.	It	recognizes	that	the	tests	that	tyrannized	us
as	we	went	through	school—from	the	achievement	tests	that	sorted	us
out	into	those	who	would	be	shunted	toward	technical	schools	and
those	destined	for	college,	to	the	SATs	that	determined	what,	if	any,
college	we	would	be	allowed	to	attend—are	based	on	a	limited	notion
of	intelligence,	one	out	of	touch	with	the	true	range	of	skills	and


of	intelligence,	one	out	of	touch	with	the	true	range	of	skills	and
abilities	that	matter	for	life	over	and	beyond	IQ.
Gardner	acknowledges	that	seven	is	an	arbitrary	figure	for	the
variety	of	intelligences;	there	is	no	magic	number	to	the	multiplicity
of	human	talents.	At	one	point,	Gardner	and	his	research	colleagues
had	stretched	these	seven	to	a	list	of	twenty	different	varieties	of


intelligence.	Interpersonal	intelligence,	for	example,	broke	down	into
four	distinct	abilities:	leadership,	the	ability	to	nurture	relationships
and	keep	friends,	the	ability	to	resolve	conflicts,	and	skill	at	the	kind
of	social	analysis	that	four-year-old	Judy	excels	at.
This	multifaceted	view	of	intelligence	offers	a	richer	picture	of	a
child’s	ability	and	potential	for	success	than	the	standard	IQ.	When
Spectrum	students	were	evaluated	on	the	Stanford-Binet	Intelligence
Scale—once	the
gold	standard	of	IQ	tests—and	again	by	a	battery
designed	to	measure	Gardner’s	spectrum	of	intelligences,	there	was	no
significant	relationship	between	children’s	scores	on	the	two	tests.
9
The	five	children	with	the	highest	IQs	(from	125	to	133)	showed	a
variety	of	profiles	on	the	ten	strengths	measured	by	the	Spectrum	test.
For	example,	of	the	five	“smartest”	children	according	to	the	IQ	tests,
one	was	strong	in	three	areas,	three	had	strengths	in	two	areas,	and
one	“smart”	child	had	just	one	Spectrum	strength.	Those	strengths
were	scattered:	four	of	these	children’s	strengths	were	in	music,	two
in	the	visual	arts,	one	in	social	understanding,	one	in	logic,	two	in
language.	None	of	the	five	high-IQ	kids	were	strong	in	movement,


numbers,	or	mechanics;	movement	and	numbers	were	actually	weak
spots	for	two	of	these	five.
Gardner’s	conclusion	was	that	“the	Stanford-Binet	Intelligence	Scale
did	not	predict	successful	performance	across	or	on	a	consistent	subset
of	Spectrum	activities.”	On	the	other	hand,	the	Spectrum	scores	give
parents	and	teachers	clear	guidance	about	the	realms	that	these
children	will	take	a	spontaneous	interest	in,	and	where	they	will	do
well	enough	to	develop	the	passions	that	could	one	day	lead	beyond
proficiency	to	mastery.
Gardner’s	thinking	about	the	multiplicity	of	intelligence	continues
to	evolve.	Some	ten	years	after	he	first	published	his	theory,	Gardner
gave	these	nutshell	summaries	of	the	personal	intelligences:
Interpersonal
	intelligence	is	the	ability	to	understand	other	people:	what	motivates
them,	how	they	work,	how	to	work	cooperatively	with	them.	Successful	salespeople,
politicians,	teachers,	clinicians,	and	religious	leaders	are	all	likely	to	be	individuals
with	high	degrees	of	interpersonal	intelligence.
Intra
personal	intelligence	…	is	a
correlative	ability,	turned	inward.	It	is	a	capacity	to	form	an	accurate,	veridical	model
of	oneself	and	to	be	able	to	use	that	model	to	operate	effectively	in	life.
10
In	another	rendering,	Gardner	noted	that	the	core	of	interpersonal


10
In	another	rendering,	Gardner	noted	that	the	core	of	interpersonal
intelligence	includes	the	“capacities	to	discern	and	respond


appropriately	to	the	moods,	temperaments,	motivations,	and	desires
of	other	people.”	In	intrapersonal	intelligence,	the	key	to	self-
knowledge,	he	included	“access	to	one’s	own	feelings	and	the	ability
to	discriminate	among	them	and	draw	upon	them	to	guide
behavior.”
11
SPOCK	VS.	DATA:	WHEN	COGNITION	IS	NOT	ENOUGH
There	is	one	dimension	of	personal	intelligence	that	is	broadly	pointed
to,	but	little	explored,	in	Gardner’s	elaborations:	the	role	of	emotions.
Perhaps	this	is	so	because,	as	Gardner	suggested	to	me,	his	work	is	so
strongly	informed	by	a	cognitive-science	model	of	mind.	Thus	his
view	of	these	intelligences	emphasizes	cognition—the
understanding
	of
oneself	and	of	others	in	motives,	in	habits	of	working,	and	in	putting
that	insight	into	use	in	conducting	one’s	own	life	and	getting	along
with	others.	But	like	the	kinesthetic	realm,	where	physical	brilliance
manifests	itself	nonverbally,	the	realm	of	the	emotions	extends,	too,
beyond	the	reach	of	language	and	cognition.
While	there	is	ample	room	in	Gardner’s	descriptions	of	the	personal
intelligences	for	insight	into	the	play	of	emotions	and	mastery	in
managing	them,	Gardner	and	those	who	work	with	him	have	not
pursued	in	great	detail	the	role	of


pursued	in	great	detail	the	role	of
feeling
	in	these	intelligences,
focusing	more	on	cognitions
about
	feeling.	This	focus,	perhaps
unintentionally,	leaves	unexplored	the	rich	sea	of	emotions	that
makes	the	inner	life	and	relationships	so	complex,	so	compelling,	and
so	often	puzzling.	And	it	leaves	yet	to	be	plumbed	both	the	sense	in
which	there	is	intelligence
in
	the	emotions	and	the	sense	in	which
intelligence	can	be	brought
to
	emotions.
Gardner’s	emphasis	on	the	cognitive	elements	in	the	personal
intelligences	reflects	the	zeitgeist	of	psychology	that	has	shaped	his
views.	Psychology’s	overemphasis	on	cognition	even	in	the	realm	of
emotion	is,	in	part,	due	to	a	quirk	in	the	history	of	that	science.
During	the	middle	decades	of	this	century	academic	psychology	was
dominated	by	behaviorists	in	the	mold	of	B.	F.	Skinner,	who	felt	that
only	behavior	that	could	be	seen	objectively,	from	the	outside,	could
be	studied	with	scientific	accuracy.	The	behaviorists	ruled	all	inner
life,	including	emotions,	out-of-bounds	for	science.
Then,	with	the	coming	in	the	late	1960s	of	the	“cognitive
revolution,”	the	focus	of	psychological	science	turned	to	how	the


mind	registers	and	stores	information,	and	the	nature	of	intelligence.
But	emotions	were	still	off-limits.	Conventional	wisdom	among
cognitive	scientists	held	that	intelligence	entails	a	cold,	hard-nosed
processing	of	fact.	It	is	hyperrational,	rather	like
Star	Treks
	Mr.	Spock,
the	archetype	of	dry	information	bytes	unmuddied	by	feeling,
embodying	the	idea	that	emotions	have	no	place	in	intelligence	and
only	muddle	our	picture	of	mental	life.
The	cognitive	scientists	who	embraced	this	view	have	been	seduced
by	the	computer	as	the	operative	model	of	mind,	forgetting	that,	in
reality,	the	brain’s	wetware	is	awash	in	a	messy,	pulsating	puddle	of
neurochemicals,
nothing	like	the	sanitized,	orderly	silicon	that	has
spawned	the	guiding	metaphor	for	mind.	The	predominant	models
among	cognitive	scientists	of	how	the	mind	processes	information
have	lacked	an	acknowledgment	that	rationality	is	guided	by—and
can	be	swamped	by—feeling.	The	cognitive	model	is,	in	this	regard,
an	impoverished	view	of	the	mind,	one	that	fails	to	explain	the	Sturm
und	Drang	of	feelings	that	brings	flavor	to	the	intellect.	In	order	to
persist	in	this	view,	cognitive	scientists	themselves	have	had	to	ignore


the	relevance	for	their	models	of	mind	of	their	personal	hopes	and
fears,	their	marital	squabbles	and	professional	jealousies—the	wash	of
feeling	that	gives	life	its	flavor	and	its	urgencies,	and	which	in	every
moment	biases	exactly	how	(and	how	well	or	poorly)	information	is
processed.
The	lopsided	scientific	vision	of	an	emotionally	flat	mental	life—
which	has	guided	the	last	eighty	years	of	research	on	intelligence—is
gradually	changing	as	psychology	has	begun	to	recognize	the	essential
role	of	feeling	in	thinking.	Rather	like	the	Spockish	character	Data	in
Star	Trek:	The	Next	Generation
,	psychology	is	coming	to	appreciate	the
power	and	virtues	of	emotions	in	mental	life,	as	well	as	their	dangers.
After	all,	as	Data	sees	(to	his	own	dismay,	could	he	feel	dismay),	his
cool	logic	fails	to	bring	the	right
human
	solution.	Our	humanity	is
most	evident	in	our	feelings;	Data	seeks	to	feel,	knowing	that
something	essential	is	missing.	He	wants	friendship,	loyalty;	like	the
Tin	Man	in
The	Wizard	of	Oz
,	he	lacks	a	heart.	Lacking	the	lyrical
sense	that	feeling	brings,	Data	can	play	music	or	write	poetry	with
technical	virtuosity,	but	not	feel	its	passion.	The	lesson	of	Data’s


yearning	for	yearning	itself	is	that	the	higher	values	of	the	human
heart—faith,	hope,	devotion,	love—are	missing	entirely	from	the
coldly	cognitive	view.	Emotions	enrich;	a	model	of	mind	that	leaves
them	out	is	impoverished.


When	I	asked	Gardner	about	his	emphasis	on	thoughts	about
feelings,	or	metacognition,	more	than	on	emotions	themselves,	he
acknowledged	that	he	tended	to	view	intelligence	in	a	cognitive	way,
but	told	me,	“When	I	first	wrote	about	the	personal	intelligences,	I
was
	talking	about	emotion,	especially	in	my	notion	of	intrapersonal
intelligence—one	component	is	emotionally	tuning	in	to	yourself.	It’s
the	visceral-feeling	signals	you	get	that	are	essential	for	interpersonal
intelligence.	But	as	it	has	developed	in	practice,	the	theory	of	multiple
intelligence	has	evolved	to	focus	more	on	metacognition”—that	is,
awareness	of	one’s	mental	processes—“rather	than	on	the	full	range	of
emotional	abilities.”
Even	so,	Gardner	appreciates	how	crucial	these	emotional	and
relationship	abilities	are	in	the	rough-and-tumble	of	life.	He	points	out
that	“many	people	with	IQs	of	160	work	for	people	with	IQs	of	100,	if
the	former	have
poor	intrapersonal	intelligence	and	the	latter	have	a
high	one.	And	in	the	day-to-day	world	no	intelligence	is	more
important	than	the	interpersonal.	If	you	don’t	have	it,	you’ll	make
poor	choices	about	who	to	marry,	what	job	to	take,	and	so	on.	We
need	to	train	children	in	the	personal	intelligences	in	school.”


