The Narcissist Test: How to spot outsized egos ... and the surprising things we can learn from them

But when children face abuse, neglect, and other traumas that leave them feeling small, insignificant, and unimportant, they spend all their time looking for admiration or finding people to look up to. In short, Kohut concluded, they become narcissists—vulnerable, fragile, and empty on the inside; arrogant, pompous, and hostile on the outside, to compensate for just how worthless they feel. People, in their eyes, become jesters or servants in their court, useful only for the ability to confirm the narcissist’s importance.

The rest of us, if our parents do their job right, never lose our moments of grandiosity. Nor should we. In Kohut’s eyes, it was madness to think of lofty dreams as inherently bad. If anything, they provide a depth and vitality to our experience, fueling our ambitions and inspiring creativity. Composers and artists throughout history, he noted, often have moments of self-importance. To produce anything great—to even sit down and try—often requires feeling that we’re capable of greatness, hardly the humblest state of mind. Kohut refused to see some of civilization’s greatest creations simply as the result of illness. Instead of stamping out narcissism, he argued, we should learn to enjoy it as adults. Narcissism only becomes dangerous, taking us over and tipping into megalomania, when we cling to feeling special like a talisman instead of playing with it from time to time. It all depends on how completely we allow grandiosity and perfectionism to take us over.

There’s an appealing romanticism to Kohut’s vision of narcissism. It allows us to disappear into ourselves, like Narcissus diving into the pool, but instead of drowning and becoming lost forever, we discover another world, richly populated with shimmering versions of everyone we love. Once there, we, too, take on a kind of otherworldly glow. For a time, we’re different, special, set apart from the rest of humanity. If we’re healthy enough, we can reemerge and rejoin the ordinary world, bringing our bounty, such as empathy and inspiration, with us. Where Freud’s narcissist is childish—a Peter Pan figure stubbornly refusing to become an adult—Kohut’s is, at his best, an adventurer, slipping in and out of intoxicating dreams of greatness.

By the 1970s Kohut’s self-psychology movement had become something of a juggernaut and his views on narcissism had become widely accepted. In fact, when the third edition of the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual (DSM)—the guide to classifying mental disorders published by the American Psychological Association—hit the shelves in 1980, it carried a brand-new description of unhealthy narcissism very similar to the one Kohut had proposed. By then many mental health experts believed feeling special could lead to many good things—and the dangers, while very real, had been overstated. But the tide was about to change.

The Rise of the Dark Narcissist

Otto Kernberg agreed with Kohut that healthy narcissism provides us with self-esteem, pride, ambition, creativity, and resilience. But he diverged sharply with Kohut’s theory when it came to unhealthy narcissism. Whereas Kohut viewed even grandiose narcissism in a somewhat benevolent light, Kernberg saw it as inherently dangerous and harmful.

Likely due to his exposure at an impressionable age to Nazism and Hitler (one of the most dangerous megalomaniacs who ever lived), Kernberg believed in the presence of evil in the world. His experience during psychoanalytic training reinforced his dark views of human nature—Kernberg cut his teeth professionally working in hospitals and clinics with severely mentally ill patients prone to aggression and psychosis, while Kohut arrived at his theories treating privileged patients in his luxurious private offices. In Kernberg’s view, narcissists, at their most destructive, are masses of seething resentment—Frankenstein’s monsters, crudely patched together from misshapen pieces of personality. They’d been failed so horrifically as children, through neglect or abuse, that their primary goal is to avoid ever feeling dependent again. By adopting the delusion that they’re perfect, self-contained human beings (and that others are beneath them), they never have to fear feeling unsafe and unimportant again.

Far more loyal to Freud’s legacy than Kohut, Kernberg refused to abandon the idea that sex and aggression fueled much of our behavior. Like Freud, he saw human beings as roiling cauldrons of hostility and lust, driven by their darkest and often cruelest passions. The most dangerous narcissists, in Kernberg’s view, may even be born with too much aggression wired into them; they’re frightening mutations, given to a far stronger impulse to envy, attack, and destroy their fellow human beings when they feel hurt. Made to feel worthless as children and fueled by their overabundance of hate, they ravage the rest of humanity out of revenge, using people to satisfy their own needs and casting them aside when they’re done. Kernberg called the most frightening of these specimens “malignant narcissists.”

