6

Four Examples of Narcissistic Types

1. The Complete Control Narcissist. When most people first met Joseph

Stalin (1879–1953) in the early part of his reign as premier of the

Soviet Union, they found him surprisingly charming. Although older

than most of his lieutenants, he encouraged them all to address him

with the familiar "you" form in Russian. He made himself completely

accessible even to junior officials. When he listened to you, it was with

such intensity and interest, his eyes boring into you. He seemed to pick

up your deepest thoughts and doubts. But his greatest trait was to

make you feel important and part of the inner circle of revolutionaries.

He would put his arm around you as he accompanied you out of his

office, always ending the meeting on an intimate note. As one young

man later wrote, people who saw him were "anxious to see him again,"

because "he created a sense that there was now a bond that linked

them forever." Sometimes he would turn slightly aloof, and it would

drive his courtiers crazy. Then the mood would pass, and they would

bask again in his affection.

Part of his charm lay in the fact that he epitomized the revolution.

He was a man of the people, rough and a bit rude but someone an

average Russian could identify with. And more than anything, Joseph

Stalin could be quite entertaining. He loved to sing and to tell earthy

jokes. With these qualities it was no wonder that he slowly amassed

power and assumed complete control of the Soviet machinery. But as

the years wore on and his power grew, another side to his character

slowly leaked out. The apparent friendliness was not as simple as it

had seemed. Perhaps the first significant sign of this among his inner

circle was the fate of Sergey Kirov, a powerful member of the Politburo

and, since the suicide of Stalin's wife in 1932, his closest friend and

confidant.

Kirov was an enthusiastic, somewhat simple man who made friends

easily and had a way of comforting Stalin. But Kirov was starting to

become a little too popular. In 1934, several regional leaders

approached him with an offer: they were tired of Stalin's brutal

treatment of the peasantry; they were going to instigate a coup and

wanted to make Kirov the new premier. Kirov remained loyal—he

revealed the plot to Stalin, who thanked him profusely. But something

changed in his manner toward Kirov from then on, a coldness that had

never been there before.

Kirov understood the predicament he had created—he had revealed

to Stalin that he was not as popular as he had thought, and that one

person in particular was more liked than him. He felt the danger he

was now in. He tried everything he could to assuage Stalin's

insecurities. In public appearances he mentioned Stalin's name more

than ever; his expressions of praise became more fulsome. This only

seemed to make Stalin even more suspicious, as if Kirov were trying

too hard to cover up the truth. Now Kirov remembered the many rough

jokes he had made at Stalin's expense. At the time, it had been an

expression of their closeness that Kirov dared to laugh at him, but now

Stalin would certainly see these jokes in a different light. Kirov felt

trapped and helpless.

In December 1934, a lone gunman assassinated Kirov outside his

office. Although no one could directly implicate Stalin, it seemed

almost certain that the killing had his tacit approval. In the years after

the assassination, one close friend of Stalin after another was arrested,

all of this leading to the great purge within the party during the late

1930s, in which hundreds of thousands lost their lives. Almost all of his

top lieutenants caught up in the purge were tortured for a confession,

and afterward Stalin would listen eagerly as those who had conducted

the torture would tell him of the desperate behavior of his once-brave

friends. He laughed at the accounts of how some got down on their

knees and, weeping, begged for an audience with Stalin to ask for

forgiveness of their sins and to be allowed to live. He seemed to relish

their humiliation.

What had happened to him? What had changed this once so

congenial man? With his closest friends he could still show

unadulterated affection, but in an instant he could turn against them

and send them to their deaths. Other odd traits became apparent.

Outwardly Stalin was extremely modest. He was the proletariat

incarnate. If someone suggested that he be paid some public tribute, he

would react angrily—one man should not be the center of so much

attention, he would proclaim. But slowly his name and image began to

appear everywhere. The newspaper Pravda ran stories on his every

move, almost deifying him. At a military parade, planes would fly

overhead in a formation spelling the name Stalin. He denied having

any involvement in this growing cult around him, but he did nothing to

stop it.

