The writer's life and Donald Knuth's Selected Papers on Computer Science

Doing almost anything right is hard. Few of us appreciate how hard, and how much we have to specialize if we’re to accomplish anything significant.

Still, it’s useful to fertilize ourselves by looking at distant fields. I’m fascinated by other people’s professions and what non-specialists can take from them; I’ve never wanted to be a politician, but Chris Matthews’ Hardball offers surprisingly deep life insights. Non-soldiers love The Art of War, and Anthony Bourdain demonstrates how much we want to know about what goes on in the kitchen—and not just sexually. Being who I am, I tend to look for lessons about writing (and material to write about) in other people’s work, and Donald Knuth’s Selected Papers on Computer Science is the latest to catch my eye, especially when he discusses just how hard writing programs really is:

Software creation not only takes time, it’s also much more difficult than I thought it would be. Why is this so? I think the main reason is that a longer attention span is needed when working on a large computer program than when doing other intellectual tasks. A great deal of technical information must be kept in one’s head, all at once, in high-speed random-access memory somewhere in the brain. I found to my dismay that I could not be writing large programs while teaching my regular classes; I simply couldn’t do justice to both activities simultaneously, nor could I be happy if the programs were left unwritten. So I reluctantly took occasional leaves of absence from university teaching. In this sense I believe that program-writing is substantially more demanding than book-writing.

Another reason that programming is harder than the writing of books and research papers is that programming demands a significantly higher standard of accuracy. Programs don’t simply have to make sense to a another human being, they must make sense to a computer.

Writing a novel isn’t quite as hard as writing a complex software system, but it’s close. It’s useful to keep story information in “high-speed random-access memory,” and I’m usually thinking subconsciously about whatever primary novel I’m working on regardless of what else is going on around me.

The only major exception is when I’m deeply into writing a proposal, which requires similar bandwidth. Program-writing might be substantially more demanding than book writing, but book writing is still shockingly demanding, especially if one is to pay attention to its details. That, in essence, is what it means to be an expert on something: to be aware of its details. I’ll return to my first sentence and reiterate it by saying that I don’t think most of us realize the sheer number of details involved in virtually every thing or activity around us. We don’t see the moss on the bark of the trees; we see the forest from 30,000 feet.

Knuth sees at a lot of scales, and he’s also good at telling people to work with each other, regardless of boundaries. He says, for example, that “Scientists always find it easiest to write for colleagues who share their own subspecialty. But George Forsythe told me in 1970 that I should be prepared to explain things to a wider group of people [. . .]” This is true of literary theorists too. But we should write for those who we might not know well, or who might not know us well, and I think the inverse of Knuth’s advice is true: people who mostly write popular works would probably be better off writing for a specialist audience at times, in order to deepen knowledge of their own field. Know everything about something and something about everything, to paraphrase a quote that Google attributes to a wide array of people. Knuth, one senses, does: “When I try to characterize my own life’s work, I think of it primarily as an attempt to balance theoretical studies with practical achievements.”

The idea of theory and practice balancing each other comes up over and over again. It resonated with me because I’ve long hated the false binary between the two. He notes that some fields are more like each other than some of us imagine too:

The best programs are written so that computing machines can perform them quickly and so that human beings can understand them clearly. A programmer is ideally an essayist who works with traditional aesthetic and literary forms as well as mathematical concepts, to communicate the way that an algorithm works and to convince a reader that the results will be correct. Programs often need to be modified, because requirements and equipment change. Programs often need to be combined with other programs. Success at these endeavors is directly linked to the effectiveness of a programmer’s expository skill.

Numerous analogies can be drawn between hacking, in the sense Paul Graham uses the term, and writing. My awareness of the likeness probably stems from my deeper-than-average knowledge of writing and my very shallow knowledge of programming, along with the sense that metaphors for writing abound. Plus, very few people compare programmers and essayists, as Knuth does here, and yet his reasons are surprisingly convincing. The key word is “surprisingly:” the two fields that don’t seem incredibly similar somehow are. That’s what good writers do. Maybe it’s what good programmers do too.

In Founders at Work Philip Greenspun said:

People don’t like to write. It’s hard. The people who were really good software engineers were usually great writers; they had tremendous ability to organize their thoughts and communicate. The people who were sort of average-quality programmers and had trouble thinking about the larger picture were the ones who couldn’t write.

People don’t like to write, and they don’t like to hack much, either. I like to write, and while I’m often interested in computer science and computer-related topics, I never had the weird, driving need I felt towards writing. To quote Graham again”: “I know a handful of super-hackers, so I sat down and thought about what they have in common. Their defining quality is probably that they really love to program.” That’s a defining quality of writers too. It feels more like writing chose me than I chose writing, even though I would posit that, logically, computer scientists and engineers have had the greatest impact on average daily life of any group over the last, say, 30 years. But both writing and programming are hard; unambiguous communication is hard (as is communication that’s artistically ambiguous).