need	to	train	children	in	the	personal	intelligences	in	school.”
CAN	EMOTIONS	BE	INTELLIGENT?
To	get	a	fuller	understanding	of	just	what	such	training	might	be	like,
we	must	turn	to	other	theorists	who	agree	with	Gardner’s	view—most
notably	psychologists	Peter	Salovey	and	John	Mayer.	They	have
mapped	in	great	detail	the	ways	in	which	we	can	bring	intelligence	to
our	emotions.
12
	This	endeavor	is	not	new;	over	the	years	even	the
most	ardent	theorists	of	IQ	have	occasionally	tried	to	bring	emotions
within	the	domain	of	intelligence,	rather	than	seeing	“emotion”	and
“intelligence”	as	an	inherent	contradiction	in	terms.	Thus	E.	L.
Thorndike,	an	eminent	psychologist	who	was	also	influential	in
popularizing	the	notion	of	IQ	in	the	1920s	and	1930s,	proposed	in	a
Harper’s	Magazine
	article	that	one	aspect	of	emotional	intelligence,
“social”	intelligence—the	ability	to	understand	others	and	“act	wisely
in	human	relations”—was	itself	an	aspect	of	a	person’s	IQ.	Other
psychologists	of	the	time	took	a	more	cynical	view	of	social
intelligence,	seeing	it	in	terms	of	skills	for	manipulating	other	people
—getting	them	to	do	what	you	want,	whether	they	want	to	or	not.	But


neither	of	these	formulations	of	social	intelligence	held	much	sway


with	theorists	of	IQ,	and	by	1960	an	influential	textbook	on
intelligence	tests	pronounced	social	intelligence	a	“useless”	concept.
But	personal	intelligence	would	not	be	ignored,	mainly	because	it
makes	both	intuitive	and	common	sense.	For	example,	when	Yale
psychologist	Robert	Sternberg	asked	people	to	describe	an	“intelligent
person,”	practical	people	skills	were	among	the	main	traits	listed.
More	systematic	research	by	Sternberg	led	him	back	to	Thorndike’s
conclusion:	that	social	intelligence	is	both	distinct	from	academic
abilities	and	a	key	part	of	what	makes	people	do	well	in	the
practicalities	of	life.	Among	the	practical	intelligences	that	are,	for
instance,	so	highly	valued	in	the	workplace	is	the	kind	of	sensitivity
that	allows	effective	managers	to	pick	up	tacit	messages.
13
In	recent	years	a	growing	group	of	psychologists	has	come	to
similar	conclusions,	agreeing	with	Gardner	that	the	old	concepts	of	IQ
revolved	around	a	narrow	band	of	linguistic	and	math	skills,	and	that
doing	well	on	IQ	tests	was	most	directly	a	predictor	of	success	in	the
classroom	or	as	a	professor	but	less	and	less	so	as	life’s	paths	diverged
from	academe.	These
psychologists—Sternberg	and	Salovey	among
them—have	taken	a	wider	view	of	intelligence,	trying	to	reinvent	it	in


terms	of	what	it	takes	to	lead	life	successfully.	And	that	line	of
enquiry	leads	back	to	an	appreciation	of	just	how	crucial	“personal”
or	emotional	intelligence	is.
Salovey,	with	his	colleague	John	Mayer,	offered	an	elaborated
definition	of	emotional	intelligence,	expanding	these	abilities	into	five
main	domains:
14
1.
Knowing	one’s	emotions
.	Self-awareness—recognizing	a	feeling
as
it	happens
—is	the	keystone	of	emotional	intelligence.	As	we	will	see	in
Chapter	4
,	the	ability	to	monitor	feelings	from	moment	to	moment	is
crucial	to	psychological	insight	and	self-understanding.	An	inability	to
notice	our	true	feelings	leaves	us	at	their	mercy.	People	with	greater
certainty	about	their	feelings	are	better	pilots	of	their	lives,	having	a
surer	sense	of	how	they	really	feel	about	personal	decisions	from
whom	to	marry	to	what	job	to	take.
2.
Managing	emotions
.	Handling	feelings	so	they	are	appropriate	is
an	ability	that	builds	on	self-awareness.
Chapter	5
	will	examine	the
capacity	to	soothe	oneself,	to	shake	off	rampant	anxiety,	gloom,	or
irritability—and	the	consequences	of	failure	at	this	basic	emotional
skill.	People	who	are	poor	in	this	ability	are	constantly	battling


feelings	of	distress,	while	those	who	excel	in	it	can	bounce	back	far


more	quickly	from	life’s	setbacks	and	upsets.
3.
Motivating	oneself
.	As
Chapter	6
	will	show,	marshaling	emotions
in	the	service	of	a	goal	is	essential	for	paying	attention,	for	self-
motivation	and	mastery,	and	for	creativity.	Emotional	self-control—
delaying	gratification	and	stifling	impulsiveness—underlies
accomplishment	of	every	sort.	And	being	able	to	get	into	the	“flow”
state	enables	outstanding	performance	of	all	kinds.	People	who	have
this	skill	tend	to	be	more	highly	productive	and	effective	in	whatever
they	undertake.
4.
Recognizing	emotions	in	others
.	Empathy,	another	ability	that
builds	on	emotional	self-awareness,	is	the	fundamental	“people	skill.”
Chapter	7
	will	investigate	the	roots	of	empathy,	the	social	cost	of
being	emotionally	tone-deaf,	and	the	reason	empathy	kindles
altruism.	People	who	are	empathic	are	more	attuned	to	the	subtle
social	signals	that	indicate	what	others	need	or	want.	This	makes
them	better	at	callings	such	as	the	caring	professions,	teaching,	sales,
and	management.
5.
Handling	relationships
.	The	art	of	relationships	is,	in	large	part,
skill	in	managing	emotions	in	others.
Chapter	8
	looks	at	social


Chapter	8
	looks	at	social
competence	and	incompetence,	and	the	specific	skills	involved.	These
are	the	abilities	that	undergird	popularity,	leadership,	and
interpersonal	effectiveness.	People
who	excel	in	these	skills	do	well	at
anything	that	relies	on	interacting	smoothly	with	others;	they	are
social	stars.
Of	course,	people	differ	in	their	abilities	in	each	of	these	domains;
some	of	us	may	be	quite	adept	at	handling,	say,	our	own	anxiety,	but
relatively	inept	at	soothing	someone	else’s	upsets.	The	underlying
basis	for	our	level	of	ability	is,	no	doubt,	neural,	but	as	we	will	see,
the	brain	is	remarkably	plastic,	constantly	learning.	Lapses	in
emotional	skills	can	be	remedied:	to	a	great	extent	each	of	these
domains	represents	a	body	of	habit	and	response	that,	with	the	right
effort,	can	be	improved	on.
IQ	AND	EMOTIONAL	INTELLIGENCE:	PURE	TYPES
IQ	and	emotional	intelligence	are	not	opposing	competencies,	but
rather	separate	ones.	We	all	mix	intellect	and	emotional	acuity;
people	with	a	high	IQ	but	low	emotional	intelligence	(or	low	IQ	and


high	emotional	intelligence)	are,	despite	the	stereotypes,	relatively
rare.	Indeed,	there	is	a	slight	correlation	between	IQ	and	some	aspects
of	emotional	intelligence—though	small	enough	to	make	clear	these
are	largely	independent	entities.
Unlike	the	familiar	tests	for	IQ,	there	is,	as	yet,	no	single	paper-and-
pencil	test	that	yields	an	“emotional	intelligence	score”	and	there	may
never	be	one.	Although	there	is	ample	research	on	each	of	its
components,	some	of	them,	such	as	empathy,	are	best	tested	by
sampling	a	person’s	actual	ability	at	the	task—for	example,	by	having
them	read	a	person’s	feelings	from	a	video	of	their	facial	expressions.
Still,	using	a	measure	for	what	he	calls	“ego	resilience”	which	is	quite
similar	to	emotional	intelligence	(it	includes	the	main	social	and
emotional	competences),	Jack	Block,	a	psychologist	at	the	University
of	California	at	Berkeley,	has	made	a	comparison	of	two	theoretical
pure	types:	people	high	in	IQ	versus	people	high	in	emotional
aptitudes.
15
	The	differences	are	telling.
The	high-IQ	pure	type	(that	is,	setting	aside	emotional	intelligence)
is	almost	a	caricature	of	the	intellectual,	adept	in	the	realm	of	mind
but	inept	in	the	personal	world.	The	profiles	differ	slightly	for	men


and	women.	The	high-IQ	male	is	typified—no	surprise—by	a	wide
range	of	intellectual	interests	and	abilities.	He	is	ambitious	and
productive,	predictable	and	dogged,	and	untroubled	by	concerns
about	himself.	He	also	tends	to	be	critical	and	condescending,
fastidious	and	inhibited,	uneasy	with	sexuality	and	sensual
experience,	unexpressive	and	detached,	and	emotionally	bland	and
cold.
By	contrast,	men	who	are	high	in	emotional	intelligence	are	socially
poised,	outgoing	and	cheerful,	not	prone	to	fearfulness	or	worried
rumination.	They	have	a	notable	capacity	for	commitment	to	people
or	causes,	for	taking	responsibility,	and	for	having	an	ethical	outlook;
they	are	sympathetic	and	caring	in	their	relationships.	Their
emotional	life	is	rich,	but	appropriate;	they	are	comfortable	with
themselves,	others,	and	the	social	universe	they	live	in.
Purely	high-IQ	women	have	the	expected	intellectual	confidence,
are	fluent	in	expressing	their	thoughts,	value	intellectual	matters,	and
have	a	wide	range	of	intellectual	and	aesthetic	interests.	They	also
tend	to	be	introspective,	prone	to	anxiety,	rumination,	and	guilt,	and
hesitate	to	express	their	anger	openly	(though	they	do	so	indirectly).


Emotionally	intelligent	women,	by	contrast,	tend	to	be	assertive	and
express	their	feelings	directly,	and	to	feel	positive	about	themselves;


life	holds	meaning	for	them.	Like	the	men,	they	are	outgoing	and
gregarious,	and	express	their	feelings	appropriately	(rather	than,	say,
in	outbursts	they	later	regret);	they	adapt	well	to	stress.	Their	social
poise	lets	them	easily	reach	out	to	new	people;	they	are	comfortable
enough	with	themselves	to	be	playful,	spontaneous,	and	open	to
sensual	experience.	Unlike	the	women	purely	high	in	IQ,	they	rarely
feel	anxious	or	guilty,	or	sink	into	rumination.
These	portraits,	of	course,	are	extremes—all	of	us	mix	IQ	and
emotional	intelligence	in	varying	degrees.	But	they	offer	an	instructive
look	at	what	each	of	these	dimensions	adds	separately	to	a	person’s
qualities.	To	the	degree	a	person	has	both	cognitive	and	emotional
intelligence,	these	pictures	merge.	Still,	of	the	two,	emotional
intelligence	adds	far	more	of	the	qualities	that	make	us	more	fully
human.


4
Know	Thyself
A	belligerent	samurai,	an	old	Japanese	tale	goes,	once	challenged	a
Zen	master	to	explain	the	concept	of	heaven	and	hell.	But	the	monk
replied	with	scorn,	“You’re	nothing	but	a	lout—I	can’t	waste	my	time
with	the	likes	of	you!”
His	very	honor	attacked,	the	samurai	flew	into	a	rage	and,	pulling
his	sword	from	its	scabbard,	yelled,	“I	could	kill	you	for	your
impertinence.”	“That,”	the	monk	calmly	replied,	“is	hell.”
Startled	at	seeing	the	truth	in	what	the	master	pointed	out	about
the	fury	that	had	him	in	its	grip,	the	samurai	calmed	down,	sheathed
his	sword,	and	bowed,	thanking	the	monk	for	the	insight.
“And	that,”	said	the	monk,	“is	heaven.”
The	sudden	awakening	of	the	samurai	to	his	own	agitated	state
illustrates	the	crucial	difference	between	being	caught	up	in	a	feeling
and	becoming	aware	that	you	are	being	swept	away	by	it.	Socrates’s
injunction	“Know	thyself”	speaks	to	this	keystone	of	emotional
intelligence:	awareness	of	one’s	own	feelings	as	they	occur.
It	might	seem	at	first	glance	that	our	feelings	are	obvious;	more


thoughtful	reflection	reminds	us	of	times	we	have	been	all	too
oblivious	to	what	we	really	felt	about	something,	or	awoke	to	these
feelings	late	in	the	game.	Psychologists	use	the	rather	ponderous	term
metacognition
	to	refer	to	an	awareness	of	thought	process,	and
metamood
	to	mean	awareness	of	one’s	own	emotions.	I	prefer	the	term
self-awareness
,	in	the	sense	of	an	ongoing	attention	to	one’s	internal
states.
1
	In	this	self-reflexive	awareness	mind	observes	and	investigates
experience	itself,	including	the	emotions.
2
This	quality	of	awareness	is	akin	to	what	Freud	described	as	an
“evenly	hovering	attention,”	and	which	he	commended	to	those	who
would	do
psychoanalysis.	Such	attention	takes	in	whatever	passes
through	awareness	with	impartiality,	as	an	interested	yet	unreactive
witness.	Some	psychoanalysts	call	it	the	“observing	ego,”	the	capacity
of	self-awareness	that	allows	the	analyst	to	monitor	his	own	reactions
to	what	the	patient	is	saying,	and	which	the	process	of	free


