72 lines
3.1 KiB
Plaintext
72 lines
3.1 KiB
Plaintext
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_________________________________________________________________________
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La Boite Bleue
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translated from the memoirs of
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Jean Turing-VonNeuman
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a minor 19th century post-impressionist programer
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I will never forget that Spring, that day. Paris had an air
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of revolution. The week before an exhibition of Seraut's
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listings had caused a sensation. In his unrelenting quest for
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simplicity he had reduced all of programming to three machine
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instructions. The resulting 6,000 line bubble sort had shocked
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the critics.
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My own recent efforts had been received poorly. I had cut
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and slashed through my programs, juxtaposing blocks of code in a
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way that exposed the underlying intensity of the algorithm
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without regard to convention or syntax.
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"But it doesn't compile.", they complained.
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As if programming was about adhering to their primitive
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language definitions. As if it was my duty to live within the
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limits of their antiquated and ordinary compilers.
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So it was that I came that day to La Boite Bleue, seeking
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solace and companionship.
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La Boite Bleue was where we gathered in those days. The wine
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there was cheap, the tables were large and they kept a complete
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set of language manuals behind the bar.
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As I entered I heard Henri's measured accents above the din.
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"...that complexity is not the salient characteristic of
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exemplary style."
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Toulouse-Lautrec was seated at a table spread with greenbar.
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Manet, redfaced, loomed over him.
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"Damm your recursion, Henri. Iteration, however complex,
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is always more efficient."
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Manet stormed away from the table in the direction of the
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bar. He always seemed angry at that time. Partly because his
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refusal to write in anything but FORTRAN isolated him from the
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rest of the Avant-Guarde, partly because people kept confusing
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him with Monet.
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Henri motioned to me to join him at the table.
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"Have you heard from Vincent recently?"
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We were all concerned about Van Gogh. Only a few days
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before he had completed an order n sorting routine that required
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no additional memory. Unfortunately, because he had written it in
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C and refused, on principle, to comment his code, no one had
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understood a line of it. He had not taken it well.
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"No. Why?", I replied.
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"He and Gaugin had a violent argument last night over
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whether a side effect should be considered output and he hasn't
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been seen since. I fear he may have done something ... rash."
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We were suddenly interrupted by the waitress's terrified
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scream. I turned in time to see something fall from the open
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envelope she held in her hand. Stooping to retrieve it, I was
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seized by a wave of revulsion as I recognized that the object in
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my hand, bestially torn from its accustomed place, was the mouse
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from Van Gogh's workstation. The waitress, who had fainted, lay
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in an unnoticed heap beside me.
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By the evening, the incident had become the talk of Paris.
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