In the late 1970s, the computer, which for decades had been a mysterious, hulking machine that only did the bidding of corporate overlords, suddenly became something the average person could buy and take home. An enthusiastic minority saw how great this was and rushed to get a computer of their own. For many more people, the arrival of the microcomputer triggered helpless anxiety about the future. An ad from a magazine at the time promised that a home computer would “give your child an unfair advantage in school.” It showed a boy in a smart blazer and tie eagerly raising his hand to answer a question, while behind him his dim-witted classmates look on sullenly. The ad and others like it implied that the world was changing quickly and, if you did not immediately learn how to use one of these intimidating new devices, you and your family would be left behind.
Imagine that you are sitting on the grassy bank of a river. Ahead of you, the water flows past swiftly. The afternoon sun has put you in an idle, philosophical mood, and you begin to wonder whether the river in front of you really exists at all. Sure, large volumes of water are going by only a few feet away. But what is this thing that you are calling a “river”? After all, the water you see is here and then gone, to be replaced only by more and different water. It doesn’t seem like the word “river” refers to any fixed thing in front of you at all.
In 2009, Rich Hickey, the creator of Clojure, gave an excellent talk about why this philosophical quandary poses a problem for the object-oriented programming paradigm. He argues that we think of an object in a computer program the same way we think of a river—we imagine that the object has a fixed identity, even though many or all of the object’s properties will change over time. Doing this is a mistake, because we have no way of distinguishing between an object instance in one state and the same object instance in another state. We have no explicit notion of time in our programs. We just breezily use the same name everywhere and hope that the object is in the state we expect it to be in when we reference it. Inevitably, we write bugs.
About a decade ago, the average internet user might well have heard of RSS. Really Simple Syndication, or Rich Site Summary—what the acronym stands for depends on who you ask—is a standard that websites and podcasts can use to offer a feed of content to their users, one easily understood by lots of different computer programs. Today, though RSS continues to power many applications on the web, it has become, for most people, an obscure technology.
I once had a debate with members of my extended family about whether a computer science degree is a degree worth pursuing. I was in college at the time and trying to decide whether I should major in computer science. My aunt and a cousin of mine believed that I shouldn’t. They conceded that knowing how to program is of course a useful and lucrative thing, but they argued that the field of computer science advances so quickly that everything I learned would almost immediately be outdated. Better to pick up programming on the side and instead major in a field like economics or physics where the basic principles would be applicable throughout my lifetime.
When programmers discuss the relative merits of different programming languages, they often talk about them in prosaic terms as if they were so many tools in a tool belt—one might be more appropriate for systems programming, another might be more appropriate for gluing together other programs to accomplish some ad hoc task. This is as it should be. Languages have different strengths and claiming that a language is better than other languages without reference to a specific use case only invites an unproductive and vitriolic debate.
If you fire up
digand run a DNS query for
google.com, you will get a response somewhat like the following:
$ dig google.com ; <<>> DiG 9.10.6 <<>> google.com ;; global options: +cmd ;; Got answer: ;; ->>HEADER<<- opcode: QUERY, status: NOERROR, id: 27120 ;; flags: qr rd ra; QUERY: 1, ANSWER: 1, AUTHORITY: 0, ADDITIONAL: 1 ;; OPT PSEUDOSECTION: ; EDNS: version: 0, flags:; udp: 512 ;; QUESTION SECTION: ;google.com. IN A ;; ANSWER SECTION: google.com. 194 IN A 220.127.116.11 ;; Query time: 23 msec ;; SERVER: 18.104.22.168#53(22.214.171.124) ;; WHEN: Fri Sep 21 16:14:48 CDT 2018 ;; MSG SIZE rcvd: 55
The output contains both a section describing the “question” you asked (“What is the IP address of
google.com?”) and a section describing the answer you received. In the answer section, we see that
digfound a single record with what looks to be five fields. The record’s type is indicated by the
Ain the fourth field from the left—this is an “address” record. To the right of the
A, in the fifth field, we can see that the IP address for
194value in the second field specifies how long in seconds this particular record can be cached.
There are two stories here. The first is a story about a vision of the web's future that never quite came to fruition. The second is a story about how a collaborative effort to improve a popular standard devolved into one of the most contentious forks in the history of open-source software development.
I was not yet alive in 1983. This is something that I occasionally regret. I am especially sorry that I did not experience the 8-bit computer era as it was happening, because I think the people that first encountered computers when they were relatively simple and constrained have a huge advantage over the rest of us.
Today, (almost) everyone knows how to use a computer, but very few people, even in the computing industry, grasp all of what is going on inside of any single machine. There are now so many layers of software doing so many different things that one struggles to identify the parts that are essential. In 1983, though, home computers were unsophisticated enough that a diligent person could learn how a particular computer worked through and through. That person is today probably less mystified than I am by all the abstractions that modern operating systems pile on top of the hardware. I expect that these layers of abstractions were easy to understand one by one as they were introduced; today, new programmers have to try to understand them all by working top to bottom and backward in time.
The story of Microsoft’s founding is one of the most famous episodes in computing history. In 1975, Paul Allen flew out to Albuquerque to demonstrate the BASIC interpreter that he and Bill Gates had written for the Altair microcomputer. Because neither of them had a working Altair, Allen and Gates tested their interpreter using an emulator that they wrote and ran on Harvard’s computer system. The emulator was based on nothing more than the published specifications for the Intel 8080 processor. When Allen finally ran their interpreter on a real Altair—in front of the person he and Gates hoped would buy their software—he had no idea if it would work. But it did. The next month, Allen and Gates officially founded their new company.
Over a century before Allen and Gates wrote their BASIC interpreter, Ada Lovelace wrote and published a computer program. She, too, wrote a program for a computer that had only been described to her. But her program, unlike the Microsoft BASIC interpreter, was never run, because the computer she was targeting was never built.
I recently stumbled across a file format known as Intel HEX. As far as I can gather, Intel HEX files (which use the
.hexextension) are meant to make binary images less opaque by encoding them as lines of hexadecimal digits. Apparently they are used by people who program microcontrollers or need to burn data into ROM. In any case, when I opened up a HEX file in Vim for the first time, I discovered something shocking. Here was this file format that, at least to me, was deeply esoteric, but Vim already knew all about it. Each line of a HEX file is a record divided into different fields—Vim had gone ahead and colored each of the fields a different color.
set ft?I asked, in awe.
filetype=hex, Vim answered, triumphant.