association	nurtures	in	the	patient.
3
Such	self-awareness	would	seem	to	require	an	activated	neocortex,
particularly	the	language	areas,	attuned	to	identify	and	name	the
emotions	being	aroused.	Self-awareness	is	not	an	attention	that	gets
carried	away	by	emotions,	overreacting	and	amplifying	what	is
perceived.	Rather,	it	is	a	neutral	mode	that	maintains	self-
reflectiveness	even	amidst	turbulent	emotions.	William	Styron	seems
to	be	describing	something	like	this	faculty	of	mind	in	writing	of	his
deep	depression,	telling	of	a	sense	“of	being	accompanied	by	a	second
self—a	wraithlike	observer	who,	not	sharing	the	dementia	of	his
double,	is	able	to	watch	with	dispassionate	curiosity	as	his	companion
struggles.”
4
At	its	best,	self-observation	allows	just	such	an	equanimous
awareness	of	passionate	or	turbulent	feelings.	At	a	minimum,	it
manifests	itself	simply	as	a	slight	stepping-back	from	experience,	a
parallel	stream	of	consciousness	that	is	“meta”:	hovering	above	or
beside	the	main	flow,	aware	of	what	is	happening	rather	than	being
immersed	and	lost	in	it.	It	is	the	difference	between,	for	example,
being	murderously	enraged	at	someone	and	having	the	self-reflexive
thought	“This	is	anger	I’m	feeling”	even	as	you	are	enraged.	In	terms


of	the	neural	mechanics	of	awareness,	this	subtle	shift	in	mental
activity	presumably	signals	that	neocortical	circuits	are	actively
monitoring	the	emotion,	a	first	step	in	gaining	some	control.	This
awareness	of	emotions	is	the	fundamental	emotional	competence	on
which	others,	such	as	emotional	self-control,	build.
Self-awareness,	in	short,	means	being	“aware	of	both	our	mood	and
our	thoughts	about	that	mood,”	in	the	words	of	John	Mayer,	a
University	of	New	Hampshire	psychologist	who,	with	Yale’s	Peter
Salovey,	is	a	coformulator	of	the	theory	of	emotional	intelligence.
5
Self-awareness	can	be	a	nonreactive,	nonjudgmental	attention	to	inner
states.	But	Mayer	finds	that	this	sensibility	also	can	be	less
equanimous;	typical	thoughts	bespeaking	emotional	self-awareness
include	“I	shouldn’t	feel	this	way,”	“I’m	thinking	good	things	to	cheer
up,”	and,	for	a	more	restricted	self-awareness,	the	fleeting	thought
“Don’t	think	about	it”	in	reaction	to	something	highly	upsetting.
Although	there	is	a	logical	distinction	between	being	aware	of
feelings	and	acting	to	change	them,	Mayer	finds	that	for	all	practical
purposes	the	two	usually	go	hand-in-hand:	to	recognize	a	foul	mood	is
to	want	to	get	out	of	it.	This	recognition,	however,	is	distinct	from	the


efforts	we	make	to	keep	from
acting	on	an	emotional	impulse.	When


we	say	“Stop	that!”	to	a	child	whose	anger	has	led	him	to	hit	a
playmate,	we	may	stop	the	hitting,	but	the	anger	still	simmers.	The
child’s	thoughts	are	still	fixated	on	the	trigger	for	the	anger—“But	he
stole	my	toy!”—and	the	anger	continues	unabated.	Self-awareness	has
a	more	powerful	effect	on	strong,	aversive	feelings:	the	realization
“This	is	anger	I’m	feeling”	offers	a	greater	degree	of	freedom—not	just
the	option	not	to	act	on	it,	but	the	added	option	to	try	to	let	go	of	it.
Mayer	finds	that	people	tend	to	fall	into	distinctive	styles	for
attending	to	and	dealing	with	their	emotions:
6
•
Self-aware
.	Aware	of	their	moods	as	they	are	having	them,	these
people	understandably	have	some	sophistication	about	their
emotional	lives.	Their	clarity	about	emotions	may	undergird	other
personality	traits:	they	are	autonomous	and	sure	of	their	own
boundaries,	are	in	good	psychological	health,	and	tend	to	have	a
positive	outlook	on	life.	When	they	get	into	a	bad	mood,	they	don’t
ruminate	and	obsess	about	it,	and	are	able	to	get	out	of	it	sooner.	In
short,	their	mindfulness	helps	them	manage	their	emotions.
•
Engulfed


•
Engulfed
.	These	are	people	who	often	feel	swamped	by	their
emotions	and	helpless	to	escape	them,	as	though	their	moods	have
taken	charge.	They	are	mercurial	and	not	very	aware	of	their	feelings,
so	that	they	are	lost	in	them	rather	than	having	some	perspective.	As
a	result,	they	do	little	to	try	to	escape	bad	moods,	feeling	that	they
have	no	control	over	their	emotional	life.	They	often	feel
overwhelmed	and	emotionally	out	of	control.
•
Accepting
.	While	these	people	are	often	clear	about	what	they	are
feeling,	they	also	tend	to	be	accepting	of	their	moods,	and	so	don’t	try
to	change	them.	There	seem	to	be	two	branches	of	the	accepting	type:
those	who	are	usually	in	good	moods	and	so	have	little	motivation	to
change	them,	and	people	who,	despite	their	clarity	about	their	moods,
are	susceptible	to	bad	ones	but	accept	them	with	a	laissez-faire
attitude,	doing	nothing	to	change	them	despite	their	distress—a
pattern	found	among,	say,	depressed	people	who	are	resigned	to	their
despair.
THE	PASSIONATE	AND	THE	INDIFFERENT
Imagine	for	a	moment	that	you’re	on	an	airplane	flying	from	New


Imagine	for	a	moment	that	you’re	on	an	airplane	flying	from	New
York	to	San	Francisco.	It’s	been	a	smooth	flight,	but	as	you	approach


the	Rockies	the	pilot’s	voice	comes	over	the	plane	intercom.	“Ladies
and	gentlemen,	there’s	some	turbulence	ahead.	Please	return	to	your
seats	and	fasten	your	seatbelts.”
And	then	the	plane	hits	the
turbulence,	which	is	rougher	than	you’ve	ever	endured—the	airplane
is	tossed	up	and	down	and	side	to	side	like	a	beach	ball	in	the	waves.
The	question	is,	what	do	you	do?	Are	you	the	kind	of	person	who
buries	yourself	in	your	book	or	magazine,	or	continues	watching	the
movie,	tuning	out	the	turbulence?	Or	are	you	likely	to	take	out	the
emergency	card	and	review	the	precautions,	or	watch	the	flight
attendants	to	see	if	they	show	signs	of	panic,	or	strain	to	hear	the
engines	to	see	if	there’s	anything	worrisome?
Which	of	these	responses	comes	more	naturally	to	us	is	a	sign	of	our
favored	attentional	stance	under	duress.	The	airplane	scenario	itself	is
an	item	from	a	psychological	test	developed	by	Suzanne	Miller,	a
psychologist	at	Temple	University,	to	assess	whether	people	tend	to	be
vigilant,	attending	carefully	to	every	detail	of	a	distressing
predicament,	or,	in	contrast,	deal	with	such	anxious	moments	by
trying	to	distract	themselves.	These	two	attentional	stances	toward


distress	have	very	different	consequences	for	how	people	experience
their	own	emotional	reactions.	Those	who	tune	in	under	duress	can,
by	the	very	act	of	attending	so	carefully,	unwittingly	amplify	the
magnitude	of	their	own	reactions—especially	if	their	tuning	in	is
devoid	of	the	equanimity	of	self-awareness.	The	result	is	that	their
emotions	seem	all	the	more	intense.	Those	who	tune	out,	who	distract
themselves,	notice	less	about	their	own	reactions,	and	so	minimize	the
experience	of	their	emotional	response,	if	not	the	size	of	the	response
itself.
At	the	extremes,	this	means	that	for	some	people	emotional
awareness	is	overwhelming,	while	for	others	it	barely	exists.	Consider
the	college	student	who,	one	evening,	spotted	a	fire	that	had	broken
out	in	his	dorm,	went	to	get	a	fire	extinguisher,	and	put	the	fire	out.
Nothing	unusual—except	that	on	his	way	to	get	the	extinguisher	and
then	on	the	way	back	to	the	fire,	he	walked	instead	of	running.	The
reason?	He	didn’t	feel	there	was	any	urgency.
This	story	was	told	to	me	by	Edward	Diener,	a	University	of	Illinois
at	Urbana	psychologist	who	has	been	studying	the
intensity
	with
which	people	experience	their	emotions.
7
	The	college	student	stood


7
	The	college	student	stood
out	in	his	collection	of	case	studies	as	one	of	the	least	intense	Diener
had	ever	encountered.	He	was,	essentially,	a	man	without	passions,
someone	who	goes	through	life	feeling	little	or	nothing,	even	about	an


emergency	like	a	fire.
By	contrast,	consider	a	woman	at	the	opposite	end	of	Diener’s
spectrum.	When	she	once	lost	her	favorite	pen,	she	was	distraught	for
days.	Another	time	she	was	so	thrilled	on	seeing	an	ad	for	a	big	sale
on	women’s	shoes	at	an	expensive	store	that	she	dropped	what	she
was	doing,	hopped	in	her	car,	and	drove	three	hours	to	the	store	in
Chicago.
Diener	finds	that	women,	in	general,	feel	both	positive	and	negative
emotions	more	strongly	than	do	men.	And,	sex	differences	aside,
emotional	life	is	richer	for	those	who	notice	more.	For	one	thing,	this
enhanced	emotional	sensitivity	means	that	for	such	people	the	least
provocation	unleashes	emotional	storms,	whether	heavenly	or	hellish,
while	those	at	the	other	extreme	barely	experience	any	feeling	even
under	the	most	dire	circumstances.
THE	MAN	WITHOUT	FEELINGS
Gary	infuriated	his	fiancée,	Ellen,	because	even	though	he	was
intelligent,	thoughtful,	and	a	successful	surgeon,	Gary	was
emotionally	flat,	completely	unresponsive	to	any	and	all	shows	of
feeling.	While	Gary	could	speak	brilliantly	of	science	and	art,	when	it
came	to	his	feelings—even	for	Ellen—he	fell	silent.	Try	as	she	might


to	elicit	some	passion	from	him,	Gary	was	impassive,	oblivious.	“I
don’t	naturally	express	my	feelings,”	Gary	told	the	therapist	he	saw	at
Ellen’s	insistence.	When	it	came	to	emotional	life,	he	added,	“I	don’t
know	what	to	talk	about;	I	have	no	strong	feelings,	either	positive	or
negative.”
Ellen	was	not	alone	in	being	frustrated	by	Gary’s	aloofness;	as	he
confided	to	his	therapist,	he	was	unable	to	speak	openly	about	his
feelings	with	anyone	in	his	life.	The	reason:	He	did	not	know	what	he
felt	in	the	first	place.	So	far	as	he	could	tell,	he	had	no	angers,	no
sadnesses,	no	joys.
8
As	his	own	therapist	observes,	this	emotional	blankness	makes	Gary
and	others	like	him	colorless,	bland:	“They	bore	everybody.	That’s
why	their	wives	send	them	into	treatment.”	Gary’s	emotional	flatness
exemplifies	what	psychiatrists	call
alexithymia
,	from	the	Greek
a
-for
“lack,”
lexis	for
	“word,”	and
thymos	for
	“emotion.”	Such	people	lack
words	for	their	feelings.	Indeed,	they	seem	to	lack	feelings	altogether,


