
	Now she speaks rapidly.  "Do you know *why* you want to program?"
	He shakes his head.  He hasn't the faintest idea.
	"For the sheer *joy* of programming!" she cries triumphantly.  
"The joy of the parent, the artist, the craftsman.  "You take a program, 
born weak and impotent as a dimly-realized solution.  You nurture the 
program and guide it down the right path, building, watching it grow ever 
stronger.  Sometimes you paint with tiny strokes, a keystroke added here, 
a keystroke changed there."  She sweeps her arm in a wide arc.  "And other
times you savage whole *blocks* of code, ripping out the program's very 
*essence*, then beginning anew.  But always building, creating, filling the 
program with your own personal stamp, your own quirks and nuances.  Watching 
the program grow stronger, patching it when it crashes, until finally it can 
stand alone -- proud, powerful, and perfect.  This is the programmer's finest
hour!"  Softly at first, then louder, he hears the strains of a Sousa march. 
"This ... this is your canvas! your clay!  Go forth and create a masterwork!"
