Faulkner's Typewriter

In this session, we read sections L and M of “Literate Programming,” which consider the economics of WEB and its relationship to prior work.

Economics of a text editor

Where his earlier writing was produced by hand, the result of a careful and meticulous craftsmanship, in the 1950s Faulkner developed a messier, faster method that relied solely on a typewriter. (DiLeonardi 2024, p. 177)

How does a writing tool affect the writer? Knuth argues that WEB code is faster to write, because WEB imposes a salutary discipline on the programmer at the time of composition. It may take a little longer to write Version 0, but the code will be so much better that it will only be a short step to Version 1.

One member of the group drew a comparison with William Faulkner, whose practice changed significantly when he adopted the typewriter in the late 1950s. As DiLeonardi (2024) explains, Faulkner’s typescripts and manuscripts are quite different documents. His handwritten manuscripts are meticulously crafted. Faulkner claimed that he hadn’t changed a word of As I Lay Dying (1930) in the writing, but the flawlessness of the manuscript suggests a close process of real-time editing. His typescripts are different. He complained that it was “too easy” to put words on the page. They are full of typos, and the novels he wrote on a typewriter, such as The Town (1957) are looser and less crystalline that his handwritten books.

Knuth’s adoption of WEB had, in his own estimation, the opposite effect to Faulkner’s adoption of the typewriter. He claims that code he once wrote carelessly he now writes carefully. When he writes a WEB program, he is in “expository mode.” He imagines that he is explaining the code to someone else, and this mode of thought makes for better programming.

Knuth is trying to advocate WEB as a practical programming tool, and couches his arguments in terms an IBM executive might understand: will this tool reduce labour costs? But in our group we observed a different side to the argument. In his discussion of the “expository mode,” Knuth once again undermines his idea about WEB programming as a “stream of consciousness.” The expositor does not simply let their consciousness stream. They shape that stream for the benefit of a student or a reader. Although he doesn’t clearly theorise their role, Knuth is aware of the importance of the reader, and of the rhetorical situation of the programmer.

He does want readers. The section ends with a delightful expression of Knuth’s burning desire to promulgate both his code and his coding tool.

The rhetorical function of acknowledgements

Section M is essentially and “acknowledgements” section, or an “awards acceptance speech,” as two wits of the group put it. What it is doing in the article?

Partly the acknowledgement of prior work justifies his own undertaking. He makes the radical claim that “it is worthwhile to consider every program as a work of literature,” and wants to establish precedents.

Every program? We discussed this with some astonishment. In our own fields—literature and art history—there is habitually some distinction between what is literary or artistic and what is not. A bureaucratic form is certainly writing, but doubtfully literature. Painting a door is certainly painting, but probably not art. Should every program be see as a piece of literature?

There are two problems with Knuth’s claim, one obvious, the other more subtle.

The obvious problem is that many programs are boring, technical or uninteresting. There are programs that resemble shopping lists and bureaucratic forms, as well as programs that resemble haikus or essays. Perhaps Knuth really is advocating a Dadaist aesthetic, and wants to claim that even the humblest little utility program can be dignified as literature, if only it is written and documented properly in WEB.

The more subtle problem is, again, readership. Another class of things we usually exclude from “art” or “literature” are creative works that are intended for coterie audiences. Patents, blueprints, scientific articles—these things are usually excluded from the art-world or the literary sphere. Art is for the “public.” Literature is for the “general reader.” Can literate programs be so? Perhaps Knuth is advocating an esoteric literature. It may appeal to a small audience, but it has the same aesthetic values and careful creative purpose as literature intended for the public.

It seems more likely that every is hyperbole, or simply not a claim that Knuth carefully considered before he made it. But it is tempting to view Knuth as a kind of William Blake of programming, simultaneously furious in his esotericism, unorthodox in his standards of beauty, and utterly committed to his crazy craft as a form of expression that reaches out widely into society and lengthily into the future.

Next week, we conclude our reading of “Literate Programming.” And move on to something new …

References

DiLeonardi, Sean. “Mediation, Stream of Consciousness, and the Faulknerian Voice: As I Lay Dying to The Town.” Twentieth-Century Literature 70, no. 2 (June 1, 2024): 173–98. doi:10.1215/0041462X-11205357.