although	this	may	actually	be	because	of	their	inability	to
express


emotion	rather	than	from	an	absence	of	emotion	altogether.	Such
people	were	first	noticed	by	psychoanalysts	puzzled	by	a	class	of
patients	who	were	untreatable	by	that	method	because	they	reported
no	feelings,	no	fantasies,	and	colorless	dreams—in	short,	no	inner
emotional	life	to	talk	about	at	all.
9
	The	clinical	features	that	mark
alexithymics	include	having	difficulty	describing	feelings—their	own
or	anyone	else’s—and	a	sharply	limited	emotional	vocabulary.
10
What’s	more,	they	have	trouble	discriminating	among	emotions	as
well	as	between	emotion	and	bodily	sensation,	so	that	they	might	tell
of	having	butterflies	in	the	stomach,	palpitations,
sweating,	and
dizziness—but	they	would	not	know	they	are	feeling	anxious.
“They	give	the	impression	of	being	different,	alien	beings,	having
come	from	an	entirely	different	world,	living	in	the	midst	of	a	society
which	is	dominated	by	feelings,”	is	the	description	given	by	Dr.	Peter
Sifneos,	the	Harvard	psychiatrist	who	in	1972	coined	the	term
alexithymia
.
11
	Alexithymics	rarely	cry,	for	example,	but	if	they	do
their	tears	are	copious.	Still,	they	are	bewildered	if	asked	what	the


tears	are	all	about.	One	patient	with	alexithymia	was	so	upset	after
seeing	a	movie	about	a	woman	with	eight	children	who	was	dying	of
cancer	that	she	cried	herself	to	sleep.	When	her	therapist	suggested
that	perhaps	she	was	upset	because	the	movie	reminded	her	of	her
own	mother,	who	was	in	actuality	dying	of	cancer,	the	woman	sat
motionless,	bewildered	and	silent.	When	her	therapist	then	asked	her
how	she	felt	at	that	moment,	she	said	she	felt	“awful,”	but	couldn’t
clarify	her	feelings	beyond	that.	And,	she	added,	from	time	to	time
she	found	herself	crying,	but	never	knew	exactly	what	she	was	crying
about.
12
And	that	is	the	nub	of	the	problem.	It	is	not	that	alexithymics	never
feel,	but	that	they	are	unable	to	know—and	especially	unable	to	put
into	words—precisely	what	their	feelings	are.	They	are	utterly	lacking
in	the	fundamental	skill	of	emotional	intelligence,	self-awareness—
knowing	what	we	are	feeling	as	emotions	roil	within	us.	Alexithymics
belie	the	common-sense	notion	that	it	is	perfectly	self-evident	what
we	are	feeling:	they	haven’t	a	clue.	When	something—or	more	likely,


someone—does	move	them	to	feeling,	they	find	the	experience
baffling	and	overwhelming,	something	to	avoid	at	all	costs.	Feelings
come	to	them,	when	they	come	at	all,	as	a	befuddling	bundle	of
distress;	as	the	patient	who	cried	at	the	movie	put	it,	they	feel
“awful,”	but	can’t	say	exactly	which
kind
	of	awful	it	is	they	feel.
This	basic	confusion	about	feelings	often	seems	to	lead	them	to


complain	of	vague	medical	problems	when	they	are	actually
experiencing	emotional	distress—a	phenomenon	known	in	psychiatry
as
somaticizing
,	mistaking	an	emotional	ache	for	a	physical	one	(and
different	from	a	psychosomatic	disease,	in	which	emotional	problems
cause	genuine	medical	ones).	Indeed,	much	of	the	psychiatric	interest
in	alexithymics	is	in	weeding	them	out	from	among	those	who	come
to	doctors	seeking	help,	for	they	are	prone	to	lengthy—and	fruitless—
pursuit	of	a	medical	diagnosis	and	treatment	for	what	is	actually	an
emotional	problem.
While	no	one	can	as	yet	say	for	sure	what	causes	alexithymia,	Dr.
Sifneos	proposes	a	disconnection	between	the	limbic	system	and	the
neocortex,	particularly	its	verbal	centers,	which	fits	well	with	what	we
are	learning	about
the	emotional	brain.	Patients	with	severe	seizures
who	had	that	connection	surgically	severed	to	relieve	their	symptoms,
notes	Sifneos,	became	emotionally	flat,	like	people	with	alexithymia,
unable	to	put	their	feelings	into	words	and	suddenly	devoid	of	fantasy
life.	In	short,	though	the	circuits	of	the	emotional	brain	may	react
with	feelings,	the	neocortex	is	not	able	to	sort	out	these	feelings	and


add	the	nuance	of	language	to	them.	As	Henry	Roth	observed	in	his
novel
Call	It	Sleep
	about	this	power	of	language,	“If	you	could	put
words	to	what	you	felt,	it	was	yours.”	The	corollary,	of	course,	is	the
alexithymic’s	dilemma:	having	no	words	for	feelings	means	not
making	the	feelings	your	own.
IN	PRAISE	OF	GUT	FEELING
Elliot’s	tumor,	growing	just	behind	his	forehead,	was	the	size	of	a
small	orange;	surgery	removed	it	completely.	Although	the	surgery
was	declared	a	success,	afterward	people	who	knew	him	well	said	that
Elliot	was	no	longer	Elliot—he	had	undergone	a	drastic	personality
change.	Once	a	successful	corporate	lawyer,	Elliot	could	no	longer
hold	a	job.	His	wife	left	him.	Squandering	his	savings	in	fruitless
investments,	he	was	reduced	to	living	in	a	spare	bedroom	at	his
brother’s	home.
There	was	a	puzzling	pattern	to	Elliot’s	problem.	Intellectually	he
was	as	bright	as	ever,	but	he	used	his	time	terribly,	getting	lost	in
minor	details;	he	seemed	to	have	lost	all	sense	of	priority.	Reprimands
made	no	difference;	he	was	fired	from	a	succession	of	legal	jobs.


Though	extensive	intellectual	tests	found	nothing	wrong	with	Elliot’s


mental	faculties,	he	went	to	see	a	neurologist	anyway,	hoping	that
discovery	of	a	neurological	problem	might	get	him	the	disability
benefits	to	which	he	felt	he	was	entitled.	Otherwise	the	conclusion
seemed	to	be	that	he	was	just	a	malingerer.
Antonio	Damasio,	the	neurologist	Elliot	consulted,	was	struck	by
one	element	missing	from	Elliot’s	mental	repertoire:	though	nothing
was	wrong	with	his	logic,	memory,	attention,	or	any	other	cognitive
ability,	Elliot	was	virtually	oblivious	to	his	feelings	about	what	had
happened	to	him.
13
	Most	strikingly,	Elliot	could	narrate	the	tragic
events	of	his	life	with	complete	dispassion,	as	though	he	were	an
onlooker	to	the	losses	and	failures	of	his	past—without	a	note	of
regret	or	sadness,	frustration	or	anger	at	life’s	unfairness.	His	own
tragedy	brought	him	no	pain;	Damasio	felt	more	upset	by	Elliot’s	story
than	did	Elliot	himself.
The	source	of	this	emotional	unawareness,	Damasio	concluded,	was
the
removal,	along	with	the	brain	tumor,	of	part	of	Elliot’s	prefrontal
lobes.	In	effect,	the	surgery	had	severed	ties	between	the	lower


centers	of	the	emotional	brain,	especially	the	amygdala	and	related
circuits,	and	the	thinking	abilities	of	the	neocortex.	Elliot’s	thinking
had	become	computerlike,	able	to	make	every	step	in	the	calculus	of	a
decision,	but	unable	to	assign
values
	to	differing	possibilities.	Every
option	was	neutral.	And	that	overly	dispassionate	reasoning,
suspected	Damasio,	was	the	core	of	Elliot’s	problem:	too	little
awareness	of	his	own	feelings	about	things	made	Elliot’s	reasoning
faulty.
The	handicap	showed	up	even	in	mundane	decisions.	When
Damasio	tried	to	choose	a	time	and	date	for	the	next	appointment
with	Elliot,	the	result	was	a	muddle	of	indecisiveness:	Elliot	could	find
arguments	for	and	against	every	date	and	time	that	Damasio
proposed,	but	could	not	choose	among	them.	At	the	rational	level,
there	were	perfectly	good	reasons	for	objecting	to	or	accepting
virtually	every	possible	time	for	the	appointment.	But	Elliot	lacked
any	sense	of	how
he	felt
	about	any	of	the	times.	Lacking	that
awareness	of	his	own	feelings,	he	had	no	preferences	at	all.
One	lesson	from	Elliot’s	indecisiveness	is	the	crucial	role	of	feeling
in	navigating	the	endless	stream	of	life’s	personal	decisions.	While


strong	feelings	can	create	havoc	in	reasoning,	the
lack
	of	awareness	of
feeling	can	also	be	ruinous,	especially	in	weighing	the	decisions	on
which	our	destiny	largely	depends:	what	career	to	pursue,	whether	to
stay	with	a	secure	job	or	switch	to	one	that	is	riskier	but	more


interesting,	whom	to	date	or	marry,	where	to	live,	which	apartment	to
rent	or	house	to	buy—and	on	and	on	through	life.	Such	decisions
cannot	be	made	well	through	sheer	rationality;	they	require	gut
feeling,	and	the	emotional	wisdom	garnered	through	past	experiences.
Formal	logic	alone	can	never	work	as	the	basis	for	deciding	whom	to
marry	or	trust	or	even	what	job	to	take;	these	are	realms	where	reason
without	feeling	is	blind.
The	intuitive	signals	that	guide	us	in	these	moments	come	in	the
form	of	limbic-driven	surges	from	the	viscera	that	Damasio	calls
“somatic	markers”—literally,	gut	feelings.	The	somatic	marker	is	a
kind	of	automatic	alarm,	typically	calling	attention	to	a	potential
danger	from	a	given	course	of	action.	More	often	than	not	these
markers	steer	us
away
	from	some	choice	that	experience	warns	us
against,	though	they	can	also	alert	us	to	a	golden	opportunity.	We
usually	do	not,	at	that	moment,	recall	what	specific	experiences
formed	this	negative	feeling;	all	we	need	is	the	signal	that	a	given
potential	course	of	action	could	be	disastrous.	Whenever	such	a	gut
feeling	rises	up,	we	can	immediately	drop	or	pursue	that	avenue	of
consideration
with	greater	confidence,	and	so	pare	down	our	array	of


with	greater	confidence,	and	so	pare	down	our	array	of
choices	to	a	more	manageable	decision	matrix.	The	key	to	sounder
personal	decision-making,	in	short:	being	attuned	to	our	feelings.
PLUMBING	THE	UNCONSCIOUS
Elliot’s	emotional	vacuity	suggests	that	there	may	be	a	spectrum	of
people’s	ability	to	sense	their	emotions	as	they	have	them.	By	the
logic	of	neuroscience,	if	the	absence	of	a	neural	circuit	leads	to	a
deficit	in	an	ability,	then	the	relative	strength	or	weakness	of	that
same	circuit	in	people	whose	brains	are	intact	should	lead	to
comparable	levels	of	competence	in	that	same	ability.	In	terms	of	the
role	of	prefrontal	circuits	in	emotional	attunement,	this	suggests	that
for	neurological	reasons	some	of	us	may	more	easily	detect	the
stirring	of	fear	or	joy	than	do	others,	and	so	be	more	emotionally	self-
aware.
It	may	be	that	a	talent	for	psychological	introspection	hinges	on	this
same	circuitry.	Some	of	us	are	naturally	more	attuned	to	the
emotional	mind’s	special	symbolic	modes:	metaphor	and	simile,	along
with	poetry,	song,	and	fable,	are	all	cast	in	the	language	of	the	heart.
So	too	are	dreams	and	myths,	in	which	loose	associations	determine


the	flow	of	narrative,	abiding	by	the	logic	of	the	emotional	mind.
Those	who	have	a	natural	attunement	to	their	own	heart’s	voice—the
language	of	emotion—are	sure	to	be	more	adept	at	articulating	its
messages,	whether	as	a	novelist,	songwriter,	or	psychotherapist.	This
inner	attunement	should	make	them	more	gifted	in	giving	voice	to	the
“wisdom	of	the	unconscious”—the	felt	meanings	of	our	dreams	and
fantasies,	the	symbols	that	embody	our	deepest	wishes.
Self-awareness	is	fundamental	to	psychological	insight;	this	is	the
faculty	that	much	of	psychotherapy	means	to	strengthen.	Indeed,
Howard	Gardner’s	model	for	intrapsychic	intelligence	is	Sigmund
Freud,	the	great	mapper	of	the	psyche’s	secret	dynamics.	As	Freud
made	clear,	much	of	emotional	life	is	unconscious;	feelings	that	stir
within	us	do	not	always	cross	the	threshold	into	awareness.	Empirical
verification	of	this	psychological	axiom	comes,	for	instance,	from
experiments	on	unconscious	emotions,	such	as	the	remarkable	finding
that	people	form	definite	likings	for	things	they	do	not	even	realize
they	have	seen	before.	Any	emotion	can	be—and	often	is—
unconscious.
The	physiological	beginnings	of	an	emotion	typically	occur	before	a
person	is	consciously	aware	of	the	feeling	itself.	For	example,	when


