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Post-impressionist programming

----- Forwarded message from Joe Zeff <[email protected]> -----

Date: Wed, 09 Aug 2000 19:05:31
From: Joe Zeff <[email protected]>
Subject: GEEKS: Post-impressionist programming


                     Translated from the Memoirs of
                         Jean Turing-VonNeuman
           A minor 19th century post-impressionist programmer


I will never forget that Spring, that day.  Paris had an air of revolution.
The week before an exhibition of Seurat's listings had caused a sensation.
In his unrelenting quest for simplicity he had reduced all of programming to
three machine instructions.  The resulting 6,000 line bubble sort had
shocked the critics.

My own recent efforts had been received poorly.  I had cut and slashed 
through my programs, juxtaposing blocks of code in a way that exposed the
underlying intensity of the algorithm without regard to convention or
syntax.

"But it doesn't compile," they complained.

As if programming was about adhering to their primitive language
definitions. 
As if it was my duty to live within the limits of their antiquated and 
ordinary compilers.

So it was that I came that day to La Boite Bleue, seeking solace and 
companionship.

La Boite Bleue was where we gathered in those days.  The wine there was 
cheap, the tables were large and they kept a complete set of language
manuals behind the bar.

As I entered I heard Henri's measured accents above the din.

"{ellipsis}that complexity is not the salient characteristic of exemplary
style."

Toulouse-Lautrec was seated at a table spread with greenbar.  Manet, 
redfaced, loomed over him.

"Damm your recursion, Henri.  Iteration, however complex, is always more 
efficient."

Manet stormed away from the table in the direction of the bar.  He always
seemed angry at that time.  Partly because his refusal to write in anything
but FORTRAN isolated him from the rest of the Avant-Guarde, partly because
people kept confusing him with Monet.

Henri motioned to me to join him at the table.

"Have you heard from Vincent recently?"

We were all concerned about Van Gogh.  Only a few days before he had 
completed an order in sorting routine that required no additional memory.
 
Unfortunately, because he had written it in C and refused, on principle, to
comment his code, no one had understood a line of it.  He had not taken
it well.

"No.  Why?", I replied.

"He and Gaugin had a violent argument last night over whether a side effect
should be considered output and he hasn't been seen since.  I fear he may
have done something ...  rash."

We were suddenly interrupted by the waitress's terrified scream.  I turned in
time to see something fall from the open envelope she held in her hand.  
Stooping to retrieve it, I was seized by a wave of revulsion as I recognized
that the object in my hand, bestially torn from its accustomed place, was the
mouse from Van Gogh's workstation.  The waitress, who had fainted, lay in an
unnoticed heap beside me.

By the evening, the incident had become the talk of Paris.

---
Joe Zeff
     The Guy With the Sideburns
If you can't play with words, what good are they?
http://home.earthlink.net/~sidebrnz

----- End forwarded message -----
-- 
Gregory S. Sutter                    Computing is a terminal addiction.
mailto:[email protected] 
http://www.zer0.org/~gsutter/ 
PGP DSS public key 0x40AE3052
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