He increasingly spoke of himself in the third person, as if he had

become an impersonal revolutionary force, and as such he was

infallible. If he happened to mispronounce a word in a speech, every

subsequent speaker from then on would have to pronounce it that way.

"If I'd said it right," confessed one of his top lieutenants, "Stalin would

have felt I was correcting him." And that could prove suicidal.

As it seemed certain that Hitler was preparing to invade the Soviet

Union, Stalin began to oversee every detail of the war effort. He

continually berated his lieutenants for slackening their efforts: "I am

the only one dealing with all these problems. . . . I am out there by

myself," he once complained. Soon many of his generals felt like they

were in a double bind: if they spoke their mind he could be terribly

insulted, but if they deferred to his opinion he would fly into a rage.

"What's the point of talking to you?" he once shouted to a group of

generals. "Whatever I say, you reply, 'Yes Comrade Stalin; of course,

Comrade Stalin . . . wise decision, Comrade Stalin.'" In his fury at

feeling alone in the war effort, he fired his most competent and

experienced generals. He now oversaw every detail of the war effort,

down to the size and shape of bayonets.

It soon became a matter of life or death for his lieutenants to

accurately read his moods and whims. It was critical to never make

him anxious, which made him dangerously unpredictable. You had to

look him in the eye so that it did not seem like you were hiding

something, but if you looked for too long, he became nervous and selfconscious,

a very risky blend. You were supposed to take notes when

he talked but not write down everything, or you would seem

suspicious. Some who were blunt with him did well, while others

ended up in prison. Perhaps the answer was to know when to mix in a

touch of bluntness but to largely defer. Figuring him out became an

arcane science that they would discuss with one another.

The worst fate of all was to be invited to dinner and a late-night

movie at his house. It was impossible to refuse such an invitation, and

they became more and more frequent after the war. Outwardly it was

just like before—a warm, intimate fraternity of revolutionaries. But

inwardly it was sheer terror. Here, during all-night drinking bouts (his

own drinks were heavily diluted), he would keep a watchful eye on all

of his top lieutenants. He forced them to drink more and more so they

would lose their self-control. He secretly delighted in their struggles to

not say or do anything that would incriminate them.

The worst was toward the end of the evening, when he would pull

out the gramophone, play some music, and order the men to dance. He

would make Nikita Khrushchev, the future premier, do the gopak, a

highly strenuous dance that included much squatting and kicking. It

would often make Khrushchev sick to his stomach. The others he

would have slow dance together while he smiled and laughed

uproariously at the sight of grown men dancing as a couple. It was the

ultimate form of control: the puppet master choreographing their

every move.

• • •

Interpretation: The great riddle that Joseph Stalin and his type

present is how people who are so deeply narcissistic can also be so

charming and, through their charm, gain influence. How can they

possibly connect with others when they are so clearly self-obsessed?

How are they able to mesmerize? The answer lies in the early part of

their careers, before they turn paranoid and vicious.

These types generally have more ambition and energy than the

average deep narcissist. They also tend to have even greater

insecurities. The only way they can mollify these insecurities and

satisfy their ambition is by gaining from others more than the usual

share of attention and validation, which can really only come through

securing social power in either politics or business. Early on in life,

these types stumble upon the best means for doing so. As with most

deep narcissists, they are hypersensitive to any perceived slight. They

have fine antennae attuned to people to probe their feelings and

thoughts—to suss out if there is any hint of disrespect. But what they

discover at some point is that this sensitivity can be tuned to others to

probe their desires and insecurities. Being so sensitive, they can listen

to people with deep attention. They can mimic empathy. The difference

is that from within, they are impelled not by the need to connect but by

the need to control people and manipulate them. They listen and probe

you in order to discover weaknesses to play on.

Their attention is not all faked or it would have no effect. In the

moment, they can feel camaraderie as they put their arm around your

shoulder, but afterward they control and stifle its blossoming into

anything real or deeper. If they did not do so, they would risk losing

control of their emotions and opening themselves up to being hurt.

