To win an argument, try losing a little.
Concession hurts, but it can triumph in the end.
In the film Amadeus, an exasperated Archbishop Colloredo fires his giggly, uncontrollable court composer, Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart. In an audience before the prelate, Pop Mozart begs for a rehire.
The archbishop looks down his noble nose at the groveling father. “Your son is an unprincipled, spoiled, conceited brat!”
At this point, employment looks rather dim for Wolfie. But Pop saves the day with a bit of kowtowing concession.
In classical rhetoric, concessio is a tactical move that uses the opponent’s own words to one’s advantage. But it can simply imply a small retreat in pursuit of a broader goal. “You’re right, but…”
Concessio does more than concede a point. It lets you do three things:
Buy time to think of something.
Make you look candid and disinterested.
Prepare you to reframe the issue.
Mozart’s father could have switched the topic from his son’s utter lack of virtue to the composer’s incomparable ability. Look, Bish, would you really prefer some brownnose jingle maker over the world’s all-time greatest composer?
Instead, Pop M. (played by the chameleon-like British actor Roy Dotrice) switches the appeal from ethos to pathos. He calls on the archbishop’s pity—not for Amadeus but for himself. Blame me, he says. I was too indulgent with him.
As a father myself, I took mild offense at this dialogue. Why is it always the parent’s fault? My biggest fear before we had each of our two children was the high chance that one of them would turn out to be a creep, in which case I would blame my wife’s genes. (Her parents were great, but she had some entertainingly deplorable ancestors.) I consoled myself with the hope that our theoretically horrible offspring would someday run a hedge fund and be guilted into supporting their parents in our dotage. But both kids turned out to be thoroughly unhorrible; one is a nurse, the other an educator.
Pop Mozart wasn’t so lucky, if you think it unlucky to sire a sophomoric genius. As an anachronistically helicopterish parent, Dad resorted to great rhetorical lengths to keep his son in champagne and score paper. Which meant a cringing amount of concessing.
Concession is especially hard for those of us burdened with a Y chromosome. We feel driven to win every argument by dominating our opponent. But in every disagreement, you need to set your goal. What’s the exigence here—the problem you wish to solve, or the foolish son you want rehired?
A good argument can benefit from a rhetorical pawn sacrifice. Give in a bit and win in the end. Not the argument, necessarily; but your goal.
Then kiss the ring and share the good news.