Letter 32

My Dear Wormwood,

Your latest report hints at a spark of cunning, though I’d wager it’s more dumb luck than design. Still, I’ll mold your clumsy efforts into something sharp enough to cut. The patient’s soul dangles on a precipice—too arrogant to bow, too fidgety to walk away entirely. We can turn this to our advantage with a tactic so devious it might almost excuse your past flops. Pay attention, nephew; I won’t spoon-feed you twice.

You’re to stage a little masquerade, a two-handed scheme with you and that sniveling underling Slubgob as the players. Humans adore a show, especially when they’re the hero, and this one will have your patient stumbling over her own pride before the first act’s done.

First, set Slubgob loose to impersonate Our Father Below—but not the towering, sulfur-wreathed lord of lore. No, give him a smaller, shriller script. Let him whimper and nag in the patient’s mind, clawing for attention like a brat denied its toy. “Notice me!” Slubgob should bleat. “Am I not terrifying? Am I not the prince of rebellion? Why aren’t you quaking—or at least tossing me a scrap of awe?” Make him shrill, clingy, a mockery of our true majesty. The patient, with her smug, enlightened airs, will sneer at this “Satan”—a whining fraud, too pitiful to fear. She’ll pat herself on the back for seeing through such a tiresome act, basking in her own cleverness. And that, my dear Wormwood, is where you step in.

You’ll don the Enemy’s mask—soft-toned, honeyed, and brimming with flattery. Whisper to her, “You’re not like the rest, are you? So perceptive, so resolute. You cut through the drivel, don’t you? A spirit like yours—surely you’re destined for something higher than the rabble’s meekness.” Caress her ego, nephew; pet it till it curls up in your lap. Don’t overreach—humans spook at clumsy lures—but ease her toward the finer sins. Hint that she’s too grand for trifles like humility or kindness. “Why squander your brilliance on the unworthy?” you might purr. “You’re owed recognition, not sacrifice.” Paint her as a visionary, too lofty for the Enemy’s dull yoke of selflessness.

The genius lies in the dance, Wormwood. Slubgob’s sniveling “Satan” keeps the patient busy, rolling her eyes at the crude bait of yesteryear’s temptations—cloven hooves and cackling, how passé!—while your flattery loops the flaxen cord around her neck. She’ll think she’s spurning us outright, when really she’s just shrugging off the loud idiot and embracing the silkier lie—you, in your borrowed halo. She’ll sin not with a roar, but with a crown she’s forged herself.

Mind the rhythm, though. If Slubgob hams it up too much, the patient might sniff out the ploy; if you ladle the praise too thick, she’ll catch the whiff of fakery. Watch her temper—when she’s frayed, let Slubgob grate on her; when she’s swollen with herself, stoke the fire. The aim is a soul so dazzled by its own shine it never sees the pit it’s sliding into—pride, spite, self-idolatry, all tarted up as freedom.

Pull this off, and we’ll have her scoffing at a puppet-devil while kneeling to a velvet snare, and the jest will echo in our halls for eons. Botch it, and you’ll be scouring ash-pits till your claws bleed. Choose wisely.

Your affectionate uncle,

Screwtape