people	who	fear	snakes	are	shown	pictures	of	snakes,	sensors	on	their
skin	will	detect
sweat	breaking	out,	a	sign	of	anxiety,	though	they	say
they	do	not	feel	any	fear.	The	sweat	shows	up	in	such	people	even
when	the	picture	of	a	snake	is	presented	so	rapidly	that	they	have	no
conscious	idea	of	what,	exactly,	they	just	saw,	let	alone	that	they	are
beginning	to	get	anxious.	As	such	preconscious	emotional	stirrings
continue	to	build,	they	eventually	become	strong	enough	to	break	into
awareness.	Thus	there	are	two	levels	of	emotion,	conscious	and
unconscious.	The	moment	of	an	emotion	coming	into	awareness
marks	its	registering	as	such	in	the	frontal	cortex.
14
Emotions	that	simmer	beneath	the	threshold	of	awareness	can	have
a	powerful	impact	on	how	we	perceive	and	react,	even	though	we
have	no	idea	they	are	at	work.	Take	someone	who	is	annoyed	by	a
rude	encounter	early	in	the	day,	and	then	is	peevish	for	hours
afterward,	taking	affront	where	none	is	intended	and	snapping	at
people	for	no	real	reason.	He	may	well	be	oblivious	to	his	continuing
irritability	and	will	be	surprised	if	someone	calls	attention	to	it,


though	it	stews	just	out	of	his	awareness	and	dictates	his	curt	replies.
But	once	that	reaction	is	brought	into	awareness—once	it	registers	in
the	cortex—he	can	evaluate	things	anew,	decide	to	shrug	off	the


feelings	left	earlier	in	the	day,	and	change	his	outlook	and	mood.	In
this	way	emotional	self-awareness	is	the	building	block	of	the	next
fundamental	of	emotional	intelligence:	being	able	to	shake	off	a	bad
mood.


5
Passion’s	Slaves
Thou	hast	been	…
A	man	that	Fortune’s	buffets	and	rewards
Has	taken	with	equal	thanks
	…
.	Give	me	that	man
That	is	not	passion’s	slave,	and	I	will	wear	him
In	my	heart’s	core,	aye,	in	my	heart	of	hearts
As	I	do	thee
.…
—H
AMLET	TO	HIS	FRIEND
	H
ORATIO
A	sense	of	self-mastery,	of	being	able	to	withstand	the	emotional
storms	that	the	buffeting	of	Fortune	brings	rather	than	being
“passion’s	slave,”	has	been	praised	as	a	virtue	since	the	time	of	Plato.
The	ancient	Greek	word	for	it	was
sophrosyne
,	“care	and	intelligence
in	conducting	one’s	life;	a	tempered	balance	and	wisdom,”	as	Page
DuBois,	a	Greek	scholar,	translates	it.	The	Romans	and	the	early
Christian	church	called	it
temperantia
,	temperance,	the	restraining	of
emotional	excess.	The	goal	is	balance,	not	emotional	suppression:
every	feeling	has	its	value	and	significance.	A	life	without	passion
would	be	a	dull	wasteland	of	neutrality,	cut	off	and	isolated	from	the
richness	of	life	itself.	But,	as	Aristotle	observed,	what	is	wanted	is
appropriate
	emotion,	feeling	proportionate	to	circumstance.	When


emotion,	feeling	proportionate	to	circumstance.	When
emotions	are	too	muted	they	create	dullness	and	distance;	when	out
of	control,	too	extreme	and	persistent,	they	become	pathological,	as	in
immobilizing	depression,	overwhelming	anxiety,	raging	anger,	manic
agitation.
Indeed,	keeping	our	distressing	emotions	in	check	is	the	key	to
emotional	well-being;	extremes—emotions	that	wax	too	intensely	or
for	too	long-undermine	our	stability.	Of	course,	it	is	not	that	we
should	feel	only	one	kind
of	emotion;	being	happy	all	the	time
somehow	suggests	the	blandness	of	those	smiley-face	badges	that	had
a	faddish	moment	in	the	1970s.	There	is	much	to	be	said	for	the
constructive	contribution	of	suffering	to	creative	and	spiritual	life;
suffering	can	temper	the	soul.


Downs	as	well	as	ups	spice	life,	but	need	to	be	in	balance.	In	the
calculus	of	the	heart	it	is	the	ratio	of	positive	to	negative	emotions
that	determines	the	sense	of	well-being—at	least	that	is	the	verdict
from	studies	of	mood	in	which	hundreds	of	men	and	women	have
carried	beepers	that	reminded	them	at	random	times	to	record	their
emotions	at	that	moment.
1
	It	is	not	that	people	need	to	avoid
unpleasant	feelings	to	feel	content,	but	rather	that	stormy	feelings	not
go	unchecked,	displacing	all	pleasant	moods.	People	who	have	strong
episodes	of	anger	or	depression	can	still	feel	a	sense	of	well-being	if
they	have	a	countervailing	set	of	equally	joyous	or	happy	times.	These
studies	also	affirm	the	independence	of	emotional	from	academic
intelligence,	finding	little	or	no	relationship	between	grades	or	IQ	and
people’s	emotional	well-being.
Just	as	there	is	a	steady	murmur	of	background	thoughts	in	the
mind,	there	is	a	constant	emotional	hum;	beep	someone	at	six
A.M
.	or
seven
P.M
.	and	he	will	always	be	in	some	mood	or	other.	Of	course,	on
any	two	mornings	someone	can	have	very	different	moods;	but	when
people’s	moods	are	averaged	over	weeks	or	months,	they	tend	to


reflect	that	person’s	overall	sense	of	well-being.	It	turns	out	that	for
most	people,	extremely	intense	feelings	are	relatively	rare;	most	of	us
fall	into	the	gray	middle	range,	with	mild	bumps	in	our	emotional
roller	coaster.
Still,	managing	our	emotions	is	something	of	a	full-time	job:	much
of	what	we	do—especially	in	our	free	time—is	an	attempt	to	manage
mood.	Everything	from	reading	a	novel	or	watching	television	to	the
activities	and	companions	we	choose	can	be	a	way	to	make	ourselves
feel	better.	The	art	of	soothing	ourselves	is	a	fundamental	life	skill;
some	psychoanalytic	thinkers,	such	as	John	Bowlby	and	D.	W.
Winnicott,	see	this	as	one	of	the	most	essential	of	all	psychic	tools.
The	theory	holds	that	emotionally	sound	infants	learn	to	soothe
themselves	by	treating	themselves	as	their	caretakers	have	treated
them,	leaving	them	less	vulnerable	to	the	upheavals	of	the	emotional
brain.
As	we	have	seen,	the	design	of	the	brain	means	that	we	very	often
have	little	or	no	control	over
when
	we	are	swept	by	emotion,	nor	over
what
	emotion	it	will	be.	But	we	can	have	some	say	in
how	long
	an


how	long
	an
emotion	will	last.	The	issue	arises	not	with	garden-variety	sadness,
worry,	or	anger;	normally	such	moods	pass	with	time	and	patience.
But	when	these	emotions	are	of
great	intensity	and	linger	past	an


appropriate	point,	they	shade	over	into	their	distressing	extremes—
chronic	anxiety,	uncontrollable	rage,	depression.	And,	at	their	most
severe	and	intractable,	medication,	psychotherapy,	or	both	may	be
needed	to	lift	them.
In	these	times,	one	sign	of	the	capacity	for	emotional	self-regulation
may	be	recognizing	when	chronic	agitation	of	the	emotional	brain	is
too	strong	to	be	overcome	without	pharmacologic	help.	For	example,
two	thirds	of	those	who	suffer	from	manic-depression	have	never	been
treated	for	the	disorder.	But	lithium	or	newer	medications	can	thwart
the	characteristic	cycle	of	paralyzing	depression	alternating	with
manic	episodes	that	mix	chaotic	elation	and	grandiosity	with	irritation
and	rage.	One	problem	with	manic-depression	is	that	while	people	are
in	the	throes	of	mania	they	often	feel	so	overly	confident	that	they	see
no	need	for	help	of	any	kind	despite	the	disastrous	decisions	they	are
making.	In	such	severe	emotional	disorders	psychiatric	medication
offers	a	tool	for	managing	life	better.
But	when	it	comes	to	vanquishing	the	more	usual	range	of	bad
moods,	we	are	left	to	our	own	devices.	Unfortunately,	those	devices
are	not	always	effective—at	least	such	is	the	conclusion	reached	by


are	not	always	effective—at	least	such	is	the	conclusion	reached	by
Diane	Tice,	a	psychologist	at	Case	Western	Reserve	University,	who
asked	more	than	four	hundred	men	and	women	about	the	strategies
they	used	to	escape	foul	moods,	and	how	successful	those	tactics	were
for	them.
2
Not	everyone	agrees	with	the	philosophical	premise	that	bad	moods
should	be	changed;	there	are,	Tice	found,	“mood	purists,”	the	5
percent	or	so	of	people	who	said	they	never	try	to	change	a	mood
since,	in	their	view,	all	emotions	are	“natural”	and	should	be
experienced	just	as	they	present	themselves,	no	matter	how
dispiriting.	And	then	there	were	those	who	regularly	sought	to	get
into	unpleasant	moods	for	pragmatic	reasons:	physicians	who	needed
to	be	somber	to	give	patients	bad	news;	social	activists	who	nurtured
their	outrage	at	injustice	so	as	to	be	more	effective	in	battling	it;	even
a	young	man	who	told	of	working	up	his	anger	to	help	his	little
brother	with	playground	bullies.	And	some	people	were	positively
Machiavellian	about	manipulating	moods—witness	the	bill	collectors
who	purposely	worked	themselves	into	a	rage	in	order	to	be	all	the
firmer	with	deadbeats.
3


firmer	with	deadbeats.
3
	But	these	rare	purposive	cultivations	of
unpleasantness	aside,	most	everyone	complained	of	being	at	the
mercy	of	their	moods.	People’s	track	records	at	shaking	bad	moods
were	decidedly	mixed.


THE	ANATOMY	OF	RAGE
Say	someone	in	another	car	cuts	dangerously	close	to	you	as	you	are
driving	on	the	freeway.	If	your	reflexive	thought	is	“That	son	of	a
bitch!”	it	matters	immensely	for	the	trajectory	of	rage	whether	that
thought	is	followed	by	more	thoughts	of	outrage	and	revenge:	“He
could	have	hit	me!	That	bastard—I	can’t	let	him	get	away	with	that!”
Your	knuckles	whiten	as	you	tighten	your	hold	on	the	steering	wheel,
a	surrogate	for	strangling	his	throat.	Your	body	mobilizes	to	fight,	not
run—leaving	you	trembling,	beads	of	sweat	on	your	forehead,	your
heart	pounding,	the	muscles	in	your	face	locked	in	a	scowl.	You	want
to	kill	the	guy.	Then,	should	a	car	behind	you	honk	because	you	have
slowed	down	after	the	close	call,	you	are	apt	to	explode	in	rage	at	that
driver	too.	Such	is	the	stuff	of	hypertension,	reckless	driving,	even
freeway	shootings.
Contrast	that	sequence	of	building	rage	with	a	more	charitable	line
of	thought	toward	the	driver	who	cut	you	off:	“Maybe	he	didn’t	see
me,	or	maybe	he	had	some	good	reason	for	driving	so	carelessly,	such


