Computers are dangerous.

“Computers are dangerous.” – Harry Enfield

Thus spoke Harry Enfield, not as a prophet of doom, but as a jester who glimpsed a truth too sharp for laughter alone. In his words lies the tremor of wisdom disguised in jest. When he said, “Computers are dangerous,” he was not condemning the machine itself, but warning humankind of what may happen when the servant becomes the master. For the computer, that silent engine of thought, holds within it the power to create and destroy, to enlighten and to enslave. It is a mirror reflecting the soul of its maker—and when the soul forgets itself, the mirror turns dark.

Once, men feared the fire, yet it became their light. They feared the wheel, yet it carried them farther than their feet. So it is with the computer—a creation born from brilliance, yet capable of binding its creators in invisible chains. When Enfield called it dangerous, he spoke of the subtle peril: not of circuits and screens, but of what they draw from the hearts of men. The danger lies not in the code, but in the comfort; not in the machine’s power, but in our surrender to it.

Consider the tale of Alan Turing, the genius who built the mind of the machine during the fires of war. His invention cracked the code of tyranny and hastened peace, yet the world that owed him salvation cast him aside in cruelty. From his mind sprang the seed of the modern computer, but from his suffering, we learn that the tools of intellect do not free humanity if the heart remains cruel. The machine may be precise, but it cannot love; it may calculate, but it cannot forgive. In this truth lies the peril that Enfield foresaw—the danger of forgetting what it means to be human amidst the cold perfection of technology.

When the ancients spoke of Prometheus, they told of a titan who stole fire from the gods to gift mankind the spark of progress. But that fire burned those who used it without wisdom. Today, the flame is digital, glowing in the eyes of every child who gazes into a screen. We have stolen a new kind of fire—one that grants knowledge beyond measure, yet threatens to consume the very soul that wields it. The computer, like Prometheus’s flame, is both salvation and curse. Its danger lies not in its light, but in how we gaze upon it without blinking.

There was a time when men looked to the stars for meaning. Now, they look to their screens. The danger that Enfield warns of is not the destruction of the body, but the forgetting of the spirit. We risk trading wisdom for data, presence for pixels, humanity for algorithms. The machine, once our tool, now whispers softly to our vanity. It feeds us endless visions, endless voices, until we mistake motion for thought, connection for communion, and information for understanding.

Yet do not despair, for all danger conceals a lesson. The computer, though dangerous, is not our enemy. It is a test—a mirror to reveal our discipline, our patience, and our purpose. If we use it with care, it becomes the chisel of creation, shaping art, science, and compassion. But if we yield our will to it, it becomes the master, and we the machine. The ancients taught that power without virtue corrupts; so too must modern minds learn that technology without conscience enslaves.

The lesson, then, is this: use, but do not be used. Let the computer serve your curiosity, not command your time. Let it magnify your mind, but not shrink your soul. Speak to others with your voice, not only with your text. Seek the wisdom that no screen can offer—the wisdom of silence, of nature, of the human face. For only when heart and mind walk hand in hand can the flame of progress warm without burning.

So remember Harry Enfield’s warning: “Computers are dangerous.” Hear it not as a cry of fear, but as a whisper of caution from one age to the next. The danger is real, yet the destiny is ours. The tool that can imprison can also set us free—if we remember who holds the power. Guard your spirit, guide your machine, and walk wisely into the glowing dawn of the digital age.