Elsewhere Knuth notes that “Anyone who has prepared a computer program will appreciate the fact that an algorithm must be very precisely defined, with an attention to detail that is unusual in comparison with the other things people do.” Detail applies to writing as well: one not bad definition for a writer might be, “a person who attends to the details of their writing.”

Do you?

The writer’s life and Donald Knuth’s Selected Papers on Computer Science

Doing almost anything right is hard. Few of us appreciate how hard, and how much we have to specialize if we’re to accomplish anything significant.

Still, it’s useful to fertilize ourselves by looking at distant fields. I’m fascinated by other people’s professions and what non-specialists can take from them; I’ve never wanted to be a politician, but Chris Matthews’ Hardball offers surprisingly deep life insights. Non-soldiers love The Art of War, and Anthony Bourdain demonstrates how much we want to know about what goes on in the kitchen—and not just sexually. Being who I am, I tend to look for lessons about writing (and material to write about) in other people’s work, and Donald Knuth’s Selected Papers on Computer Science is the latest to catch my eye, especially when he discusses just how hard writing programs really is:

Software creation not only takes time, it’s also much more difficult than I thought it would be. Why is this so? I think the main reason is that a longer attention span is needed when working on a large computer program than when doing other intellectual tasks. A great deal of technical information must be kept in one’s head, all at once, in high-speed random-access memory somewhere in the brain. I found to my dismay that I could not be writing large programs while teaching my regular classes; I simply couldn’t do justice to both activities simultaneously, nor could I be happy if the programs were left unwritten. So I reluctantly took occasional leaves of absence from university teaching. In this sense I believe that program-writing is substantially more demanding than book-writing.

Another reason that programming is harder than the writing of books and research papers is that programming demands a significantly higher standard of accuracy. Programs don’t simply have to make sense to a another human being, they must make sense to a computer.

Writing a novel isn’t quite as hard as writing a complex software system, but it’s close. It’s useful to keep story information in “high-speed random-access memory,” and I’m usually thinking subconsciously about whatever primary novel I’m working on regardless of what else is going on around me.

The only major exception is when I’m deeply into writing a proposal, which requires similar bandwidth. Program-writing might be substantially more demanding than book writing, but book writing is still shockingly demanding, especially if one is to pay attention to its details. That, in essence, is what it means to be an expert on something: to be aware of its details. I’ll return to my first sentence and reiterate it by saying that I don’t think most of us realize the sheer number of details involved in virtually every thing or activity around us. We don’t see the moss on the bark of the trees; we see the forest from 30,000 feet.

Knuth sees at a lot of scales, and he’s also good at telling people to work with each other, regardless of boundaries. He says, for example, that “Scientists always find it easiest to write for colleagues who share their own subspecialty. But George Forsythe told me in 1970 that I should be prepared to explain things to a wider group of people [. . .]” This is true of literary theorists too. But we should write for those who we might not know well, or who might not know us well, and I think the inverse of Knuth’s advice is true: people who mostly write popular works would probably be better off writing for a specialist audience at times, in order to deepen knowledge of their own field. Know everything about something and something about everything, to paraphrase a quote that Google attributes to a wide array of people. Knuth, one senses, does: “When I try to characterize my own life’s work, I think of it primarily as an attempt to balance theoretical studies with practical achievements.”

The idea of theory and practice balancing each other comes up over and over again. It resonated with me because I’ve long hated the false binary between the two. He notes that some fields are more like each other than some of us imagine too:

The best programs are written so that computing machines can perform them quickly and so that human beings can understand them clearly. A programmer is ideally an essayist who works with traditional aesthetic and literary forms as well as mathematical concepts, to communicate the way that an algorithm works and to convince a reader that the results will be correct. Programs often need to be modified, because requirements and equipment change. Programs often need to be combined with other programs. Success at these endeavors is directly linked to the effectiveness of a programmer’s expository skill.

Numerous analogies can be drawn between hacking, in the sense Paul Graham uses the term, and writing. My awareness of the likeness probably stems from my deeper-than-average knowledge of writing and my very shallow knowledge of programming, along with the sense that metaphors for writing abound. Plus, very few people compare programmers and essayists, as Knuth does here, and yet his reasons are surprisingly convincing. The key word is “surprisingly:” the two fields that don’t seem incredibly similar somehow are. That’s what good writers do. Maybe it’s what good programmers do too.

In Founders at Work Philip Greenspun said:

People don’t like to write. It’s hard. The people who were really good software engineers were usually great writers; they had tremendous ability to organize their thoughts and communicate. The people who were sort of average-quality programmers and had trouble thinking about the larger picture were the ones who couldn’t write.