They pull you in with a display of attention and affection, then lure you

in deeper with the inevitable coldness that follows. Did you do or say

something wrong? How can you regain their favor? It can be subtle—it

can register in a glance that lasts a second or two—but it has its effect.

It is the classic push and pull of the coquette that makes you want to

reexperience the warmth you once felt. Combined with the unusually

high levels of confidence displayed by this type, this can have a

devastatingly seductive effect on people and attract followers.

Complete control narcissists stimulate your desire to get closer to them

but keep you at arm's distance.

All of this is about control. They control their emotions, and they

control your reactions. At some point, as they get more secure in their

power, they will resent the fact that they had to play the charm game.

Why should they have to pay attention to others when it should be the

other way around? So they will inevitably turn against former friends,

revealing the envy and hatred that was always just below the surface.

They control who is in and who is out, who lives and who dies. By

creating double binds in which nothing you say or do will please them,

or by making it seem arbitrary, they terrorize you with this insecurity.

They now control your emotions.

At some point, they will become total micromanagers—whom can

they trust anymore? People have turned into automatons, incapable of

making decisions, so they must oversee everything. If they reach such

extremes, these types will end up destroying themselves, because it is

actually impossible to rid the human animal of free will. People rebel,

even the most cowed. In Stalin's last days he suffered a stroke, but

none of his lieutenants dared to help him or call for a doctor. He died

from their neglect, as they had come to both fear and loathe him.

You will almost inevitably encounter this type in your life, because

through their ambition they tend to become bosses and CEOs, political

figures, cult leaders. The danger they represent to you is in the

beginning, when they first apply their charm. You can see through

them by employing your visceral empathy. Their show of interest in

you is never deep, never lasts too long, and is inevitably followed by a

coquettish pullback. If you stop being distracted by the outward

attempt at charm, you can sense this coldness and the degree to which

the attention inevitably flows to them.

Look at their past. You will notice that they do not have one single

deep and intimate relationship in which they exposed any

vulnerability. Look for signs of a troubled childhood. Stalin himself

had a father who beat him mercilessly and a rather cold and unloving

mother. Listen to people who have seen their true nature and have

tried to warn others. Indeed, Stalin's predecessor, Vladimir Lenin, had

understood his lethal nature, and on his deathbed he tried to signal

this to others, but his warnings went unheeded. Notice the terrified

expressions of those who serve such types on a daily basis. If you

suspect you are dealing with this type, you must keep your distance.

They are like tigers—once you are too close, you cannot get away, and

they will devour you.

2. The Theatrical Narcissist. In 1627, the prioress of the Ursuline nuns

in Loudun, France, welcomed into the house a new sister, Jeanne de

Belciel (1602–1665). Jeanne was a strange creature. Rather dwarfish in

size, she had a pretty, angelic face but a malicious glint in her eye. In

her previous house she had made a lot of enemies with her continual

sarcasm. But to the prioress's surprise, transferred to this new house,

Jeanne seemed to undergo a transformation. She now acted like a

complete angel, offering to help the prioress in all of her daily tasks.

Moreover, given some books to read on Saint Teresa and mysticism,

Jeanne became engrossed in the subject. She spent long hours

discussing spiritual questions with the prioress. Within months she

had become the house expert on mystical theology. She could be seen

meditating and praying for hours, more than any other sister. Later

that same year the prioress was transferred to another house. Deeply

impressed by Jeanne's behavior and ignoring the advice of others who

did not think so highly of her, the prioress recommended Jeanne as

her replacement. Suddenly, at the very young age of twenty-five,

Jeanne now found herself the head of the Ursuline nuns in Loudun.

Several months later, the sisters at Loudun began to hear some very

strange stories from Jeanne. She had had a series of dreams, in which

a local parish priest, Urbain Grandier, had visited and physically

assaulted her. The dreams became increasingly erotic and violent.

