They have always existed, severe melancholics, those for whom perfection is an attainable goal. The monks lock themselves away with their craft to the exclusion of what we would call normal. Are these noble endeavors, to cloister oneself far away from the distractions of human life? They chose a lifetime of solitude, silence, rigorous study, self denial, not for ignorant religious reasons, but for the sake of their craft. These were the ones who preserved history, recorded deeds, transcribed knowledge and kept it safe for posterity. They wrote great works of philosophy, theology, and science. They were the maladjusted geeks of their generation, so they hid themselves away from the frat boys.
Still, I can't help but feel a sort of pity for those so ill equipped to deal with the stupidity and chaos of human existence that they must flee from it. I cannot help but feel like they've missed out on something, they who lock themselves away from humanity in search of order, perfections, the divine.
I get the same feeling reading Slashdot, and I've come to realize that programmers are our modern monks, quasi agoraphobic masters of their craft, who wish strike out all discord in the universe, make it perfect.
More specifically, these Slashdotters generally cannot tolerate children, are set on never having any and express disdain for those ignorant souls in the majority, the stupid politicians, the idiot masses, the uneducated fools that hurt the environment, muck up the order, impinge on our monks' solitude. The disdain is expressed in a variety of manners, from a quick sharp word to the author of a factually incorrect statement, to the merciless flagellation of abusers of grammar or spelling. Slashdotters revile rules imposed upon themselves, limitations that rob from them the tools used to create order. Witness the rebellion in both Europe and the US over software patents. Programmers regard source code as speech, and to patent it, to limit it, is tantamount to a civil rights violation. Slashdotters hate spammers as well, these idiot purveyors of Viagra, cheap real estate, and get rich schemes withhold from our programmers free and open communication with their fellows. It is as if all across the silent monastery rang the din of Brittney Spears 24/7.
Happiness is irrelevant. There is only truth. There is only perfection, and to the monk, perfection is attainable, if only he could concentrate on it a bit harder, for a bit longer, with the right tools, away... from... it... all.
I have come to realize that my pity is misplaced, for the monks of our generation, as in generations past, are who they are and are compelled to embark upon their quest to attain the unattainable. They are the dreamers, the philosophers, the unreasonable forces in the universe that create, if not perfection, at least a detailed map of what it might look like. And that is a start, for without a map, how may we know where to go, what to do with ourselves?