A commodity appears at first sight an extremely obvious, trivial thing. But its analysis brings out that it is a very strange thing, abounding in metaphysical subtleties and theological niceties.
A sale is not something you pursue, it's what happens to you while you are immersed in serving your customer.
Buying is a profound pleasure.
Everyone lives by selling something.
In fast-moving, progress-conscious America, the consumer expects to be dizzied by progress. If he could completely understand advertising jargon he would be badly disappointed. The half-intelligibility which we expect, or even hope, to find in the latest product language personally reassures each of us that progress is being made: that the pace exceeds our ability to follow.
In selling as in medicine, prescription before diagnosis is malpractice.
Nobody dast blame this man. For a salesman, there is no rock bottom to the life. He don't put a bolt to a nut, he don't tell you the law or give you medicine. He's a man way out there in the blue, riding on a smile and a shoeshine. And when they start not smiling back — that's an earthquake. And then you get yourself a couple of spots on your hat, and you're finished. Nobody dast blame this man. A salesman is got to dream, boy. It comes with the territory.
Sales are contingent upon the attitude of the salesman — not the attitude of the prospect.
Sell cheap and tell the truth.
Sell the sizzle, not the steak.
The sale begins when the customer says yes.
The salesman knows nothing of what he is selling save that he is charging a great deal too much for it.
Today the tyrant rules not by club or fist, but, disguised as a market researcher, he shepherds his flocks in the ways of utility and comfort.
When producers want to know what the public wants, they graph it as curves. When they want to tell the public what to get, they say it in curves.