What was strange was that before these dreams, Jeanne had invited

Grandier to become the director of the Ursuline house, but he had

politely declined. In Loudun, locals considered Grandier a gallant

seducer of young ladies. Was Jeanne merely indulging in her own

fantasies? She was so pious that it was hard to believe she was making

it all up, and the dreams seemed very real and unusually graphic. Soon

after she began telling them to others, several sisters reported having

similar dreams. One day the house confessor, Canon Mignon, heard a

sister recount such a dream. Mignon, like many others, had long

despised Grandier, and he saw in these dreams an opportunity to

finally do him in. He called in some exorcists to work on the nuns, and

soon almost all of the sisters were reporting nightly visits from

Grandier. To the exorcists it was clear—these nuns were possessed by

devils under the control of Grandier.

For the edification of the citizenry, Mignon and his allies opened the

exorcisms up to the public, who now flocked from far and wide to

witness a most entertaining scene. The nuns would roll on the ground,

writhing, showing their legs, screaming endless obscenities. And of all

the sisters, Jeanne seemed the most possessed. Her contortions were

more violent, and the demons that spoke through her were more

strident in their satanic oaths. It was one of the strongest possessions

they had ever seen, and the public clamored to witness her exorcisms

above all the others. It now seemed apparent to the exorcists that

Grandier, despite never having set foot in the house or having met

Jeanne, had somehow bewitched and debauched the good sisters of

Loudun. He was soon arrested and charged with sorcery.

Based on the evidence, Grandier was condemned to death. After

much torture, he was burned at the stake on August 18, 1634, before an

enormous crowd. Soon the whole business quieted down. The nuns

were suddenly cleared of demons—all except Jeanne. The demons were

not only refusing to leave her but were gaining a stronger hold on her.

The Jesuits, hearing of this notorious possession, decided to take

charge of the affair and sent father Jean-Joseph Surin to exorcise her

once and for all. Surin found her a fascinating subject. She was

completely versed in matters concerning demonology and was clearly

despondent at her fate. And yet she did not seem to resist strongly

enough the demons who inhabited her. Perhaps she had succumbed to

their influence.

One thing was certain: she had taken an unusual liking to Surin and

kept him in the house for hours for spiritual discussions. She started to

pray and meditate with more energy. She got rid of all possible

luxuries: she slept on the hard floor and had vomit-inducing potions of

wormwood poured over her food. She reported to Surin her progress

and confessed to him "that she had come so near to God that she had

received . . . a kiss from his mouth."

With Surin's help, one demon after another fled her body. And then

came her first miracle: the name Joseph could be read quite clearly in

the palm of her left hand. When this faded away after several days, it

was replaced by the name of Jesus, and then Mary, and then other

names. It was a stigmata, a sign of true grace from God. After this

Jeanne fell deeply ill and seemed close to death. She reported being

visited by a beautiful young angel with long, flowing blond hair. Then

Saint Joseph himself came to her and touched her side, where she felt

the greatest pain, and anointed her with a fragrant oil. She recovered,

and the oil left a mark on her chemise in the form of five clear drops.

The demons were now gone, to Surin's enormous relief. The story was

over, but Jeanne surprised him with a strange request: she wanted to

go on a tour of Europe, displaying these miracles to one and all. She

felt it was her duty to do so. It seemed oddly contradictory to her

modest character and ever so slightly worldly, but Surin agreed to

accompany her.

In Paris, enormous crowds filled the streets outside her hotel,

wanting to catch a glimpse of her. She met Cardinal Richelieu, who

seemed quite moved and kissed the fragrant chemise, now a saintly

relic. She showed her stigmata to the King and Queen of France. The

tour moved on. She met the greatest aristocrats and luminaries of her

era. In one town, every day crowds of seven thousand people would

enter the convent where she was staying. The demand to hear her story

was so intense that she decided to issue a printed booklet in which she

described in great detail her possession, her most intimate thoughts,

and the miracle that had occurred.

At her death in 1665, the head of Jeanne des Anges, as she was now

known, was decapitated, mummified, and placed in a silver-gilt box

with crystal windows. It was displayed next to the anointed chemise for

those who wanted to see it, at the Ursuline house in Loudun, until its

disappearance during the French Revolution.

