I recently stumbled across a file format known as Intel HEX. As far as I can
gather, Intel HEX files (which use the
.hex extension) 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.
I recently stumbled across a file format known as Intel HEX. As far as I can gather, Intel HEX files (which use the
Github was launched in 2008. If your software engineering career, like mine, is no older than Github, then Git may be the only version control software you have ever used. While people sometimes grouse about its steep learning curve or unintuitive interface, Git has become everyone's go-to for version control. In Stack Overflow's 2015 developer survey, 69.3% of respondents used Git, almost twice as many as used the second-most-popular version control system, Subversion. After 2015, Stack Overflow stopped asking developers about the version control systems they use, perhaps because Git had become so popular that the question was uninteresting.
Lines of code longer than 80 characters drive me crazy. I appreciate that this is pedantic. I’ve seen people on the internet make good arguments for why the 80-character limit ought to be respected even on our modern Retina-display screens, but those arguments hardly justify the visceral hatred I feel for even that one protruding 81st character.
There was once a golden era in which it was basically impossible to go over the 80-character limit. The 80-character limit was a physical reality, because there was no 81st column for an 81st character to fit in. Any programmers attempting to name a function something horrendously long and awful would discover, in a moment of delicious, slow-dawning horror, that there literally isn’t room for their whole declaration.
In 1962, JFK challenged Americans to send a man to the moon by the end of the decade, inspiring a heroic engineering effort that culminated in Neil Armstrong’s first steps on the lunar surface. Many of the fruits of this engineering effort were highly visible and sexy—there were new spacecraft, new spacesuits, and moon buggies. But the Apollo Program was so staggeringly complex that new technologies had to be invented even to do the mundane things. One of these technologies was IBM’s Information Management System (IMS).
I’ve always found man pages fascinating. Formatted as strangely as they are and accessible primarily through the terminal, they have always felt to me like relics of an ancient past. Some man pages probably are ancient: I’d love to know how many times the man page for
teehas been revised since the early days of Unix, but I’m willing to bet it’s not many. Man pages are mysterious—it’s not obvious where they come from, where they live on your computer, or what kind of file they might be stored in—and yet it’s hard to believe that something so fundamental and so obviously governed by rigid conventions could remain so inscrutable. Where did the man page conventions come from? Where are they codified? If I wanted to write my own man page, where would I even begin?