Excerpts from "The Zen of Programming"

My story begins a few weeks after I had graduated from college with a 
bachelor's degree in computer science. My goal upon graduating was to 
work for a research and development organization, preferably in compiler 
or operating system design. I finally found an organization that was 
willing to hire me, but only on the condition that I "learn the system" 
by performing program maintenance for an unspecified period of time.

Naturally, I was somewhat offended at this suggestion. I had not gone 
through five years of college just to waste my time fixing some other 
programmer's mistakes! However, there was the promise of interesting 
work in the future, so I accepted, making a mental note that I could 
always find another job if this one did not work out.

When I reported to work the next week, I was taken to meet the 
master of the maintenance group. The personnel manager led me, quick
step, through the darkened corridors of the development center, finally
pointing out a door at the end of a long hallway. "He's in there," she said
and then scurried away as if ill-at-ease.

I walked to the doorway and peered inside. I saw a man working at a 
terminal, but his back was towards me, so I had no idea of his age or 
appearance. I was just about to make my presence known by coughing, when 
without as much as a single backward glance, the master said, "Please be 
seated."

I peered over his shoulder at the incomprehensible displays that flashed 
upon his terminal as his slender fingers danced across the keyboard. 
Finally, he gave a little grunt of satisfaction, logged off, and then 
turned to face me.

What I saw surprised me, for he did not seem to be the type of man who 
would be a Zen master. His face was blank, almost ugly, and his hair 
formed a confused nimbus about his head. But what one noticed first were 
his eyes, which showed pale blue even through his thick spectacles. 

He inspected me from head to foot and nodded, as if confirming a private 
opinion. "So you are the new-hire?" he asked sourly. 

"Yes," I replied and, simulating an enthusiasm I did not feel, I gave him 
a quick rundown of my experiences and grades in college.

The master listened politely and then said, "That is all well and good, 
but have you ever done program maintenance?"

I confessed that I had not.

The master heaved a great sigh. "Well, we shall do what we can," he 
said. Then he took an enormous program listing from a shelf. Opening it 
at random, he handed it to me and asked, "What do you make of this?"

I stared at the listing. It was assembly code intermingled with some 
strange macro language. Every tenth line transferred control to some 
cryptic subroutine and if there was any structure to the program, it was 
incomprehensible to me. "What is this program?" I asked.

The master took the listing from my lap. "It is The Code of the Ancient 
Masters," he said, "And when you have learned to snatch the error code 
from the trap frame, it will be time for you to leave." Then he closed 
the listing and returned it to the shelf. 

I soon learned that program maintenance was more difficult than I had 
assumed. I first attempted to learn the assembler in which The Code had 
been written, but much to my annoyance, I discovered that the assembler
had never been properly documented. All that existed was a set of notes
from the hardware developers, who had died or left the company many 
years before. The Code was of little help. It is true that there were 
occasional comments, but these were as opaque as the assembler, 
containing nothing but tantalizing references to primeval hardware 
architecture. 

When I complained to the master, he listened politely, created a long 
moment of silence between us and then answered me.

"You are seeking to understand something that cannot be understood by 
your rational mind," he said, "All that results is frustration. You must 
empty your mind. Only then will you come to understand The Code."