• • •

Interpretation: In her earliest years, Jeanne de Belciel displayed an

insatiable appetite for attention. She wearied her parents, who finally

got rid of her by sending her to a convent in Poitiers. There she

proceeded to drive the nuns insane with her sarcasm and incredible air

of superiority. Sent off to Loudun, it seemed she decided to try a

different approach to gaining the recognition she so desperately

needed. Given books on spirituality, she determined she would excel

all others in her knowledge and pious behavior. She made a complete

show of both and gained the good favor of the prioress. But as head of

the house, she felt bored, and the attention she now received

inadequate. Her dreams of Grandier were a mix of fabrication and

autosuggestion. Soon after the exorcists arrived, she was given a book

on demonology, which she devoured, and knowing the various ins and

outs of devil inhabitation, she proceeded to give herself all of the most

dramatic traits, which would be picked up by the exorcists as sure signs

of possession. She became the star of the public spectacle. While

possessed, she went further than all others in her degradation and

lewd behavior.

After Grandier's gruesome execution, which profoundly affected the

other nuns, who certainly felt guilt at the part they had played in the

death of an innocent man, Jeanne alone felt the sudden lack of

attention as unbearable and so she upped the ante by refusing to let go

of the demons. She had become a master at sensing the weaknesses

and hidden desires of those around her—first the prioress, and then

the exorcists, and now Father Surin. He wanted so badly to be the one

to redeem her that he would fall for the simplest of miracles. As for the

stigmata, some later speculated that she had etched these names with

acid, or traced them through colored starch. It seemed odd that they

appeared only on her left hand, where it would be easy for her to write

them out. It is known that in extreme hysteria the skin becomes

particularly sensitive, and a fingernail can do the trick. As someone

who had long experimented in concocting herbal remedies, it was easy

for her to apply fragrant drops. Once people believed in the stigmata, it

would be hard for them to doubt the anointment.

Even Surin found the need for a tour dubious. At this point, she

could no longer disguise her true appetite for attention. Years later,

Jeanne wrote an autobiography in which she admitted to a completely

theatrical side to her personality. She was continually playing a part,

although she maintained that the final miracle was sincere and real.

Many of the sisters who dealt with her on a daily basis saw through the

façade and described her as a consummate actress addicted to

attention and fame.

One of the strange paradoxes about deep narcissism is that it often

goes unnoticed by others, until the behavior becomes too extreme to

ignore. The reason for this is simple: deep narcissists can be masters of

disguise. They sense early on that if they revealed their true selves to

others—their need for constant attention and to feel superior—they

would repel people. They use their lack of a coherent self as an

advantage. They can play many parts. They can disguise their need for

attention through various dramatic devices. They can go further than

anyone in seeming moral and altruistic. They never just give or support

the right cause—they make a show of it. Who wants to doubt the

sincerity of this display of morality? Or they go in the opposite

direction, reveling in their status as a victim, as someone suffering at

the hands of others or neglected by the world. It is easy to get caught

up in the drama of the moment, only to suffer later as they consume

you with their needs or use you for their purposes. They play on your

empathy.

Your only solution is to see through the trick. Recognize this type by

the fact that the focus always seems to be on them. Notice how they are

always superior in supposed goodness or suffering or squalor. See the

continual drama and the theatrical quality of their gestures. Everything

they do or say is for public consumption. Do not let yourself become

collateral damage in their drama.