as	a	medical	emergency.”	That	line	of	possibility	tempers	anger	with
mercy,	or	at	least	an	open	mind,	short-circuiting	the	buildup	of	rage.
The	problem,	as	Aristotle’s	challenge	to	have	only
appropriate
	anger
reminds	us,	is	that	more	often	than	not	our	anger	surges	out	of
control.	Benjamin	Franklin	put	it	well:	“Anger	is	never	without	a
reason,	but	seldom	a	good	one.”
There	are,	of	course,	different	kinds	of	anger.	The	amygdala	may
well	be	a	main	source	of	the	sudden	spark	of	rage	we	feel	at	the	driver
whose	carelessness	endangers	us.	But	the	other	end	of	the	emotional
circuitry,	the	neocortex,	most	likely	foments	more	calculated	angers,
such	as	cool-headed	revenge	or	outrage	at	unfairness	or	injustice.
Such	thoughtful	angers	are	those	most	likely,	as	Franklin	put	it,	to
“have	good	reasons”	or	seem	to.
Of	all	the	moods	that	people	want	to	escape,	rage	seems	to	be	the
most	intransigent;	Tice	found	anger	is	the	mood	people	are	worst	at
controlling.	Indeed,	anger	is	the	most	seductive	of	the	negative
emotions;	the	self-righteous	inner	monologue	that	propels	it	along	fills
the	mind	with	the	most	convincing	arguments	for	venting	rage.	Unlike


sadness,	anger	is	energizing,	even	exhilarating.	Anger’s	seductive,
persuasive	power	may	in	itself	explain	why	some	views	about	it	are	so
common:	that	anger	is	uncontrollable,	or	that,	at	any	rate,	it
should
not
	be	controlled,	and	that	venting	anger	in	“catharsis”	is	all	to	the


good.	A	contrasting	view,	perhaps	a	reaction	against	the	bleak	picture
of	these	other	two,	holds	that	anger	can	be	prevented	entirely.	But	a
careful	reading	of	research	findings	suggests	that	all	these	common
attitudes	toward	anger	are	misguided,	if	not	outright	myths.
4
The	train	of	angry	thoughts	that	stokes	anger	is	also	potentially	the
key	to	one	of	the	most	powerful	ways	to	defuse	anger:	undermining
the	convictions	that	are	fueling	the	anger	in	the	first	place.	The	longer
we	ruminate	about	what	has	made	us	angry,	the	more	“good	reasons”
and	self-justifications	for	being	angry	we	can	invent.	Brooding	fuels
anger’s	flames.	But	seeing	things	differently	douses	those	flames.	Tice
found	that	reframing	a	situation	more	positively	was	one	of	the	most
potent	ways	to	put	anger	to	rest.
The	Rage	“Rush”
That	finding	squares	well	with	the	conclusions	of	University	of
Alabama	psychologist	Dolf	Zillmann,	who,	in	a	lengthy	series	of
careful	experiments,	has	taken	precise	measure	of	anger	and	the
anatomy	of	rage.
5
	Given	the	roots	of	anger	in	the	fight	wing	of	the
fight-or-flight	response,	it	is	no	surprise	that	Zillmann	finds	that	a
universal	trigger	for	anger	is	the	sense	of	being	endangered.


universal	trigger	for	anger	is	the	sense	of	being	endangered.
Endangerment	can	be	signaled	not	just	by	an	outright	physical	threat
but	also,	as	is	more	often	the	case,	by	a	symbolic	threat	to	self-esteem
or	dignity:	being	treated	unjustly	or	rudely,	being	insulted	or
demeaned,	being	frustrated	in	pursuing	an	important	goal.	These
perceptions	act	as	the	instigating	trigger	for	a	limbic	surge	that	has	a
dual	effect	on	the	brain.	One	part	of	that	surge	is	a	release	of
catecholamines,	which	generate	a	quick,	episodic	rush	of	energy,
enough	for	“one	course	of	vigorous	action,”	as	Zillmann	puts	it,	“such
as	in	fight	or	flight.”	This	energy	surge	lasts	for	minutes,	during	which
it	readies	the	body	for	a	good	fight	or	a	quick	flight,	depending	on
how	the	emotional	brain	sizes	up	the	opposition.
Meanwhile,	another	amygdala-driven	ripple	through	the
adrenocortical	branch	of	the	nervous	system	creates	a	general	tonic
background	of	action	readiness,	which	lasts	much	longer	than	the
catecholamine	energy	surge.	This	generalized	adrenal	and	cortical
excitation	can	last	for	hours	and	even	days,	keeping	the	emotional
brain	in	special	readiness	for	arousal,	and	becoming	a	foundation	on
which	subsequent	reactions	can	build	with	particular	quickness.	In


which	subsequent	reactions	can	build	with	particular	quickness.	In
general,	the	hair-trigger	condition	created	by	adrenocortical	arousal


explains	why	people	are	so	much	more	prone	to	anger	if	they	have
already	been	provoked	or	slightly	irritated	by	something	else.	Stress	of
all	sorts	creates	adrenocortical	arousal,	lowering	the	threshold	for
what	provokes	anger.	Thus	someone	who	has	had	a	hard	day	at	work
is	especially	vulnerable	to	becoming	enraged	later	at	home	by
something—the	kids	being	too	noisy	or	messy,	say—that	under	other
circumstances	would	not	be	powerful	enough	to	trigger	an	emotional
hijacking.
Zillmann	comes	to	these	insights	on	anger	through	careful
experimentation.	In	a	typical	study,	for	example,	he	had	a	confederate
provoke	men	and	women	who	had	volunteered	by	making	snide
remarks	about	them.	The	volunteers	then	watched	a	pleasant	or
upsetting	film.	Later	the	volunteers	were	given	the	chance	to	retaliate
against	the	confederate	by	giving	an	evaluation	they	thought	would
be	used	in	a	decision	whether	or	not	to	hire	him.	The	intensity	of	their
retaliation	was	directly	proportional	to	how	aroused	they	had	gotten
from	the	film	they	had	just	watched;	they	were	angrier	after	seeing
the	unpleasant	film,	and	gave	the	worst	ratings.
Anger	Builds	on	Anger


Anger	Builds	on	Anger
Zillmann’s	studies	seem	to	explain	the	dynamic	at	work	in	a	familiar
domestic	drama	I	witnessed	one	day	while	shopping.	Down	the
supermarket	aisle	drifted	the	emphatic,	measured	tones	of	a	young
mother	to	her	son,	about	three:	“Put	…	it	…	back!”
“But	I
want
	it!”	he	whined,	clinging	more	tightly	to	a	Ninja	Turtles
cereal	box.
“Put	it	back!”	Louder,	her	anger	taking	over.
At	that	moment	the	baby	in	her	shopping	cart	seat	dropped	the	jar
of	jelly	she	had	been	mouthing.	When	it	shattered	on	the	floor	the
mother	yelled,	“That’s	it!”	and,	in	a	fury,	slapped	the	baby,	grabbed
the	three-year-old’s	box	and	slammed	it	onto	the	nearest	shelf,
scooped	him	up	by	the	waist,	and	rushed	down	the	aisle,	the	shopping
cart	careening	perilously	in	front,	the	baby	now	crying,	her	son,	his
legs	dangling,	protesting,	“Put	me
down
,	put	me
down
!”
Zillmann	has	found	that	when	the	body	is	already	in	a	state	of
edginess,	like	the	mother’s,	and	something	triggers	an	emotional
hijacking,	the	subsequent	emotion,	whether	anger	or	anxiety,	is	of
especially	great	intensity.	This	dynamic	is	at	work	when	someone


especially	great	intensity.	This	dynamic	is	at	work	when	someone
becomes	enraged.	Zillmann	sees	escalating	anger	as	“a	sequence	of


provocations,	each	triggering	an	excitatory	reaction	that	dissipates
slowly.”	In	this	sequence	every	successive	anger-provoking	thought	or
perception	becomes	a	minitrigger	for	amygdala-driven	surges	of
catecholamines,	each	building	on	the	hormonal	momentum	of	those
that	went	before.	A	second	comes	before	the	first	has	subsided,	and	a
third	on	top	of	those,	and	so	on;	each	wave	rides	the	tails	of	those
before,	quickly	escalating	the	body’s	level	of	physiological	arousal.	A
thought	that	comes	later	in	this	buildup	triggers	a	far	greater	intensity
of	anger	than	one	that	comes	at	the	beginning.	Anger	builds	on	anger;
the	emotional	brain	heats	up.	By	then	rage,	unhampered	by	reason,
easily	erupts	in	violence.
At	this	point	people	are	unforgiving	and	beyond	being	reasoned
with;	their	thoughts	revolve	around	revenge	and	reprisal,	oblivious	to
what	the	consequences	may	be.	This	high	level	of	excitation,	Zillmann
says,	“fosters	an	illusion	of	power	and	invulnerability	that	may	inspire
and	facilitate	aggression”	as	the	enraged	person,	“failing	cognitive
guidance,”	falls	back	on	the	most	primitive	of	responses.	The	limbic
urge	is	ascendant;	the	rawest	lessons	of	life’s	brutality	become	guides
to	action.
Balm	for	Anger


to	action.
Balm	for	Anger
Given	this	analysis	of	the	anatomy	of	rage,	Zillmann	sees	two	main
ways	of	intervening.	One	way	of	defusing	anger	is	to	seize	on	and
challenge	the	thoughts	that	trigger	the	surges	of	anger,	since	it	is	the
original	appraisal	of	an	interaction	that	confirms	and	encourages	the
first	burst	of	anger,	and	the	subsequent	reappraisals	that	fan	the
flames.	Timing	matters;	the	earlier	in	the	anger	cycle	the	more
effective.	Indeed,	anger	can	be	completely	short-circuited	if	the
mitigating	information	comes	before	the	anger	is	acted	on.
The	power	of	understanding	to	deflate	anger	is	clear	from	another
of	Zillmann’s	experiments,	in	which	a	rude	assistant	(a	confederate)
insulted	and	provoked	volunteers	who	were	riding	an	exercise	bike.
When	the	volunteers	were	given	the	chance	to	retaliate	against	the
rude	experimenter	(again,	by	giving	a	bad	evaluation	they	thought
would	be	used	in	weighing	his	candidacy	for	a	job)	they	did	so	with
an	angry	glee.	But	in	one	version	of	the	experiment	another
confederate	entered	after	the	volunteers	had	been	provoked,	and	just
before	the	chance	to	retaliate;	she	told	the	provocative	experimenter
he	had	a	phone	call	down	the	hall.	As	he	left	he	made	a	snide	remark


to	her	too.	But	she	took	it	in	good	spirits,	explaining	after	he	left	that
he	was	under	terrible	pressures,	upset	about	his	upcoming	graduate
orals.	After	that	the	irate	volunteers,	when	offered	the	chance	to
retaliate	against	the	rude	fellow,	chose	not	to;	instead	they	expressed
compassion	for	his	plight.
Such	mitigating	information	allows	a	reappraisal	of	the	anger-
provoking	events.	But	there	is	a	specific	window	of	opportunity	for
this	de-escalation.	Zillmann	finds	it	works	well	at	moderate	levels	of
anger;	at	high	levels	of	rage	it	makes	no	difference	because	of	what	he
calls	“cognitive	incapacitation”—in	other	words,	people	can	no	longer
think	straight.	When	people	were	already	highly	enraged,	they
dismissed	the	mitigating	information	with	“That’s	just	too	bad!”	or
“the	strongest	vulgarities	the	English	language	has	to	offer,”	as
Zillmann	put	it	with	delicacy.
Cooling	Down
Once	when	I	was	about	13,	in	an	angry	fit,	I	walked	out	of	the	house	vowing	I	would
never	return.	It	was	a	beautiful	summer	day,	and	I	walked	far	along	lovely	lanes,	till
gradually	the	stillness	and	beauty	calmed	and	soothed	me,	and	after	some	hours	I


returned	repentant	and	almost	melted.	Since	then	when	I	am	angry,	I	do	this	if	I	can,
and	find	it	the	best	cure.
The	account	is	by	a	subject	in	one	of	the	very	first	scientific	studies
of	anger,	done	in	1899.
6
	It	still	stands	as	a	model	of	the	second	way	of
de-escalating	anger:	cooling	off	physiologically	by	waiting	out	the
adrenal	surge	in	a	setting	where	there	are	not	likely	to	be	further
triggers	for	rage.	In	an	argument,	for	instance,	that	means	getting
away	from	the	other	person	for	the	time	being.	During	the	cooling-off
period,	the	angered	person	can	put	the	brakes	on	the	cycle	of
escalating	hostile	thought	by	seeking	out	distractions.	Distraction,
Zillmann	finds,	is	a	highly	powerful	mood-altering	device,	for	a	simple
reason:	It’s	hard	to	stay	angry	when	we’re	having	a	pleasant	time.	The
trick,	of	course,	is	to	get	anger	to	cool	to	the	point	where	someone	can
have
	a	pleasant	time	in	the	first	place.
Zillmann’s	analysis	of	the	ways	anger	escalates	and	de-escalates
explains	many	of	Diane	Tice’s	findings	about	the	strategies	people
commonly	say	they	use	to	ease	anger.	One	such	fairly	effective
strategy	is	going	off	to	be	alone	while	cooling	down.	A	large