The only sensible response to this threat, according to Kernberg, is to dismantle the warped self-image and reconstruct it in more benevolent form. He believed that narcissists were capable of reform and that confronting them with the truth of the danger they pose is the first step in changing their behavior. We certainly can’t stop the threat of destructive narcissism by feeding their need to feel special. That’s a bit like letting the monster loose to terrorize the villagers. This was anathema to Kohut, who advocated approaching narcissists with empathy. They need our understanding, he said, if they have any hope of getting better. Kernberg, still allied with Freud’s bleak vision of humanity, could only see Kohut’s stance as dangerously naïve.

Kohut’s and Kernberg’s competing theories were battled over through conferences and papers, with neither side gaining ascendancy. But after Kohut succumbed to cancer in 1981, Kernberg was left alone in the spotlight and his views, particularly of malignant narcissism, spread widely. They were helped into public consciousness by historian and social critic Christopher Lasch’s popular 1979 book, The Culture of Narcissism, which drew heavily on Kernberg’s frightening image of destructive narcissism. In most people’s minds, narcissism became synonymous with malignant narcissism.

This image began to take hold, magnified by the idea that narcissists weren’t rare creatures that we had only the slightest chance of encountering in our lifetimes, but monsters standing on every street corner, sitting in the next cubicle, and sleeping in our beds. And soon one little test enabled the paranoia to spread like wildfire.

An Epidemic of Narcissism— or a Little Measurement Magic

Introduced in 1979, the Narcissistic Personality Inventory (NPI) is a basic tool of psychology researchers, and is routinely administered to undergraduate psychology students in the United States and around the world. (If you ever studied psychology in college, you probably took the NPI.) Respondents read 40 paired statements and check off which one of the two best describes themselves. For example: “I like to show off my body” and “I don’t particularly like to show off my body” or “I find it easy to manipulate people” and “I don’t like it when I find myself manipulating people.” Each narcissistic choice gets one point; the opposite choice gets a zero. Points are added up and people who score well above average earn the title of narcissist.

In 2009, twenty years after the inventory’s start-up, psychologist Jean Twenge, of the University of Texas, compared average totals by year for thousands of US students and announced that the averages had risen “just as fast as obesity from the 1980s to the present.” She proclaimed that a “narcissism epidemic” is raging among millennials—and underscored her contention by using the same shock phrase for the title of her book. The Narcissism Epidemic, coauthored with psychologist Keith Campbell, of the University of Georgia, explored the alleged rampant arrogance and entitlement of today’s youth. This was the dramatic follow-up to her first book, Generation Me, in which she declared, based on the same research, that “today’s young Americans are more confident, assertive, entitled—and more miserable than ever before.”

Twenge placed the blame for this epidemic squarely on shoulders of parents and educators who made a generation of children coming of age in the 1980s and ’90s feel, perhaps, a little too special. After all, it had become commonplace for classrooms to be plastered with positive-reinforcement posters proclaiming things like “You are unique!”; for trophies to be handed out for effort, not accomplishment; for parents to remind their children at every turn that they were perfect just as they were. Love yourself enough, the message seemed to be, and you can do anything. Some educators even argued that boosting self-esteem would be something of a panacea, promoting well-being and happiness, preventing bullying—possibly even reducing crime. Make kids feel special, they argued, and great things will follow.

While this self-esteem campaign doesn’t appear to have had a positive impact on crime rates, bullying, or achievement scores, Twenge argued that it did have a significant cultural impact: it created “an army of narcissists.” In an effort to help children feel better about themselves, we’d inadvertently ruined them. Having given them too much leeway and swollen heads, we hadn’t simply damaged our kids; we created a generation that posed a threat to the entire world.

Twenge’s theories touched a cultural nerve. The press was already rife with reports of overinvolved parents who coddled their children, chewing out their sons’ or daughters’ teachers for dishing out bad grades or calling during job interviews to speak to their prospective employers. Headlines buzzed with shocking tales of millennials’ sense of entitlement: disgruntled administrative assistants who slacked off at work, convinced that secretarial duties were beneath them; entry-level workers who held court when they should have been listening to their boss; new hires who spent entire meetings glued to their smartphones, texting friends instead of taking notes. And now, it seemed, Twenge had provided an explanation for all the bad behavior.

Her conclusions, however, have drawn fire right from the start—and the evidence she marshals to support the idea of a narcissism epidemic has come under the heaviest attack. The NPI, on which Twenge draws so heavily, is a deeply flawed measure. Under its design, agreeing with statements that reflect even admirable traits can inch people higher up the narcissism scale. For example, picking “I am assertive” and “I would prefer to be a leader” counts as unhealthy even though these qualities have been linked repeatedly in decades of research to high self-esteem and happy relationships. People who simply enjoy speaking their mind or being in charge are clearly different from narcissists who enjoy manipulation and lies. But the NPI makes no distinction. More people checking these salutary statements could easily account for millennials’ rising NPI scores through the years, and that’s what some studies indicate has happened.

