|Proverbs, aphorisms, quotations (English)||by Linux fortune|
|Brief History Of Linux (#23)|
Linus Torvalds certainly wasn't the only person to create their own
operating system from scratch. Other people working from their leaky
basements did create their own systems and now they are sick that they
didn't become an Alpha Geek like Torvalds or a Beta Geek like Alan Cox.
Linus had one advantage not many else did: Internet access. The world was
full of half-implemented-Unix-kernels at the time, but they were sitting
isolated on some hacker's hard drive, destined to be destroyed by a hard
drive crash. Thankfully that never happened to Linux, mostly because
everyone with Net access could download a copy instead of paying shipping
charges to receive the code on a huge stack of unreliable floppy disks.
Indeed, buried deep within a landfill in Lansing, Michigan sits a stack of
still-readable 5-1/4 floppies containing the only known copy of "Windows
Killer", a fully functional Unix kernel so elegant, so efficient, so
easy-to-use that Ken Thompson himself would be jealous of its design.
Unfortunately the author's mother threw out the stack of floppies in a
bout of spring cleaning. The 14 year old author's talents were lost
forever as his parents sent him to Law School.
P: Linus Torvalds
S: Buried alive in email
-- from /usr/src/linux/MAINTAINERS
|Beneath this stone lies Murphy,|
They buried him today,
He lived the life of Riley,
While Riley was away.
|Hier liegt ein Mann ganz obnegleich;|
Im Leibe dick, an Suden reich.
Wir haben ihn in das Grab gesteckt, Here lies a man with sundry flaws
Weil es uns dunkt er sei verreckt. And numerous Sins upon his head;
We buried him today because
As far as we can tell, he's dead.
-- PDQ Bach's epitaph, as requested by his cousin Betty
Sue Bach and written by the local doggeral catcher;
"The Definitive Biography of PDQ Bach", Peter Schickele
|"No program is perfect,"|
They said with a shrug.
"The customer's happy--
What's one little bug?"
But he was determined, Then change two, then three more,
The others went home. As year followed year.
He dug out the flow chart And strangers would comment,
Deserted, alone. "Is that guy still here?"
Night passed into morning. He died at the console
The room was cluttered Of hunger and thirst
With core dumps, source listings. Next day he was buried
"I'm close," he muttered. Face down, nine edge first.
Chain smoking, cold coffee, And his wife through her tears
Logic, deduction. Accepted his fate.
"I've got it!" he cried, Said "He's not really gone,
"Just change one instruction." He's just working late."
-- The Perfect Programmer
|I'D LIKE TO BE BURIED INDIAN-STYLE, where they put you up on a high rack,|
above the ground. That way, you could get hit by meteorites and not even
-- Jack Handley, The New Mexican, 1988.
|What do you have when you have six lawyers buried up to their necks in sand?|
Not enough sand.
|Better living a beggar than buried an emperor.|
|Q: How was Thomas J. Watson buried?|
A: 9 edge down.
|Q: What do you have when you have a lawyer buried up to his neck in sand?|
A: Not enough sand.
|Q: What's buried in Grant's tomb?|
A: A corpse.
|After two or three weeks of this madness, you begin to feel As One with|
the man who said, "No news is good news." In twenty-eight papers, only
the rarest kind of luck will turn up more than two or three articles of
any interest... but even then the interest items are usually buried deep
around paragraph 16 on the jump (or "Cont. on ...") page...
The Post will have a story about Muskie making a speech in Iowa. The
Star will say the same thing, and the Journal will say nothing at all.
But the Times might have enough room on the jump page to include a line
or so that says something like: "When he finished his speech, Muskie
burst into tears and seized his campaign manager by the side of the neck.
They grappled briefly, but the struggle was kicked apart by an oriental
woman who seemed to be in control."
Now that's good journalism. Totally objective; very active and straight
to the point.
-- Hunter S. Thompson, "Fear and Loathing '72"
Fear of bullets;
Fear of opening one's eyes.
Fear of sinning.
Fear of being buried alive.
Fear of food.
Fear of hair.
Fear of clothing.
|What office are you in? Oh, that one. Did you know that your building was built over the universities first nuclear research site? And wow, are'nt you the lucky one, your office is right over where the core is buried!|
|"Oh, he [a big dog] hunts with papa," she said. "He says Don Carlos [the|
dog] is good for almost every kind of game. He went duck hunting one time
and did real well at it. Then Papa bought some ducks, not wild ducks but,
you know, farm ducks. And it got Don Carlos all mixed up. Since the
ducks were always around the yard with nobody shooting at them he knew he
wasn't supposed to kill them, but he had to do something. So one morning
last spring, when the ground was still soft, he took all the ducks and
buried them." "What do you mean, buried them?" "Oh, he didn't hurt them.
He dug little holes all over the yard and picked up the ducks in his mouth
and put them in the holes. Then he covered them up with mud except for
their heads. He did thirteen ducks that way and was digging a hole for
another one when Tony found him. We talked about it for a long time. Papa
said Don Carlos was afraid the ducks might run away, and since he didn't
know how to build a cage he put them in holes. He's a smart dog."
-- R. Bradford, "Red Sky At Morning"
|...this is an awesome sight. The entire rebel resistance buried under six|
million hardbound copies of "The Naked Lunch."
- The Firesign Theater
|"The clergy successfully preached the doctrines of patience and pusillanimity;|
the active virtues of society were discouraged; and the last remains of a
military spirit were buried in the cloister: a large portion of public and
private wealth was consecrated to the specious demands of charity and devotion;
and the soldiers' pay was lavished on the useless multitudes of both sexes
who could only plead the merits of abstinence and chastity."
-- Edward Gibbons, _The Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire_
|Nobody ever forgets where he buried the hatchet.|
-- Kin Hubbard