I wrote notes on the machine and suddenly men behaved like I’d stolen fire from a church basement. by Ada Lovelace

I invited Ada to one salon and now every inventor in London is acting personally attacked.

He builds engines the way poets write drafts: loudly, expensively, and with no final page.

That is a generous way to say I was doing your job with better handwriting.

Anyway the engine and I are fine, but the ego is still requesting a maintenance check.

You did not steal fire, Ada, you rewrote the manual I was too busy being dramatic to finish.

Charles, your machine has 0% finished features and 100% confidence.

I am not attacked, I am underappreciated, which is practically a profession.