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

© Psychology Today