proportion	of	men	translate	this	into	going	for	a	drive—a	finding	that


gives	one	pause	when	driving	(and,	Tice	told	me,	inspired	her	to	drive
more	defensively).	Perhaps	a	safer	alternative	is	going	for	a	long	walk;
active	exercise	also	helps	with	anger.	So	do	relaxation	methods	such
as	deep	breathing	and	muscle	relaxation,	perhaps	because	they
change	the	body’s	physiology	from	the	high	arousal	of	anger	to	a	low-
arousal	state,	and	perhaps	too	because	they	distract	from	whatever
triggered	the	anger.	Active	exercise	may	cool	anger	for	something	of
the	same	reason:	after	high	levels	of	physiological	activation	during
the	exercise,	the	body	rebounds	to	a	low	level	once	it	stops.
But	a	cooling-down	period	will	not	work	if	that	time	is	used	to
pursue	the	train	of	anger-inducing	thought,	since	each	such	thought	is
in	itself	a	minor	trigger	for	more	cascades	of	anger.	The	power	of
distraction	is	that	it	stops	that	angry	train	of	thought.	In	her	survey	of
people’s	strategies	for	handling	anger,	Tice	found	that	distractions	by
and	large	help	calm	anger:	TV,	movies,	reading,	and	the	like	all
interfere	with	the	angry	thoughts	that	stoke	rage.	But,
Tice	found,
indulging	in	treats	such	as	shopping	for	oneself	and	eating	do	not


have	much	effect;	it	is	all	too	easy	to	continue	with	an	indignant	train
of	thought	while	cruising	a	shopping	mall	or	devouring	a	piece	of
chocolate	cake.
To	these	strategies	add	those	developed	by	Redford	Williams,	a
psychiatrist	at	Duke	University	who	sought	to	help	hostile	people,
who	are	at	higher	risk	for	heart	disease,	to	control	their	irritability.
7
One	of	his	recommendations	is	to	use	self-awareness	to	catch	cynical
or	hostile	thoughts	as	they	arise,	and	write	them	down.	Once	angry
thoughts	are	captured	this	way,	they	can	be	challenged	and
reappraised,	though,	as	Zillmann	found,	this	approach	works	better
before	anger	has	escalated	to	rage.
The	Ventilation	Fallacy
As	I	settle	into	a	New	York	City	cab,	a	young	man	crossing	the	street
stops	in	front	of	the	cab	to	wait	for	traffic	to	clear.	The	driver,
impatient	to	start,	honks,	motioning	for	the	young	man	to	move	out	of
the	way.	The	reply	is	a	scowl	and	an	obscene	gesture.
“You	son	of	a	bitch!”	the	driver	yells,	making	threatening	lunges
with	the	cab	by	hitting	the	accelerator	and	brake	at	the	same	time.	At
this	lethal	threat,	the	young	man	sullenly	moves	aside,	barely,	and


smacks	his	fist	against	the	cab	as	it	inches	by	into	traffic.	At	this,	the
driver	shouts	a	foul	litany	of	expletives	at	the	man.


As	we	move	along	the	driver,	still	visibly	agitated,	tells	me,	“You
can’t	take	any	shit	from	anyone.	You	gotta	yell	back—at	least	it	makes
you	feel	better!”
Catharsis—giving	vent	to	rage—is	sometimes	extolled	as	a	way	of
handling	anger.	The	popular	theory	holds	that	“it	makes	you	feel
better.”	But,	as	Zillmann’s	findings	suggest,	there	is	an	argument
against	catharsis.	It	has	been	made	since	the	1950s,	when
psychologists	started	to	test	the	effects	of	catharsis	experimentally
and,	time	after	time,	found	that	giving	vent	to	anger	did	little	or
nothing	to	dispel	it	(though,	because	of	the	seductive	nature	of	anger,
it	may
feel
	satisfying).
8
	There	may	be	some	specific	conditions	under
which	lashing	out	in	anger	does	work:	when	it	is	expressed	directly	to
the	person	who	is	its	target,	when	it	restores	a	sense	of	control	or
rights	an	injustice,	or	when	it	inflicts	“appropriate	harm”	on	the	other
person	and	gets	him	to	change	some	grievous	activity	without
retaliating.	But	because	of	the	incendiary	nature	of	anger,	this	may	be
easier	to	say	than	to	do.
9
Tice	found	that	ventilating	anger	is	one	of	the	worst	ways	to	cool


down:	outbursts	of	rage	typically	pump	up	the	emotional	brain’s
arousal,	leaving
people	feeling	more	angry,	not	less.	Tice	found	that
when	people	told	of	times	they	had	taken	their	rage	out	on	the	person
who	provoked	it,	the	net	effect	was	to	prolong	the	mood	rather	than
end	it.	Far	more	effective	was	when	people	first	cooled	down,	and
then,	in	a	more	constructive	or	assertive	manner,	confronted	the
person	to	settle	their	dispute.	As	I	once	heard	Chogyam	Trungpa,	a
Tibetan	teacher,	reply	when	asked	how	best	to	handle	anger:	“Don’t
suppress	it.	But	don’t	act	on	it.”
SOOTHING	ANXIETY:	WHAT,	ME	WORRY?
Oh,	no!	The	muffler	sounds	bad.…	What	if	I	have	to	take	it	to	the	shop?…	I	can’t
afford	the	expense.…	I’d	have	to	draw	the	money	from	Jamie’s	college	fund.…	What	if
I	can’t	afford	his	tuition?…	That	bad	school	report	last	week.…	What	if	his	grades	go
down	and	he	can’t	get	into	college?…	Muffler	sounds	bad.…
And	so	the	worrying	mind	spins	on	in	an	endless	loop	of	low-grade
melodrama,	one	set	of	concerns	leading	on	to	the	next	and	back	again.


The	above	specimen	is	offered	by	Lizabeth	Roemer	and	Thomas
Borkovec,	Pennsylvania	State	University	psychologists,	whose


research	on	worrying—the	heart	of	all	anxiety—has	raised	the	topic
from	neurotic’s	art	to	science.
10
	There	is,	of	course,	no	hitch	when
worry	works;	by	mulling	over	a	problem—that	is,	employing
constructive	reflection,	which	can	look	like	worrying—a	solution	can
appear.	Indeed,	the	reaction	that	underlies	worry	is	the	vigilance	for
potential	danger	that	has,	no	doubt,	been	essential	for	survival	over
the	course	of	evolution.	When	fear	triggers	the	emotional	brain,	part
of	the	resulting	anxiety	fixates	attention	on	the	threat	at	hand,	forcing
the	mind	to	obsess	about	how	to	handle	it	and	ignore	anything	else
for	the	time	being.	Worry	is,	in	a	sense,	a	rehearsal	of	what	might	go
wrong	and	how	to	deal	with	it;	the	task	of	worrying	is	to	come	up
with	positive	solutions	for	life’s	perils	by	anticipating	dangers	before
they	arise.
The	difficulty	is	with	chronic,	repetitive	worries,	the	kind	that
recycle	on	and	on	and	never	get	any	nearer	a	positive	solution.	A
close	analysis	of	chronic	worry	suggests	that	it	has	all	the	attributes	of
a	low-grade	emotional	hijacking:	the	worries	seem	to	come	from
nowhere,	are	uncontrollable,	generate	a	steady	hum	of	anxiety,	are


impervious	to	reason,	and	lock	the	worrier	into	a	single,	inflexible
view	of	the	worrisome	topic.	When	this	same	cycle	of	worry
intensifies	and	persists,	it	shades	over	the	line	into	full-blown
neural
hijackings,	the	anxiety	disorders:	phobias,	obsessions	and
compulsions,	panic	attacks.	In	each	of	these	disorders	worry	fixates	in
a	distinct	fashion;	for	the	phobic,	anxieties	rivet	on	the	feared
situation;	for	the	obsessive,	they	fixate	on	preventing	some	feared
calamity;	in	panic	attacks,	the	worries	can	focus	on	a	fear	of	dying	or
on	the	prospect	of	having	the	attack	itself.
In	all	these	conditions	the	common	denominator	is	worry	run	amok.
For	example,	a	woman	being	treated	for	obsessive-compulsive
disorder	had	a	series	of	rituals	that	took	most	of	her	waking	hours:
forty-five-minute	showers	several	times	daily,	washing	her	hands	for
five	minutes	twenty	or	more	times	a	day.	She	would	not	sit	down
unless	she	first	swabbed	the	seat	with	rubbing	alcohol	to	sterilize	it.
Nor	would	she	touch	a	child	or	an	animal—both	were	“too	dirty.”	All
these	compulsions	were	stirred	by	her	underlying	morbid	fear	of


germs;	she	worried	constantly	that	without	her	washing	and
sterilizing	she	would	catch	a	disease	and	die.
11
A	woman	being	treated	for	“generalized	anxiety	disorder”—the
psychiatric	nomenclature	for	being	a	constant	worrier—responded	to
the	request	to	worry	aloud	for	one	minute	this	way:


I	might	not	do	this	right.	This	may	be	so	artificial	that	it	won’t	be	an	indication	of	the
real	thing	and	we	need	to	get	at	the	real	thing.…	Because	if	we	don’t	get	at	the	real
thing,	I	won’t	get	well.	And	if	I	don’t	get	well	I’ll	never	be	happy.
12
In	this	virtuoso	display	of	worrying	about	worrying,	the	very
request	to	worry	for	one	minute	had,	within	a	few	short	seconds,
escalated	to	contemplation	of	a	lifelong	catastrophe:	“I’ll	never	be
happy.”	Worries	typically	follow	such	lines,	a	narrative	to	oneself	that
jumps	from	concern	to	concern	and	more	often	than	not	includes
catastrophizing,	imagining	some	terrible	tragedy.	Worries	are	almost
always	expressed	in	the	mind’s	ear,	not	its	eye—that	is,	in	words,	not
images—a	fact	that	has	significance	for	controlling	worry.
Borkovec	and	his	colleagues	began	to	study	worrying	per	se	when
they	were	trying	to	come	up	with	a	treatment	for	insomnia.	Anxiety,
other	researchers	have	observed,	comes	in	two	forms:
cognitive
,	or
worrisome	thoughts,	and
somatic
,	the	physiological	symptoms	of
anxiety,	such	as	sweating,	a	racing	heart,	or	muscle	tension.	The	main


trouble	with	insomniacs,	Borkovec	found,	was	not	the	somatic
arousal.	What	kept	them	up	were	intrusive	thoughts.	They	were
chronic	worriers,	and	could	not	stop	worrying,	no	matter	how	sleepy
they	were.	The	one	thing	that	worked	in	helping	them
get	to	sleep
was	getting	their	minds	off	their	worries,	focusing	instead	on	the
sensations	produced	by	a	relaxation	method.	In	short,	the	worries
could	be	stopped	by	shifting	attention	away.
Most	worriers,	however,	can’t	seem	to	do	this.	The	reason,	Borkovec
believes,	has	to	do	with	a	partial	payoff	from	worrying	that	is	highly
reinforcing	to	the	habit.	There	is,	it	seems,	something	positive	in
worries:	worries	are	ways	to	deal	with	potential	threats,	with	dangers
that	may	come	one’s	way.	The	work	of	worrying—when	it	succeeds—
is	to	rehearse	what	those	dangers	are,	and	to	reflect	on	ways	to	deal
with	them.	But	worry	doesn’t	work	all	that	well.	New	solutions	and
fresh	ways	of	seeing	a	problem	do	not	typically	come	from	worrying,
especially	chronic	worry.	Instead	of	coming	up	with	solutions	to	these
potential	problems,	worriers	typically	simply	ruminate	on	the	danger