3. The Narcissistic Couple. In 1862, several days before thirty-two-yearold

Leo Tolstoy was to wed Sonya Behrs, only eighteen years old at the

time, he suddenly decided that there should be no secrets between

them. As part of that, he brought her his diaries, and to his surprise,

what she read made her weep and get quite angry as well. In these

pages he had written about his many previous love affairs, including

his ongoing infatuation with a nearby peasant woman with whom he

had had a child. He also wrote about the brothels he frequented, the

gonorrhea he had caught, and his endless gambling. She felt intense

jealousy and disgust at the same time. Why make her read this? She

accused him of having second thoughts, of not really loving her. Taken

aback by this reaction, he accused her of the same. He wanted to share

with her his old ways, so that she would understand he was happily

forsaking them for a new life, with her. Why should she rebuke his

attempt at honesty? She clearly did not love him as much as he had

thought. Why was it so painful for her to say good-bye to her family

before the wedding? Did she love them more than him? They managed

to reconcile and the wedding took place, but a pattern was set that

would continue for forty-eight years.

For Sonya, despite their frequent arguments, the marriage

eventually settled into a relatively comfortable rhythm. She had

become his most trusted assistant. Besides bearing eight children in

twelve years, five of whom survived, she carefully copied out his books

for him, including War and Peace and Anna Karenina, and managed

much of the business side of publishing his books. Everything seemed

to be going along well enough—he was a rich man, from both the

family estates he had inherited and the sales of his books. He had a

large family who doted on him. He was famous. But suddenly, at the

age of fifty, he felt immensely unhappy and ashamed of the books he

had written. He no longer knew who he was. He was undergoing a

deep spiritual crisis, and he found the Orthodox Church too strict and

dogmatic to help him. His life had to change. He would write no more

novels, and henceforth he would live like a common peasant. He would

give up his property and renounce all copyrights on his books. And he

asked his family to join him in this new life devoted to helping others

and to spiritual matters.

To his dismay the family, Sonya leading the way, reacted angrily. He

was asking them to give up their style of living, their comforts, and the

children's future inheritance. Sonya did not feel the need for any

drastic change in their lifestyle, and she resented his accusations that

she was somehow evil and materialistic for resisting. They fought and

fought, and neither budged. Now when Tolstoy looked at his wife, all

he could see was someone who was using him for his fame and his

money. That was clearly why she had married him. And when she

looked at him, all she could see was a rank hypocrite. Although he had

given up his property rights, he continued living like a lord and asking

her for money for his habits. He dressed like a peasant, but if he fell ill

he would travel to the South in a luxury private railway coach to a villa

in which he could convalesce. And despite his new vow of celibacy, he

kept making her pregnant.

Tolstoy craved a simple, spiritual life, and she was now the main

stumbling block to this. He found her presence in the house

oppressive. He wrote her a letter in which he finished by saying, "You

attribute what has happened to everything except the one thing, that

you are the unwitting, unintentional cause of my sufferings. A struggle

to the death is going on between us." Out of his increasing bitterness at

her materialistic ways, he wrote the novella The Kreutzer Sonata,

clearly based on their marriage and painting her in the worst light. For

Sonya, the effect of all this was that she felt like she was losing her

mind. Finally, in 1894, she snapped. Imitating one of the characters in

a Tolstoy story, she decided to commit suicide by walking out into the

snow and freezing herself to death. A family member caught up with

her and dragged her back to the house. She repeated the attempt twice

more, with no better effect.

Now the pattern became sharper and more violent. Tolstoy would

push her buttons; she would do something desperate; Tolstoy would

feel remorse for his coldness and beg for her forgiveness. He would

give in to her on some issues, for instance, allowing the family to retain

the copyrights on his earlier books. Then some new behavior on her

part would make him regret this. She constantly tried to pit the

children against him. She had to read everything he wrote in his

diaries, and if he hid them, she would somehow find them and read

them on the sly. She watched his every move. He would berate her

wildly for her meddling, sometimes falling ill in the process, which

made her regret her actions. What was holding them together? Each

one craved the acceptance and love of the other, but it seemed

impossible to expect that anymore.

After years of suffering through this, in late October of 1910, Tolstoy

finally had had enough: in the middle of the night he stole away from

the house with a doctor friend accompanying him, determined to

finally leave Sonya. He was trembling all the way, in terror of being

surprised and overtaken by his wife, but finally he boarded a train and

got away from her. When she got the news, Sonya attempted suicide

yet again, throwing herself in the nearby pond, only to be rescued just

in time. She wrote Tolstoy a letter, begging him to come back. Yes, she

would change her ways. She would renounce all luxuries. She would

become spiritual. She would love him unconditionally. She could not

live without him.

