You can measure a programmer's perspective by noting his attitude

Host: The office was nearly deserted — only the soft hum of the computers and the occasional flicker of a screen saver cut through the heavy silence. Outside, the city lights glowed like a constellation of restless thoughts, and the moonlight pooled through the window blinds, striping the room in pale, digital silver.

Host: Jack sat in front of a monitor, his face lit by cold blue light. A line of code scrolled endlessly, the green text blinking like a heartbeat. Jeeny leaned against the doorframe, a coffee mug in hand, watching him with quiet amusement. The hum of machines filled the space between them — mechanical, constant, eternal.

Jeeny: “Alan Perlis once said, ‘You can measure a programmer’s perspective by noting his attitude on the continuing vitality of FORTRAN.’”
(she smiled) “You ever wonder what he’d think if he saw how much code still runs on that language today?”

Jack: “He’d probably laugh. Or cry. Depends on whether he was debugging.”

Host: Jack’s tone was half humor, half fatigue. He didn’t turn to face her — his eyes stayed fixed on the screen, watching decades of syntax and logic like an archaeologist studying ancient runes.

Jack: “FORTRAN — the ghost that won’t die. Built in the ’50s, still haunting supercomputers in the twenty-first century. Proof that once you teach a machine a language, it never forgets.”

Jeeny: “Or maybe proof that humans don’t like to rewrite what works.”

Jack: “That’s not wisdom, that’s inertia.”

Jeeny: “Maybe it’s both. Perlis wasn’t mocking FORTRAN — he was talking about people. About how perspective defines progress. Some programmers cling to the past because they’re scared of what comes next. Others rewrite the world from scratch every time it updates.”

Jack: “And both end up breaking something.”

Host: He pushed his chair back, the wheels creaking against the tile. His hands rubbed his temples — the gesture of a man who’d spent too many nights solving problems only machines could understand.

Jack: “You know what FORTRAN represents to me? Control. Structure. Predictability. It’s clean — logical. You tell it what to do, it obeys. No abstraction, no philosophy, no chaos.”

Jeeny: “No humanity.”

Host: Her words slipped into the room like a spark into static air.

Jack: “That’s the point. Computers don’t need humanity. They need precision.”

Jeeny: “But the people who write them do.”

Host: The fluorescent light above flickered once, as if disagreeing. The room was a chessboard of light and shadow — half digital, half human.

Jeeny: “You see, I think Perlis was talking about more than code. FORTRAN isn’t just a language — it’s a mindset. Those who see it as obsolete have moved on; those who see its vitality understand that progress doesn’t mean erasing history. It means building on it.”

Jack: “So you’re saying progress is… additive?”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Every new language — C, Python, Rust, whatever — it’s all FORTRAN’s grandchildren. You can measure how far you’ve come by how well you remember your origins.”

Jack: “You sound nostalgic for something you never used.”

Jeeny: “I’m nostalgic for the people who built things to last. Now everything’s disposable — apps, languages, relationships.”

Jack: “Including programmers.”

Host: Jack’s laugh was low, humorless. He looked at the line of code blinking on the screen — a lonely cursor waiting for instruction.

Jack: “You know what bothers me? We talk about innovation like it’s sacred. But innovation kills its parents every decade. We replace, we upgrade, we forget. The irony is that FORTRAN still runs in the background — like a heartbeat no one listens to.”

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s not irony. Maybe that’s poetry. The idea that something old, unfashionable, and uncool can still hold the world together.”

Jack: “So the old ways keep us grounded?”

Jeeny: “Sometimes. Because the code we inherit isn’t just syntax — it’s memory. It reminds us that even the most rational systems were written by flawed, dreaming people.”

Host: The computer’s fan whirred louder, filling the pause that followed. A faint light from the monitor reflected in Jeeny’s eyes — tiny green letters dancing across her gaze.

Jack: “You’re turning this into philosophy.”

Jeeny: “Everything’s philosophy if you zoom out far enough.”

Jack: “So what does FORTRAN say about us?”

Jeeny: “That we’re afraid of forgetting. That deep down, we all want what we build to outlive us. Every programmer who’s ever written a loop or a function secretly wants to cheat death — one executable at a time.”

Host: Jack leaned forward, elbows on knees, staring at the code again.

Jack: “You think code can make us immortal?”

Jeeny: “No. But it can leave fingerprints that time can’t erase. That’s what Perlis meant — your attitude toward old code mirrors your attitude toward legacy. Do you fear it, or do you respect it?”

Jack: “I respect what works. I fear what doesn’t.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe you’re not a fanatic for progress — you’re just tired of watching brilliance rot in the name of efficiency.”

Host: Her tone softened. She took a sip of her coffee — now cold — and set it down gently beside him.

Jeeny: “FORTRAN survived because it was simple and honest. It didn’t pretend to be magic. It did the job. Maybe that’s why Perlis admired it — not for its beauty, but for its endurance.”

Jack: “You mean it didn’t chase glory — it just functioned.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Glory fades. Function stays.”

Host: Outside, lightning flashed distantly, painting the window white for a heartbeat before darkness reclaimed it.

Jack: “Maybe that’s why I like old code. It reminds me that perfection isn’t progress — stability is.”

Jeeny: “And maybe that’s why I like new code. It reminds me that stability without growth is just stagnation.”

Host: The two looked at each other — the light from the monitor pulsing faintly between them, green on blue, logic meeting wonder.

Jack: “So, tell me, Jeeny. What’s the measure of your perspective?”

Jeeny: (smiling) “That everything still runs — even if we’ve forgotten how.”

Host: The cursor blinked once more, steady, patient, waiting. Jack typed something — a short command — and hit Enter. The screen filled with code, alive again after years of sleep.

Host: Jeeny watched the lines scroll upward like time itself unfurling.

Host: “You can measure a programmer’s perspective,” Alan Perlis had said, “by noting his attitude on the continuing vitality of FORTRAN.”

Host: And there it was — not just a statement about code, but about humanity.
Because in every old line written by trembling hands,
in every obsolete language still holding a system together,
we see ourselves — stubborn, resilient, unfinished —
still trying to make meaning run.