Second, numerous large-scale studies, including one of nearly half a million high school students conducted between 1976 and 2006, have found little or no psychological difference between millennials and previous generations (apart from a rise in self-confidence). In fact, one study of thousands of students suggests that millennials express greater altruism and concern about the world as a whole than do previous generations, prompting psychologist Jeffrey Arnett, of Clark University to call them “GenerationWe.” The results of a 2010 Pew Research Report, surveying a nationally representative sample of several thousand millennials, also stands in stark contrast to Twenge’s findings. Millennials, the Pew authors concluded, get along well with their parents, respect their elders, value marriage and family far over career and success, and are “confident, self-expressive, and open to change”—hardly the portrait of entitled brats.

But there’s another far more troubling problem with using the NPI to declare an epidemic: we have no way of knowing whether or not people scored as “narcissists” remain so over time. No study has followed up on these thousands of college students after they graduated. Furthermore, just about every theory of adolescence and early adulthood presumes that the young are only temporarily a self-absorbed bunch, and research seems to support that view. We used to think that was a good thing: the bright-faced idealism of youth. The young believe themselves capable of anything; they’re ready to take over the world and make it a better place. Most of us, in our less cynical moments, appreciate their ostentatious energy. But just as with other temporary bouts of narcissism brought on by specific life stages, such enthusiasm eventually fades. As we approach our thirties, most of us come back down to earth, and our self-importance, and yes—self-absorption—give way to the realities of life.

Though we currently seem obsessed with Kernberg’s dark narcissism, the pervasive better than average effect—where healthy people do appear to feel special—suggests that Kohut’s benign view is the right one.

We need our grandiosity at times to feel happy and healthy. And a growing body of recent research concludes that a little narcissism, in adolescence, helps the young survive the Sturm und Drang of youth; moderate teenage narcissists are less anxious and depressed and have far better relationships than their low and high narcissism peers. Likewise, corporate leaders with moderate narcissism are rated by their employees as far more effective than those with too little or too much. And my own research with my colleagues is pointing in the same direction: only people who never feel special or feel special all the time pose a threat to themselves and the world.

The difference between narcissists and the rest of us is one of degree, not kind. To better understand that, we need to explore the full range of the narcissism spectrum.

3 (#ulink_05eca8da-8613-50f0-bc77-493ee491e3a7)

From 0 to 10 (#ulink_05eca8da-8613-50f0-bc77-493ee491e3a7)

Understanding the Spectrum

When my daughters were in kindergarten, they loved to visit the Cambridge Museum of Science. One exhibit, in particular, fascinated them. It consisted of a small tile with a lamp shining down on it. By turning a knob on the lamp, they could change the color of the light. But each time the lamp changed color, so did the tile. What seemed to be a bright red tile, a few moments ago, would deepen into purple, then turn yellow, then green, and on and on. At the edges, some colors would blend, making it hard to discern any one color at a time. A seemingly trivial question, What color is the tile?, suddenly became far more complicated.

We tend to like clear, distinct categories—it makes life easier to impose order on the world. The tile is either green or red, but it can’t be both. Similarly, we like to think in stark extremes—full or empty, black or white, good or bad. But as soon as we start looking more closely at our world, the categories blur. Even the paint on our walls seems to change color throughout the day, depending on the directness and intensity of the light. There are gradations and nuance to almost everything in life, including attitude, emotion, and personality.

So instead of regarding narcissism in all or nothing terms, imagine a line stretching from 0 to 10, like the one below, with the desire to feel special slowly growing as we move from left to right.

The Narcissism Spectrum

Life at either of the extremes, whether at 0 or 10, isn’t a particularly healthy place to be. At 0 people never enjoy feeling special in anyway. Perhaps they never have. At first, this might sound healthy. Most of us have it drummed into our heads, whether by religion or family or culture, that anything even approaching the desire for special treatment or attention is bad. Our distaste is epitomized by the question What makes you so special? We all recognize the reprimand in the rhetoric. What people really mean is You’re acting like you’re special. Stop it! In most cultures around the world, selflessness is often held up as the ultimate virtue. No one has a right to feel special anyway, the argument goes, so we should celebrate people who never indulge the feeling.