For Tolstoy, his taste of freedom was short-lived. The newspapers

were now full of accounts of his running away from his wife.

Everywhere the train stopped, reporters, devoted fans, and the curious

mobbed him. He could not take anymore the packed and freezing

conditions on the train. Soon he fell deathly ill and had to be carried to

a stationmaster's cottage near the railway tracks in some out-of-theway

village. In bed, it was clear now he was dying. He heard that Sonya

had arrived in town but could not bear the thought of seeing her now.

The family kept her outside, where she continued to peer through the

window at him as he lay dying. Finally, when he was unconscious, she

was allowed in. She knelt beside him, kissed him continually on the

forehead, and whispered into his ear, "Forgive me. Please forgive me."

He died shortly thereafter. A month later, a visitor to the Tolstoy house

reported the following words from Sonya: "What happened to me?

What came over me? How could I have done it? . . . You know I killed

him."

• • •

Interpretation: Leo Tolstoy displayed all of the signs of the deep

narcissist. His mother had died when he was two and left a giant hole

in him that he could never fill, although he tried to do so with his

numerous affairs. He behaved recklessly in his youth, as if this could

somehow make him feel alive and whole. He felt continually disgusted

with himself and could not figure out who exactly he was. He poured

this uncertainty into his novels, assuming different roles in the

characters he created. And by the age of fifty, he finally fell into a deep

crisis over his fragmented self. Sonya herself rated high on the selfabsorption

scale. But in looking at people we tend to overemphasize

their individual traits and not look at the more complex picture of how

each side in a relationship continually shapes the other. A relationship

has a life and personality all its own. And a relationship can also be

deeply narcissistic, accentuating or even bringing out the narcissistic

tendencies of both sides.

What generally makes a relationship narcissistic is the lack of

empathy that makes the partners retreat deeper and deeper into their

own defensive positions. In the case of the Tolstoys this started right

away, with the reading of his diary. Each side had their divergent

values through which they viewed the other. To Sonya, raised in a

conventional household, this was the act of a man who clearly

regretted his marriage proposal; to Tolstoy, the iconoclastic artist, her

reaction meant she was incapable of seeing into his soul, of trying to

understand his desire for a new married life. They each misunderstood

the other and fell into hardened positions that lasted for forty-eight

years.

Tolstoy's spiritual crisis epitomized this narcissistic dynamic. If

only in that moment they each could have attempted to see this action

through the eyes of the other. Tolstoy could have clearly foreseen her

reaction. She had lived her whole life in relative comfort, which had

helped her manage the frequent pregnancies and upbringing of so

many children. She had never been deeply spiritual. Their connection

had always been more physical. Why should he expect her to suddenly

change? His demands were almost sadistic. He could have simply

explained his own side without demanding that she follow him, even

expressing his understanding of her own position and needs. That

would have revealed true spirituality on his part. And she, instead of

focusing only on his hypocrisy, could have seen a man who was clearly

unhappy with himself, someone who had never felt loved enough since

early childhood and who was undergoing a very real personal crisis.

She could have offered her love and support for his new life while

gently declining to follow him all the way.

Such use of empathy has the opposite effect of mutual narcissism.

Coming from one side, it tends to soften the other one up and invite his

or her empathy as well. It is hard to stay in one's defensive position

when the other person is seeing and expressing your side and entering

your spirit. It beckons you to do the same. Secretly people yearn to let

go of their resistance. It is exhausting to continually be so defensive

and suspicious.

The key to employing empathy within a relationship is to

understand the value system of the other person, which inevitably is

different from yours. What they interpret as signs of love or attention

or generosity tends to diverge from your way of thinking. These value

systems are largely formed in early childhood and are not consciously

created by people. Keeping in mind their value system will allow you to

enter their spirit and perspective precisely in the moment you would

normally turn defensive. Even deep narcissists can be pulled out of

their shell in this way, because such attention is so rare. Measure all of

your relationships on the narcissism spectrum. It is not one person or

the other but the dynamic itself that must be altered.

