By Eva Ciabattoni

Psychologist Martha Stout’s book “The Sociopath Next Door” (Broadway Books, 2005) is a disconcerting account of the 4 percent of people in Western society who move through life without a conscience.

Stout, a clinical instructor in the department of psychiatry at Harvard Medical School, writes that when we mutter “human nature” at the daily diet of horrors paraded before us in the news, we are wrong. Human nature is to be found in the 96 percent of the population that cringes at the sociopathic behavior that all too often dominates the front page.

As has been shown in studies of firing rates among soldiers, it is anything but normal human behavior to want to hurt others. That’s the good news.

The bad news, according to Stout, is that fully one in 25 people operates without a sense of connectedness, obligation and feeling for the other. Stout makes clear that the violent Ted Bundy- or Hitler-type sociopath is an extreme example. Most sociopaths move among us undetected. Some achieve great power, some don’t. While they make wonderful warriors and assassins, they can be neighbors, bosses, teachers and spouses. The win is generally not violent domination but humiliation of the other, getting a reaction, gaining sympathy. The game becomes an end in itself.

Many sociopaths are characterized by their charm, but Stout explains the No. 1 way to recognize a sociopath. It’s surprising because we expect it to be something sinister. It’s not. The No. 1 characteristic common to sociopaths is the pity play - preying on the sympathies of others. The child molester uses sympathy (e.g., the hurt puppy ploy) as a lure; Bundy was charming. Our very human (and non-sociopathic) quality of compassion is precisely the weapon the sociopath turns against us. It’s our compassion that exhorts us to excuse the sociopath’s behavior instead of addressing it. Stout reminds us that our pity should be reserved for those who deserve it - kind people who are suffering or who have fallen on hard times.

Complicating matters further is that we all have made mistakes, hurt others, acted in ways we are not proud of. But there’s a key difference between the sociopath and the ordinary human. When the human with a conscience fouls up, he feels remorse. In due time, he feels sad for those he has hurt and wants to make amends or apologize. If he does not, it becomes a burden to him. None of this happens for the sociopath. And this is unimaginable to the person of conscience: that someone could hurt others and feel nothing.

From the eyes staring up from the front cover to the premise within, Stout’s book issues an uncomfortable challenge to the assumption that we are all bound by the rules of the social contract and suffer predictable consequences when we break it.