My dear Wormwood,
It is with rare and unfeigned pleasure that I write to commend you on the introduction of that most elegant little invention — the smartphone. I confess, when I first saw the prototype, I scoffed. A pocket-sized bauble, I thought — far too shiny, far too obvious. But how marvelously I underestimated your grasp of the human creature! You have not merely tempted them with the device; you have given them to it. They no longer use it — they obey it.
You must savour what you have achieved. A machine that whispers at all hours, tugs at their hands, their eyes, their minds — and never lets them be still. They check it first thing upon waking, last thing before sleep. They touch it more than they touch their children, their friends, their spouses. They no longer live their lives — they document them, for others to judge. Every moment becomes a performance, and every performance a source of anxiety. Even we, in our long labours, never dreamt of such a marvel: a device that trains them to crave distraction. You’ve destroyed their silence, their solitude, their attention — oh, that delicious word! Attention! Once the human turned inward in stillness, some Enemy-whisper might reach them. No longer. You’ve taught them to fear boredom like death itself.
And the envy — exquisite! With every scroll, they are reminded of what they lack. You’ve taught them that the lives of others are curated for their misery. No need for whips or chains, dear boy. Just a glowing screen and the suggestion that everyone else is doing better. They’ll do the tormenting themselves. As for their so-called “social” connections — well done. You’ve taken the word and emptied it. Friendships without intimacy, conversations without presence. They send messages but forget how to speak. Sit together, but gaze apart. They know what others had for lunch, but not what they’re grieving. Loneliness has never been so efficiently engineered.
Oh, and the children! Glorious work. You’ve snared them early. They are growing up without memory of a world without surveillance, comparison, and constant appraisal. Their identities are formed not in reflection but in reaction. You’ve made them anxious, twitchy, docile — perfect little consumers.
You have done it. Not merely well, but gloriously. I had feared your early blunders with that soul would relegate you to the grubs of Temptation Logistics. But now, this — the smartphone — this is no minor temptation, no vulgar sin. This is strategy. This is art. You have struck at the keystone of human contentment — their aversion to comparison — and turned it into the very engine of their misery. You found the hairline crack in the structure of happiness and drove a wedge into it. Beautiful. You see, the Enemy in His perverse generosity made the creatures capable of contentment. Some of them, if left alone, might actually enjoy their obscure lives. They would relish their morning coffee, their child’s smile, their unremarkable garden. A quiet marriage, a modest career — these could have sufficed. But no longer. You have made sufficiency intolerable.
With every scroll, they see what others have — shinier kitchens, fitter bodies, cleverer children, better sunsets. And suddenly what they have feels shabby, diminished. Not because it changed — but because someone else’s was displayed louder. You’ve taught them not to see their life, but to measure it — and always against someone else’s highlight reel. Do you realize the genius? You’ve weaponized envy without ever needing to name it. They call it inspiration, aspiration, “staying informed.” They tell themselves they are connecting, learning, keeping up — when in fact they are slowly eroding the joy from their own lives, pixel by pixel.
Even the genuinely happy ones — the rare, resistant types — they too begin to wobble. A woman who once delighted in her home now wonders if it’s stylish enough. A man once proud of his son now worries his achievements are late. They doubt not because they are lacking — but because someone else appears to have more. You’ve taught them that happiness is not a state but a ranking.
And what’s more: they do it voluntarily. They open the portal, they scroll through the torment, they even curate their own exhibits — a performance for others who will, in turn, feel worse for seeing it. The whole species has become a chorus of petty tormentors, all envying and all envied, and all secretly hollow.
Loneliness? You’ve deepened it. Focus? You’ve fractured it. But comparison — this is the core. Because once a human starts comparing, he stops being. He becomes a statistic in his own mind, a failed ideal, a disappointed measurement. What might have been gratitude becomes self-disgust. What might have been joy becomes hunger. All without removing a single blessing.
So carry on, dear boy. Keep the comparisons constant. Let no one feel enough. Let no moment pass unranked. And soon, even paradise will seem dull — if it isn’t trending.
There is, of course, still some resistance — the occasional fool who deletes the whole thing and runs off into the woods. But do not worry. They are few, and the others look on them with pity or derision. So then, press on. Let them swipe and scroll and twitch and yearn. Let them call it connection, freedom, progress. The deeper they sink, the more certain they are they’re in control. They carry the leash in their own pockets, and they even pay for the privilege.
Your affectionate uncle,
Screwtape