4. The Healthy Narcissist—the Mood Reader. In October of 1915, the great

English explorer Sir Ernest Henry Shackleton (1874–1922) ordered the

abandonment of the ship Endurance, which had been trapped in an ice

floe in Antarctica for over eight months and was beginning to take on

water. For Shackleton this meant he essentially had to give up on his

great dream of leading his men on the first land crossing of the

Antarctic continent. This was to have been the culmination of his

illustrious career as an explorer, but now a much greater responsibility

weighed on his mind—to somehow get the twenty-seven men of his

crew safely back home. Their lives would depend on his daily

decisions.

To realize this goal, he faced many obstacles: the harsh winter

weather about to hit them, the drifting currents that could pull the ice

floe they were to camp on in any direction, the coming days without

any light, the dwindling food supplies, the lack of any radio contact or

ship to transport them. But the greatest danger of all, the one that

filled him with the most dread, was the morale of the men. All it would

take was a few malcontents to spread resentment and negativity; soon

the men would not work as hard; they would tune him out and lose

faith in his leadership. Once that happened, it could be every man for

himself, and in this climate that could easily spell disaster and death.

He would have to monitor their group spirit even more closely than the

changing weather.

The first thing he had to do was get out ahead of the problem and

infect the crew with the proper spirit. It all started from the leader. He

would have to hide all of his own doubts and fears. The first morning

on the ice floe, he got up earlier than anyone and prepared an extralarge

helping of hot tea. As he personally served it to the men, he

sensed they were looking to him for cues on how to feel about their

plight, so he kept the mood light, mixing in some humor about their

new home and the coming darkness. It was not the right time to

discuss his ideas for getting out of this mess. That would make them

too anxious. He would not verbalize his optimism about their chances

but would let the men feel it in his manner and body language, even if

he had to fake it.

They all knew they were trapped there for the coming winter. What

they needed was distractions, something to occupy their minds and

keep their spirits up. For that purpose, every day he drew up a duty

roster outlining who would be doing what. He tried to mix it up as

much as possible, shifting the men around in various groups and

making sure they never did the same task too often. For each day there

was a simple goal to accomplish—some penguins or seals to hunt,

some more stores from the ship to bring to the tents, the construction

of a better campground. At the end of the day, they could sit around

the campfire feeling they had done something to make their lives a

little easier.

As the days wore on, he developed an increasingly sharp

attunement to the men's shifting moods. Around the campfire, he

would walk up to each man and engage him in a conversation. With

the scientists he talked science; with the more aesthetic types he talked

of his favorite poets and composers. He got into their particular spirit

and was especially attentive to any problems they were experiencing.

The cook seemed particularly aggrieved that he would have to kill his

pet cat; they were out of food to feed it. Shackleton volunteered to do it

for him. It was clear that the physicist on board was having a difficult

time with the hard labor; at night he ate slowly and sighed wearily.

When Shackleton talked to him, he could feel that his spirit was

lowering by the day. Without making him feel like he was shirking,

Shackleton changed the roster around to give him lighter but equally

important tasks.

He quickly recognized a few weak links in the group. First there was

Frank Hurley, the ship's photographer. He was good at his job and

never complained about doing other chores, but he was a man who

needed to feel important. He had a snobbish bent. So on those first

days on the ice, Shackleton made a point of asking Hurley for his

opinion on all significant matters, such as food stores, and

complimenting him on his ideas. Furthermore he assigned Hurley to

his own tent, which both made Hurley feel more important than the

others and made it easier for Shackleton to keep an eye on him. The

navigator, Huberht Hudson, revealed himself to be very self-centered

and a terrible listener. He needed constant attention. Shackleton

talked with him more than with any of the others and also brought him

into his tent. If there were other men he suspected of being latent

malcontents, he spread them around in different tents, diluting their

possible influence.