But bear in mind what that really means: unrelenting selflessness, feeling abjectly ordinary, no more deserving of praise or love or care than anyone regardless of the circumstances. It doesn’t take long to see that this presents a range of problems. Say, for example, you’ve lost your beloved mother to a horrific car accident. Most people would agree that you deserve special attention; during grief, our pain should take center stage for a time. Living at 0 means you not only wouldn’t accept sympathy and assistance, you might even actively push it away. I once worked with a woman who rigidly refused to let anyone help or support her, even after her husband died. “Please—don’t trouble yourself,” she’d say when anyone tried to pick up groceries for her or drive out to visit her (she lived an hour from most of her friends). She was determined to be alone instead of surrounded by supportive companions giving her special attention.

Life at the far right is just as bleak. While people at 0 assiduously avoid the spotlight, those at the far right either scramble for it or silently long for it. In their minds, they cease to exist if people aren’t acknowledging their importance. They’re addicted to attention, and like most addicts, they’d do anything to get their high, so even authentic love takes a backseat. At 10 our humanity collapses under the weight of empty posturing and arrogance. Think of Bernie Madoff, who swindled hundreds of millions of dollars from his clients and who, when caught, scoffed at the “incompetence” of the investigators for not asking the right questions. Even as he faced life in prison, he still managed to feel superior.

Being at 1 or 9 isn’t much better. People at 9 are still in the territory of dark narcissism; they can live without elbowing their way into the spotlight, but it pains them to do so—so much so that they need professional help to break the habit. (Think of Don Draper of the TV series Mad Men, hopping from affair to affair, desperately seeking excitement and attention; he can’t stop even after he sees the damage his lies and infidelity have inflicted on his family.) People at 1 suffer just as much; their aversion to feeling special is unyielding. They might tolerate a little attention on birthdays, but they hate it.

As we approach 2 and 3 and 7 and 8 on the spectrum, we leave behind the compulsive rigidity found near 0 and 10, and enter the area of habit. There’s greater flexibility of feeling in this range, and therefore, more possibility for change. On the left, at 2, people enjoy feeling special, albeit infrequently; at 3 they may secretly dream of greatness. On the right, at 8, they might occasionally set aside their flamboyant dreams and devote some thought to other people; at 7, they’ve begun to show signs of humanity again, including the occasional ability to admit to ordinary faults.

A hallmate of mine in college offers a good example of someone around 3 on the spectrum. She enjoyed birthdays and accepted compliments, but she still hated it when anyone tried to take care of her. She’d actually get up and clean dishes as soon as someone tried to clear hers. She struggled with this inability to let others do things for her, confessing to me late one night, “I hate that it’s so hard for me to accept help or special treatment.” Likewise, a dormmate of mine who lived at 7 felt self-conscious about the way he’d name-drop or find a way to work his high test grades into casual conversations. “I know it’s wrong,” he said, “but I do it so people will be impressed. I’m worried that if I don’t, they won’t think much of me at all.” Habitual echoists and narcissists recognize that their behavior might be less than healthy; they just can’t always keep it in check.

The healthiest range is found in the center, at 4 through 6; it’s the world of moderation. Here, we might find intense ambition and occasional arrogance, but feeling special isn’t compulsive anymore. It’s just fun. At 5, in the very center, there’s no relentless need to feel—or avoid feeling—special. People here enjoy vivid dreams of success and greatness, but don’t spend all their time immersed in them. You’ll notice that 6, though it tips past the center, is still in the healthy range. That’s because it’s quite possible to have a strong drive to feel special and still remain healthy. Healthy narcissism is all about moving seamlessly between self-absorption and caring attentiveness—visiting Narcissus’s shimmering pool, but never diving to the bottom in pursuit of our own reflection.

Wiggle Room: Moving Up and Down the Spectrum

Recently, I got slammed with a miserable cold, one that left me feeling grumbly and demanding. I just wanted someone to take care of me. But then a friend called who’d just lost his job, forcing him to uproot himself and find work in another part of the country. Suddenly, my cold wasn’t so important anymore. I rose from bed, cleaned myself up, and went to talk with him.

Most models of human behavior consider flexibility to be the hallmark of mental health. We adapt our feelings and behavior to fit the circumstance. When it comes to narcissism, similarly, only the most extreme echoist or narcissist becomes fixed at one end of the scale. Healthy people generally remain within a certain range on the spectrum, moving up or down a few points throughout their lives. Nevertheless, we’re all prone to climbing even higher on the scale if something provides a big enough push.

