In Dante’s time, the devil could be given a physical and even cosmological location—he was found, upside down, defeated yet majestic, at the centre of the Earth and the great wheel of the universe.
Until a century ago, after the fever of Romanticism, deals could still be made with him. He remained an individual figure, though more mobile, more ambiguous. Deeply wicked, yes, but still bearing the spirit of the unbroken, an old and familiar companion to humankind.

But now, he seems to have dissipated his aura entirely—or scattered it so much that it is little more than a shadow, barely distinguishable from a wisp of cigarette smoke. Where is Hell now, or where is the Evil One? The satanic traits have faded, irreversibly blending into those of everyone else; no effort could recognise in him the once triumphant angel.
Just yesterday, I thought I recognised him—sitting at the bar on the corner, sipping an aniseed cigaló, flicking rapidly through the pages (who knows of what) on a slightly worn smartphone.