People don’t like to write, and they don’t like to hack much, either. I like to write, and while I’m often interested in computer science and computer-related topics, I never had the weird, driving need I felt towards writing. To quote Graham again”: “I know a handful of super-hackers, so I sat down and thought about what they have in common. Their defining quality is probably that they really love to program.” That’s a defining quality of writers too. It feels more like writing chose me than I chose writing, even though I would posit that, logically, computer scientists and engineers have had the greatest impact on average daily life of any group over the last, say, 30 years. But both writing and programming are hard; unambiguous communication is hard (as is communication that’s artistically ambiguous).

Elsewhere Knuth notes that “Anyone who has prepared a computer program will appreciate the fact that an algorithm must be very precisely defined, with an attention to detail that is unusual in comparison with the other things people do.” Detail applies to writing as well: one not bad definition for a writer might be, “a person who attends to the details of their writing.”

Do you?

Week 33 links: The secret sex lives of teachers, B. R. Myers and A Reader's Manifesto, digital cameras, a book in the home, science fiction writers' picks, adultery and politics

* The secret sex lives of teachers, which notes, “there is clearly something irresistible about teachers with decidedly adult extracurricular activities.”

* The Soul-Sucking Suckiness of B.R. Myers, which I don’t buy. I read A Reader’s Manifesto and loved it. Hallberg says, “It was hard to say which was more irritating: Myers’ scorched-earth certainties; his method, a kind of myopic travesty of New Criticism; or his own prose, a donnish pastiche of high-minded affectation and dreary cliché.” I suppose one man’s weak “method” is the opening of another’s eyes to something he’d long suspected but never quite articulated.

I remember trying to read DeLillo and Pynchon as a teenager, thinking they were incoherent, boring, or both, and putting them back down again—an opinion I haven’t managed to revised.

* Why we’ve reached the end of the camera megapixel race.

* A Book in Every Home, and Then Some.

* The Stockholm Syndrome Theory of Long Novels.

* The stars of modern SF pick the best science fiction. A lot of the choices don’t look very appealing to me; I wonder if this is an example of the values of writers and reading diverging.

* Normally I think the day-to-day of politics is stupid and cruel, but some meta political commentary can be amusing, along the observation of hypocrisy. Like in this New York Times column: “What is it with Republicans lately? Is there something about being a leader of the family-values party that makes you want to go out and commit adultery?”

* The Magician King is done.

* The annoyances of eBooks, and why they will probably win anyway.

Week 33 links: The secret sex lives of teachers, B. R. Myers and A Reader’s Manifesto, digital cameras, a book in the home, science fiction writers’ picks, adultery and politics

* The secret sex lives of teachers, which notes, “there is clearly something irresistible about teachers with decidedly adult extracurricular activities.”

* The Soul-Sucking Suckiness of B.R. Myers, which I don’t buy. I read A Reader’s Manifesto and loved it. Hallberg says, “It was hard to say which was more irritating: Myers’ scorched-earth certainties; his method, a kind of myopic travesty of New Criticism; or his own prose, a donnish pastiche of high-minded affectation and dreary cliché.” I suppose one man’s weak “method” is the opening of another’s eyes to something he’d long suspected but never quite articulated.

I remember trying to read DeLillo and Pynchon as a teenager, thinking they were incoherent, boring, or both, and putting them back down again—an opinion I haven’t managed to revised.

* Why we’ve reached the end of the camera megapixel race.

* A Book in Every Home, and Then Some.

* The Stockholm Syndrome Theory of Long Novels.

* The stars of modern SF pick the best science fiction. A lot of the choices don’t look very appealing to me; I wonder if this is an example of the values of writers and reading diverging.

* Normally I think the day-to-day of politics is stupid and cruel, but some meta political commentary can be amusing, along the observation of hypocrisy. Like in this New York Times column: “What is it with Republicans lately? Is there something about being a leader of the family-values party that makes you want to go out and commit adultery?”

* The Magician King is done.

* The annoyances of eBooks, and why they will probably win anyway.

Beware the novel – IT LIVES!

“The novel should be known as the undead genre: its history is filled with moments in which it could have, would have, perhaps even should have vanished but did not.

There are two reasons why this is so. First, the novel has proved a durable universal donor. Second, it thrives on its negative capability—its unwillingness, even its inability, to provide definitive answers to the questions it poses. The novel has soldiered on as a set of questions, of open-ended experiments, rather than definitive results. Novels, like viruses, have all the appearances of a set of plausible answers—all the appearances, that is, but the answers themselves. Novels are questions posed as if they were answers. They clarify exactly how hard such judgment can be, and how contingent and provisional our explanations of past events and predictions for future ones will always be, no matter how certain we are about the abstract rules that guide our lives. On the one hand, then, novels live on by giving a push to other artworks. On the other, they survive because they are in themselves incomplete, a set of suggestive vectors and plausible outcomes rather than a sealed solution. Although there often seems to be a good deal of ‘actionable intelligence’ in a novel, it is rarely clear what that action should be.”

That’s from John Plotz’s essay “No Future?“, the rare academic article that might be of interest to people who aren’t academics—like writers producing novels.

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