Narcissism spikes dramatically, for example, when we feel shaky about ourselves: lonely, sad, confused, vulnerable. In adults, major life events like getting divorced or becoming sick in old age often trigger a large surge of self-centeredness as we struggle to hold on to our self-worth. In younger people, narcissism tends to peak during the teen years. Adolescents often betray a staggering sense of omnipotence, as if they’re somehow above natural and man-made laws (fatal accidents might happen to others who drive drunk, for instance, but certainly never to them). Teens are well known for elevating even the act of suffering to great heights—prone to fits of despair, convinced no one can fathom the pain of their unrequited crush, or the searing humiliation of not owning the next cool smartphone. Nothing else—and often no one else—matters more than the anguish they feel.

Though vexing for parents, this adolescent peak in narcissism is normal and understandable. This is the time when we develop an individual identity, separating from our parents to become our own person. We push away from people who’ve held sway over us, even though we know, somewhere deep inside, that we aren’t yet equipped to handle the world on our own. It’s at times like these—when we need people but aren’t sure if we can or should have their support—that we lean heavily on feeling special. It boosts our confidence, however temporarily. And while it’s not genuine or lasting self-assurance, it gets us through a rough time. Once we’re through adolescence, narcissism falls sharply; it’s time to get on with the business of adulthood—and that means thinking about people other than ourselves.

Varieties of Special: Extroverted, Introverted, and Communal Narcissists

You’ve no doubt come across extroverted narcissists. That’s the kind of narcissist you’re used to hearing about, the one about whom all the fuss is made. They’re loud, vain, and easy to spot. They flaunt their money and possessions, scramble to be the center of attention at every occasion, ruthlessly jockey to rise through the ranks at their office. But narcissism manifests itself in other ways, as well. An intense drive to feel special can yield two other types of narcissistic behavior: introverted and communal.

Introverted narcissists (also called “vulnerable,” “covert,” or “hypersensitive” in scientific literature) are just as convinced that they’re better than others as any other narcissist, but they fear criticism so viscerally that they shy away from, and even seem panicked by, people and attention. Their outward timidity and wariness makes them easily mistaken for self-effacers at the far left of the spectrum. But what makes them different from echoists is that they don’t feel inferior. They believe they harbor unrecognized intelligence and hidden gifts; they see themselves as more understanding of, and more attuned to, the intricacies of the world around them. In self-report, they agree with such statements as I feel that I am temperamentally different from most people. To an observer, these people appear fragile and hypersensitive. In conversation, they’re apt to jump on a misplaced word, or a change in tone, or a brief glance away, and demand What did you mean by that? or Why are you turning away? There’s an angry insistence to introverted narcissists: they seethe with bitterness over the world’s “refusal” to recognize their special gifts.

Communal narcissists, a type more recently identified by researchers, aren’t focused on standing out, being the best writer or most accomplished dancer or the most misunderstood or overlooked genius. Instead, they regard themselves as especially nurturing, understanding, and empathic. They proudly announce how much they give to charity or how little they spend on themselves. They trap you in the corner at a party and whisper excitedly about how thoughtful they’ve been to their grieving next-door neighbor: That’s me—I’m a born listener! They believe themselves better than the rest of humanity, but cherish their status as givers, not takers. They happily agree with such statements as I am the most helpful person I know and I will be well known for the good deeds I have done.

As you can see, not all narcissists look and sound alike and, no doubt, we’ll discover even more than these three variations over time. But remember—regardless of their differences, they all share one overriding motivation: each and every one of them desperately clings to feeling special. They just do it in different ways.

Special Demographics: Age, Gender, Career

As you’ve learned already, narcissism may come more easily to the young; people under 25 tend to be the most narcissistic, with the drive to feel special declining as we age. But what about that perennial question of who’s more narcissistic—men or women? Most studies only capture the extroverted narcissists and, when it comes to this group, researchers consistently find slightly more men than women in the mildly unhealthy range (7 to 8, by this book’s scale). In stark contrast, as soon as we get to the extreme right of the spectrum, men dominate sharply; they’re double the number of women.

This difference is at least partly attributable to gender roles. In most societies, women are criticized for being loud and assertive, while these same qualities are encouraged in men. So it’s no surprise there’s a slight difference in habitual narcissism and a huge difference in the addictive kind. It’s one thing for a woman to be extremely confident and hypercompetitive, but being floridly arrogant and forceful departs dramatically from common notions of how women should behave.