我们为什么对手机上了瘾？

    我独自坐在一个黑暗的房间里，一只手拿着装水的高脚杯，另一只手拿着iPhone。屏幕中放映着斯派克•琼斯导演的电影《她》（Her）。电影中的人类西奥多和软件萨曼莎之间的浪漫故事，正在我的眼前徐徐展开。

    然后我突然想到：我就是西奥多，我的手机就是萨曼莎。我正在跟我的手机热恋。

    这种类比十分不可思议。我手中的这台设备储存了我内心最深处的秘密：关于我父亲逝世的真实感受，初为人父的挣扎，每天努力摆脱的自我怀疑，婚礼时的照片，女儿第一次走路的视频。我的手机对我最精彩和最黑暗的时刻都了如指掌。

    在电影中，软件萨曼莎不断用语言描述感受，形成观点。如今的手机与此有些不同。我的手机需要我不断点击和滑动屏幕，以获取储存于其中的内容。我们很容易把这看成一种单相思：通过按钮和点击，我不断把我的感情倾注在这台手持设备上，却得不到回报。但实际上并非如此。我只需要打开手机上安装的众多程序，就能满足我的情感需求。Instagram和Facebook的“点赞”功能可以给我带来无限的自我认同感。（而如果没有得到“赞”，这种感觉则会缺失。）Twitter给我提供了一个平台，让我发泄感情，或是开一些大多数人觉得不好笑的玩笑。Safari能够解答我现有或者即将有的一切问题。游戏则让我有了个暂时能够逃避现实的地方。

    当然，我无法满足手机的情感需求。但我可以保护它。我会给手机的软件升级，在晚上给它充电，再买个手机套免得它磨坏，而作为回报，手机承诺会为我保密，并成为我无止境、无条件的情感宣泄口。

    意识到这一点，让我吓了一跳。我每天从早到晚都在和手机互动。身处喧哗之所时，手机就是一片宁静的港湾。当我不小心拼错了单词，手机也会自动纠正我——它总是无私地以我的最佳利益为优先考虑。

    当你把手机交给其他人的时候，有没有感觉到一丝焦虑，就像你把自己身体的一部分交了出去？这种犹豫源于害怕被暴露。这不是说我们要隐瞒什么——好吧，对许多人来说是这样——但是让其他人用你的手机，就如同你打开了思想的大门，并允许其他人随意进来看看。

    《她》中有一个片段：西奥多拿着手机，闭着眼睛，听从萨曼莎的引导，走进一场狂欢中。你下次到公共场所去，可以看一看周围。你会看到多少人在做同样的事情？唯一的区别只是，我们没有闭上眼睛，让声音来引导，而是让屏幕来引导。我们用来感受当下的主要工具，不是我们的眼睛，而是我们的手机。无论谁在我们旁边都是如此。

    在电影最后——尽管这是一部2013年的电影，不过如果你还没有看过，你可以跳过接下来这一段，以免被剧透——萨曼莎宣称她要走了，感谢西奥多教会她如何去爱。科技教导这部电影的主角如何去爱。而如今的科技也已经如此强大，足以告诉我们如何生活、爱、欢笑、宽恕、悲痛、遗忘、渴望、烹饪和其他一切你输入搜索栏的东西。

    我对手机的感情之深让我震惊，但在短期内，我不打算与它断绝关系。（我的妻子必须得理解这一点。）然而，我确实计划跟它分开一段时间。自从我2004年买了Sidekick 2起，十年来我从未这样做过。

    我最近宣布，每周日是我家的“无屏幕日”。在这一天中，我们可以做我们想做的任何事，只要它与屏幕无关。孩子们不可以看动画片，我的妻子不可以看Kindle电子书，我也不再在Twitter和回复邮件上浪费时间。这一切都得等到第二天再做。结果就是，我们一家度过了眼神不断交汇，充满欢声笑语的一天。

    这一次，我的手机没有搀和其中，甚至连相机的角色也没有扮演。活在当下的感觉实在太棒了。（财富中文网）

    译者：严匡正

    I was sitting alone in a dark room, a tall glass of water in one hand, my iPhone in the other. On the screen in front of me was the Spike Jonze film Her. As it played, the romance in which Theodore, the human, and Samantha, the software, found themselves unfolded.

    Then it hit me: I am Theodore. My smartphone is Samantha. I am in love with my iPhone.

    The parallels were uncanny. Deep inside the device in my hand, my darkest secrets are stored: My true feelings surrounding my father’s death, the struggles of being a parent, the self-doubt I shrug off each day, photos from my wedding day, a video of my daughter’s first steps. My phone knows the finite details of my brightest and darkest moments.

    In the movie, Samantha constantly verbalized her feelings and formed her own opinions. Today’s phones aren’t like that. Mine requires me to tap and swipe across its screen in order to access the information stored within. It’s easy to see this as a one-sided relationship: Through snaps and taps I’m constantly pouring my heart out to my hand-held device and get nothing in return. Actually, that’s not true. I only have to open one of the many apps installed on my handy device and an emotional need is met. Instagram and Facebook provide endless self-worth support with likes. (Or, in their absence, not.) Twitter gives me a platform to vent, or crack jokes that are by most estimates not funny. Safari holds the answer to every question I’ve had or will ever have. Games provide a momentary escape.

    I can’t fulfill my phone’s emotional needs, of course. But I can be its protector. A software update, a nighttime charge, a case to protect its beauty—I provide for my phone, and in return, it promises to keep my secrets safe from the outside world, and provide me with an unending, unconditional emotional outlet.

    This is a terrifying thing to realize. I begin and end my day interacting with my phone. When chaos arises, my phone is an oasis of relative calm. When I fumble in spelling a word, it automatically corrects me—a selfless act to keep my best interests in mind.

    When you hand someone your phone, don’t you feel a hint of anxiety? As if you handed over a part of your own body? And yet the hesitation comes from a fear of being exposed. It’s not that we have something to hide—well, many of us, anyway—but to grant someone use of your phone is like opening a door to your mind and allowing someone to freely browse for awhile.

    At one point in Her, Theodore holds up his phone, closes his eyes, and listens as Samantha guides him blindly through a carnival. Take a look around the next time you’re in a public space. How many people do you see doing the same thing—only, instead of closing our eyes and letting a voice guide us, we let a screen be the guide? The primary object through which we are experiencing the moment is the phone, not our eyes. And certainly not whoever happens to be with us.

    At the end of the movie—and though it’s a 2013 film, if you haven’t watched it, you should skip to the next paragraph to avoid the plot details I’m about to reveal—Samantha announces that she is leaving and thanks Theodore for teaching her how to love. Technology taught the movie’s human protagonist how to love. Today’s tech is already this powerful. It can teach us how to live, love, laugh, forgive, grieve, forget, desire, cook, and anything else you enter into a search bar.

    How deep my feelings are for my phone has shocked me, to say the least, but I don’t plan on breaking up with it anytime soon. (My wife will just have to understand.) I do, however, plan on taking prolonged breaks from it, something I haven’t done in the last 10 years, not since I owned a Sidekick 2 in 2004.

    I recently declared that every Sunday would be “No Screen Sunday” in my home. For the entirety of the day, we can do whatever we want, so long as it didn’t involve a screen. No cartoon marathons for the kids, no reading on a Kindle for my wife, no wasting time on Twitter or answering e-mails for me. All of it would have to wait 24 hours. The result was a day unbroken eye contact, laughing, sharing, and enjoying each moment as a family.

    For once, my phone wasn’t part of any of it—not even as a camera. It felt fantastic to live in the moment, instead of through it.