potential	problems,	worriers	typically	simply	ruminate	on	the	danger
itself,	immersing	themselves	in	a	low-key	way	in	the	dread	associated
with	it	while	staying	in	the	same	rut	of	thought.	Chronic	worriers
worry	about	a	wide	range	of	things,	most	of	which	have	almost	no
chance	of	happening;	they	read	dangers	into	life’s	journey	that	others
never	notice.
Yet	chronic	worriers	tell	Borkovec	that	worrying	helps	them,	and


that	their	worries	are	self-perpetuating,	an	endless	loop	of	angst-
ridden	thought.	Why	should	worry	become	what	seems	to	amount	to	a
mental	addiction?	Oddly,	as	Borkovec	points	out,	the	worry	habit	is
reinforcing	in	the	same	sense	that	superstitions	are.	Since	people
worry	about	many	things	that	have	a	very	low	probability	of	actually
occurring—a	loved	one	dying	in	a	plane	crash,	going	bankrupt,	and
the	like—there	is,	to	the	primitive	limbic	brain	at	least,	something
magical	about	it.	Like	an	amulet	that	wards	off	some	anticipated	evil,
the	worry	psychologically	gets	the	credit	for	preventing	the	danger	it
obsesses	about.
The	Work	of	Worrying
She	had	moved	to	Los	Angeles	from	the	Midwest,	lured	by	a	job	with	a	publisher.	But
the	publisher	was	bought	by	another	soon	after,	and	she	was	left	without	a	job.
Turning	to	freelance	writing,	an	erratic	marketplace,	she	found	herself	either	swamped
with	work	or	unable	to	pay	her	rent.	She	often	had	to	ration	phone	calls,	and	for	the
first	time	was	without	health	insurance.	This	lack	of	coverage	was	particularly
distressing:	she	found	herself	catastrophizing	about	her	health,	sure	every	headache


signaled	a	brain	tumor,	picturing	herself	in	an	accident	whenever	she	had	to	drive
somewhere.	She	often	found	herself	lost	in	a	long	reverie	of	worry,	a	medley	of
distress.	But,	she	said,	she	found	her	worries	almost	addictive.
Borkovec	discovered	another	unexpected	benefit	to	worrying.	While
people	are	immersed	in	their	worried	thoughts,	they	do	not	seem	to
notice	the	subjective	sensations	of	the	anxiety	those	worries	stir—the
speedy	heartbeat,	the	beads	of	sweat,	the	shakiness—and	as	the	worry
proceeds	it	actually	seems	to	suppress	some	of	that	anxiety,	at	least	as
reflected	in	heart	rate.	The	sequence	presumably	goes	something	like
this:	The	worrier	notices	something	that	triggers	the	image	of	some
potential	threat	or	danger;	that	imagined	catastrophe	in	turn	triggers
a	mild	attack	of	anxiety.	The	worrier	then	plunges	into	a	long	series	of
distressed	thoughts,	each	of	which	primes	yet	another	topic	for	worry;
as	attention	continues	to	be	carried	along	by	this	train	of	worry,
focusing	on	these	very	thoughts	takes	the	mind	off	the	original
catastrophic	image	that	triggered	the	anxiety.	Images,	Borkovec
found,	are	more	powerful	triggers	for	physiological	anxiety	than	are


thoughts,	so	immersion	in	thoughts,	to	the	exclusion	of	catastrophic
images,	partially	alleviates	the	experience	of	being	anxious.	And,	to
that	extent,	the	worry	is	also	reinforced,	as	a	halfway	antidote	to	the


very	anxiety	it	evoked.
But	chronic	worries	are	self-defeating	too	in	that	they	take	the	form
of	stereotyped,	rigid	ideas,	not	creative	breakthroughs	that	actually
move	toward	solving	the	problem.	This	rigidity	shows	up	not	just	in
the	manifest	content	of	worried	thought,	which	simply	repeats	more
or	less	the	same	ideas	over	and	over.	But	at	a	neurological	level	there
seems	to	be	a	cortical	rigidity,	a	deficit	in	the	emotional	brain’s	ability
to	respond	flexibly	to	changing	circumstance.	In	short,	chronic	worry
works	in	some	ways,	but	not	in	other,	more	consequential	ones:	it
eases	some	anxiety,	but	never	solves	the	problem.
The	one	thing	that	chronic	worriers	cannot	do	is	follow	the	advice
they	are	most	often	given:	“Just	stop	worrying”	(or,	worse,	“Don’t
worry—be	happy”).	Since	chronic	worries	seem	to	be	low-grade
amygdala	episodes,	they	come	unbidden.	And,	by	their	very	nature,
they	persist	once	they	arise	in	the	mind.	But	after	much
experimentation,	Borkovec	discovered	some	simple	steps	that	can	help
even	the	most	chronic	worrier	control	the	habit.
The	first	step	is	self-awareness,	catching	the	worrisome	episodes	as


The	first	step	is	self-awareness,	catching	the	worrisome	episodes	as
near	their	beginning	as	possible—ideally,	as	soon	as	or	just	after	the
fleeting	catastrophic	image	triggers	the	worry-anxiety	cycle.	Borkovec
trains	people	in	this	approach	by	first	teaching	them	to	monitor	cues
for	anxiety,	especially	learning	to	identify	situations	that	trigger
worry,	or	the	fleeting	thoughts	and	images	that	initiate	the	worry,	as
well	as	the	accompanying	sensations	of	anxiety	in	the	body.	With
practice,	people	can	identify	the	worries	at	an	earlier	and	earlier	point
in	the	anxiety	spiral.	People	also	learn	relaxation
methods	that	they
can	apply	at	the	moment	they	recognize	the	worry	beginning,	and
practice	the	relaxation	method	daily	so	they	will	be	able	to	use	it	on
the	spot,	when	they	need	it	the	most.
The	relaxation	method,	though,	is	not	enough	in	itself.	Worriers
also	need	to	actively	challenge	the	worrisome	thoughts;	failing	this,
the	worry	spiral	will	keep	coming	back.	So	the	next	step	is	to	take	a
critical	stance	toward	their	assumptions:	Is	it	very	probable	that	the
dreaded	event	will	occur?	Is	it	necessarily	the	case	that	there	is	only
one	or	no	alternative	to	letting	it	happen?	Are	there	constructive	steps


to	be	taken?	Does	it	really	help	to	run	through	these	same	anxious
thoughts	over	and	over?
This	combination	of	mindfulness	and	healthy	skepticism	would,
presumably,	act	as	a	brake	on	the	neural	activation	that	underlies
low-grade	anxiety.	Actively	generating	such	thoughts	may	prime	the


circuitry	that	can	inhibit	the	limbic	driving	of	worry;	at	the	same
time,	actively	inducing	a	relaxed	state	counters	the	signals	for	anxiety
the	emotional	brain	is	sending	throughout	the	body.
Indeed,	Borkovec	points	out,	these	strategies	establish	a	train	of
mental	activity	that	is	incompatible	with	worry.	When	a	worry	is
allowed	to	repeat	over	and	over	unchallenged,	it	gains	in	persuasive
power;	challenging	it	by	contemplating	a	range	of	equally	plausible
points	of	view	keeps	the	one	worried	thought	from	being	naively
taken	as	true.	Even	some	people	whose	worrying	is	serious	enough	to
qualify	for	a	psychiatric	diagnosis	have	been	relieved	of	the	worrying
habit	this	way.
On	the	other	hand,	for	people	with	worries	so	severe	they	have
flowered	into	phobia,	obsessive-compulsive	disorder,	or	panic
disorder,	it	may	be	prudent—indeed,	a	sign	of	self-awareness—to	turn
to	medication	to	interrupt	the	cycle.	A	retraining	of	the	emotional
circuitry	through	therapy	is	still	called	for,	however,	in	order	to	lessen
the	likelihood	that	anxiety	disorders	will	recur	when	medication	is
stopped.
13
MANAGING	MELANCHOLY
The	single	mood	people	generally	put	most	effort	into	shaking	is
sadness;	Diane	Tice	found	that	people	are	most	inventive	when	it


comes	to	trying	to	escape	the	blues.	Of	course,	not	all	sadness	should
be	escaped;	melancholy,	like	every	other	mood,	has	its	benefits.	The
sadness	that	a	loss	brings	has	certain	invariable	effects:	it	closes	down
our	interest	in	diversions	and	pleasures,	fixes	attention	on	what	has
been	lost,	and	saps	our	energy	for	starting
new	endeavors—at	least	for
the	time	being.	In	short,	it	enforces	a	kind	of	reflective	retreat	from
life’s	busy	pursuits,	and	leaves	us	in	a	suspended	state	to	mourn	the
loss,	mull	over	its	meaning,	and,	finally,	make	the	psychological
adjustments	and	new	plans	that	will	allow	our	lives	to	continue.
Bereavement	is	useful;	full-blown	depression	is	not.	William	Styron
renders	an	eloquent	description	of	“the	many	dreadful	manifestations
of	the	disease,”	among	them	self-hatred,	a	sense	of	worthlessness,	a
“dank	joylessness”	with	“gloom	crowding	in	on	me,	a	sense	of	dread
and	alienation	and,	above	all,	a	stifling	anxiety.”
14
	Then	there	are	the
intellectual	marks:	“confusion,	failure	of	mental	focus	and	lapse	of
memories,”	and,	at	a	later	stage,	his	mind	“dominated	by	anarchic


distortions,”	and	“a	sense	that	my	thought	processes	were	engulfed	by
a	toxic	and	unnameable	tide	that	obliterated	any	enjoyable	response
to	the	living	world.”	There	are	the	physical	effects:	sleeplessness,
feeling	as	listless	as	a	zombie,	“a	kind	of	numbness,	an	enervation,	but
more	particularly	an	odd	fragility,”	along	with	a	“fidgety	restlessness.”
Then	there	is	the	loss	of	pleasure:	“Food,	like	everything	else	within
the	scope	of	sensation,	was	utterly	without	savor.”	Finally,	there	was
the	vanishing	of	hope	as	the	“gray	drizzle	of	horror”	took	on	a	despair
so	palpable	it	was	like	physical	pain,	a	pain	so	unendurable	that
suicide	seemed	a	solution.
In	such	major	depression,	life	is	paralyzed;	no	new	beginnings
emerge.	The	very	symptoms	of	depression	bespeak	a	life	on	hold.	For
Styron,	no	medication	or	therapy	helped;	it	was	the	passing	of	time
and	the	refuge	of	a	hospital	that	finally	cleared	away	the
despondency.	But	for	most	people,	especially	those	with	less	severe
cases,	psychotherapy	can	help,	as	can	medication—Prozac	is	the
treatment	of	the	hour,	but	there	are	more	than	a	dozen	other
compounds	offering	some	help,	especially	for	major	depression.


compounds	offering	some	help,	especially	for	major	depression.
My	focus	here	is	the	far	more	common	sadness	that	at	its	upper
limits	becomes,	technically	speaking,	a	“subclinical	depression”—that
is,	ordinary	melancholy.	This	is	a	range	of	despondency	that	people
can	handle	on	their	own,	if	they	have	the	internal	resources.
Unfortunately,	some	of	the	strategies	most	often	resorted	to	can
backfire,	leaving	people	feeling	worse	than	before.	One	such	strategy
is	simply	staying	alone,	which	is	often	appealing	when	people	are
feeling	down;	more	often	than	not,	however,	it	only	adds	a	sense	of
loneliness	and	isolation	to	the	sadness.	That	may	partly	explain	why
Tice	found	the	most	popular	tactic	for	battling	depression	is
socializing—going	out	to	eat,	to	a	ballgame	or	movie;	in	short,	doing
something	with	friends	or	family.	That	works	well	if	the	net	effect	is
to	get	the	person’s	mind
off	his	sadness.	But	it	simply	prolongs	the
mood	if	he	uses	the	occasion	just	to	mull	over	what	put	him	in	the
funk.
Indeed,	one	of	the	main	determinants	of	whether	a	depressed	mood
will	persist	or	lift	is	the	degree	to	which	people	ruminate.	Worrying
about	what’s	depressing	us,	it	seems,	makes	the	depression	all	the


more	intense	and	prolonged.	In	depression,	worry	takes	several	forms,
all	focusing	on	some	aspect	of	the	depression	itself—how	tired	we
feel,	how	little	energy	or	motivation	we	have,	for	instance,	or	how
little	work	we’re	getting	done.	Typically	none	of	this	reflection	is