Nevertheless, I consider OOP as an aspect of programming in the

In the deliberate and reflective words of Niklaus Wirth, the great computer scientist and father of the Pascal programming language, we find not merely a statement about software design, but a lesson in the hierarchy of knowledge itself. “Nevertheless, I consider OOP as an aspect of programming in the large; that is, as an aspect that logically follows programming in the small and requires sound knowledge of procedural programming.” To the untrained ear, this sounds technical — an observation about Object-Oriented Programming (OOP) and procedural programming — but beneath it lies a truth that transcends computers: that mastery of the complex is built only upon the understanding of the simple, that true sophistication grows not from imitation but from foundation.

To understand the origin of this insight, one must remember that Niklaus Wirth was one of the early architects of the digital age — a man who sought clarity in a field that was quickly drowning in complexity. In the latter half of the twentieth century, programming was evolving from simple, direct instructions written for small machines into vast systems controlling economies, communications, and nations. OOP, or Object-Oriented Programming, promised a new era — one where software could model the world itself through “objects” that mimicked human understanding. Many hailed it as a revolution, as if it alone would erase the flaws of the past. But Wirth, a thinker of discipline and reason, reminded his students and peers that no revolution can stand without foundation. To command “programming in the large,” one must first understand “programming in the small.” To wield abstraction well, one must first master precision.

This principle, though born in the language of machines, echoes through the history of all crafts. Consider the sculptor Michelangelo, who could shape marble into visions of eternity. He did not begin with the grandeur of the David; he began, as every apprentice did, by carving simple forms, learning the nature of stone — its resistance, its grain, its voice. Only after years of disciplined craft could he breathe life into cold marble. In the same way, Wirth warns the modern craftsman of code that to leap into abstraction without grounding is to carve air, not stone. For procedural programming — the art of thinking in steps, in order, in logic — is the chisel with which the mind learns structure. Without it, the grand edifice of OOP collapses into ornament without architecture.

In his words, “programming in the small” represents the intimate act of creating — the small routines, the simple functions, the precise dance between cause and effect. It is where the programmer learns discipline, the grammar of thought, the relationship between logic and consequence. “Programming in the large,” by contrast, is the domain of systems — vast and interconnected, where many minds must labor together. Wirth’s wisdom reminds us that one cannot govern the large without understanding the small. It is the same lesson the ancients taught in the academies of Greece: that to rule a city, one must first learn to govern oneself; to command armies, one must first master the spear.

The meaning of Wirth’s teaching extends far beyond the realm of computation. It speaks to the eternal order of learning — that knowledge must grow organically, each level rooted in the mastery of the one below. In every discipline, the temptation of our age is to skip the foundations — to chase the tools of mastery without the patience of apprenticeship. The young programmer, eager to build great systems, forgets the purity of the loop, the clarity of the function. The musician, impatient to compose symphonies, neglects the scales that give music its bones. But wisdom, Wirth reminds us, demands humility. To ascend the mountain of understanding, one must begin with the first step and honor it fully.

History offers many warnings to those who ignore this order. In the great Library of Alexandria, scholars once attempted to master all knowledge without anchoring their curiosity in practical understanding. They built grand theories but lost touch with the simple realities of craft and observation — and when the fires came, all was lost. So too, in modern times, entire technologies have failed because their builders reached too high, too fast, constructing systems so vast and fragile that they could not stand. Wirth’s statement is thus not a rejection of innovation, but a call to balance — to build upward, but always from strength. For only knowledge that grows in layers, like the rings of a tree, can endure the storms of time.

The lesson of this quote, therefore, is one of patience and structure. Whatever you build — whether it be code, a craft, a career, or a life — begin small, and master the foundations. Learn not only the techniques, but the principles that give them life. In programming, this means understanding logic before abstraction, function before framework. In life, it means learning discipline before ambition, humility before mastery. For only when the roots are deep can the branches reach the heavens.

So let us remember, as Wirth did, that greatness is a pyramid: its peak is nothing without the strength of its base. The true craftsman, whether of code or of character, builds slowly, layer by layer, with reverence for the fundamentals. When we understand this, we realize that “programming in the large” — or living in the large — is not an escape from the small, but its continuation. And in that revelation lies the timeless truth of all creation: that the wisdom of the whole is born from the mastery of the part, and that every enduring structure — whether a cathedral, a civilization, or a soul — is built from sound knowledge of the foundations beneath it.