What's in an Emacs Lambda

There was recently some interesting discussion about correctly using backquotes to express a mixture of data and code. Since lambda expressions seem to evaluate to themselves, what’s the difference? For example, an association list of operations:

'((add . (lambda (a b) (+ a b)))
  (sub . (lambda (a b) (- a b)))
  (mul . (lambda (a b) (* a b)))
  (div . (lambda (a b) (/ a b))))

It looks like it would work, and indeed it does work in this case. However, there are good reasons to actually evaluate those lambda expressions. Eventually invoking the lambda expressions in the quoted form above are equivalent to using eval. So, instead, prefer the backquote form:

`((add . ,(lambda (a b) (+ a b)))
  (sub . ,(lambda (a b) (- a b)))
  (mul . ,(lambda (a b) (* a b)))
  (div . ,(lambda (a b) (/ a b))))

There are a lot of interesting things to say about this, but let’s first reduce it to two very simple cases:

(lambda (x) x)

'(lambda (x) x)

What’s the difference between these two forms? The first is a lambda expression, and it evaluates to a function object. The other is a quoted list that looks like a lambda expression, and it evaluates to a list — a piece of data.

A naive evaluation of these expressions in *scratch* (C-x C-e) suggests they are are identical, and so it would seem that quoting a lambda expression doesn’t really matter:

(lambda (x) x)
;; => (lambda (x) x)

'(lambda (x) x)
;; => (lambda (x) x)

However, there are two common situations where this is not the case: byte compilation and lexical scope.

Lambda under byte compilation

It’s a little trickier to evaluate these forms byte compiled in the scratch buffer since that doesn’t happen automatically. But if it did, it would look like this:

;;; -*- lexical-binding: nil; -*-

(lambda (x) x)
;; => #[(x) "\010\207" [x] 1]

'(lambda (x) x)
;; => (lambda (x) x)

The #[...] is the syntax for a byte-code function object. As discussed in detail in my byte-code internals article, it’s a special vector object that contains byte-code, and other metadata, for evaluation by Emacs’ virtual stack machine. Elisp is one of very few languages with readable function objects, and this feature is core to its ahead-of-time byte compilation.

The quote, by definition, prevents evaluation, and so inhibits byte compilation of the lambda expression. It’s vital that the byte compiler does not try to guess the programmer’s intent and compile the expression anyway, since that would interfere with lists that just so happen to look like lambda expressions — i.e. any list containing the lambda symbol.

There are three reasons you want your lambda expressions to get byte compiled:

While it’s common for personal configurations to skip byte compilation, Elisp should still generally be written as if it were going to be byte compiled. General rule of thumb: Ensure your lambda expressions are actually evaluated.

Lambda in lexical scope

As I’ve stressed many times, you should always use lexical scope. There’s no practical disadvantage or trade-off involved. Just do it.

Once lexical scope is enabled, the two expressions diverge even without byte compilation:

;;; -*- lexical-binding: t; -*-

(lambda (x) x)
;; => (closure (t) (x) x)

'(lambda (x) x)
;; => (lambda (x) x)

Under lexical scope, lambda expressions evaluate to closures. Closures capture their lexical environment in their closure object — nothing in this particular case. It’s a type of function object, making it a valid first argument to funcall.

Since the quote prevents the second expression from being evaluated, semantically it evaluates to a list that just so happens to look like a (non-closure) function object. Invoking a data object as a function is like using eval — i.e. executing data as code. Everyone already knows eval should not be used lightly.

It’s a little more interesting to look at a closure that actually captures a variable, so here’s a definition for constantly, a higher-order function that returns a closure that accepts any number of arguments and returns a particular constant:

(defun constantly (x)
  (lambda (&rest _) x))

Without byte compiling it, here’s an example of its return value:

(constantly :foo)
;; => (closure ((x . :foo) t) (&rest _) x)

The environment has been captured as an association list (with a trailing t), and we can plainly see that the variable x is bound to the symbol :foo in this closure. Consider that we could manipulate this data structure (e.g. setcdr or setf) to change the binding of x for this closure. This is essentially how closures mutate their own environment. Moreover, closures from the same environment share structure, so such mutations are also shared. More on this later.

Semantically, closures are distinct objects (via eq), even if the variables they close over are bound to the same value. This is because they each have a distinct environment attached to them, even if in some invisible way.

(eq (constantly :foo) (constantly :foo))
;; => nil

Without byte compilation, this is true even when there’s no lexical environment to capture:

(defun dummy ()
  (lambda () t))

(eq (dummy) (dummy))
;; => nil

The byte compiler is smart, though. As an optimization, the same closure object is reused when possible, avoiding unnecessary work, including multiple object allocations. Though this is a bit of an abstraction leak. A function can (ab)use this to introspect whether it’s been byte compiled:

(defun have-i-been-compiled-p ()
  (let ((funcs (vector nil nil)))
    (dotimes (i 2)
      (setf (aref funcs i) (lambda ())))
    (eq (aref funcs 0) (aref funcs 1))))

;; => nil

(byte-compile 'have-i-been-compiled-p)

;; => t

The trick here is to evaluate the exact same non-capturing lambda expression twice, which requires a loop (or at least some sort of branch). Semantically we should think of these closures as being distinct objects, but, if we squint our eyes a bit, we can see the effects of the behind-the-scenes optimization.

Don’t actually do this in practice, of course. That’s what byte-code-function-p is for, which won’t rely on a subtle implementation detail.


I mentioned before that one of the potential gotchas of not byte compiling your lambda expressions is overcapturing closure variables in the interpreter.

To evaluate lisp code, Emacs has both an interpreter and a virtual machine. The interpreter evaluates code in list form: cons cells, numbers, symbols, etc. The byte compiler is like the interpreter, but instead of directly executing those forms, it emits byte-code that, when evaluated by the virtual machine, produces identical visible results to the interpreter — in theory.

What this means is that Emacs contains two different implementations of Emacs Lisp, one in the interpreter and one in the byte compiler. The Emacs developers have been maintaining and expanding these implementations side-by-side for decades. A pitfall to this approach is that the implementations can, and do, diverge in their behavior. We saw this above with that introspective function, and it comes up in practice with advice.

Another way they diverge is in closure variable capture. For example:

;;; -*- lexical-binding: t; -*-

(defun overcapture (x y)
  (when y
    (lambda () x)))

(overcapture :x :some-big-value)
;; => (closure ((y . :some-big-value) (x . :x) t) nil x)

Notice that the closure captured y even though it’s unnecessary. This is because the interpreter doesn’t, and shouldn’t, take the time to analyze the body of the lambda to determine which variables should be captured. That would need to happen at run-time each time the lambda is evaluated, which would make the interpreter much slower. Overcapturing can get pretty messy if macros are introducing their own hidden variables.

On the other hand, the byte compiler can do this analysis just once at compile-time. And it’s already doing the analysis as part of its job. It can avoid this problem easily:

(overcapture :x :some-big-value)
;; => #[0 "\300\207" [:x] 1]

It’s clear that :some-big-value isn’t present in the closure.

But… how does this work?

How byte compiled closures are constructed

Recall from the internals article that the four core elements of a byte-code function object are:

  1. Parameter specification
  2. Byte-code string (opcodes)
  3. Constants vector
  4. Maximum stack usage

While a closure seems like compiling a whole new function each time the lambda expression is evaluated, there’s actually not that much to it! Namely, the behavior of the function remains the same. Only the closed-over environment changes.

What this means is that closures produced by a common lambda expression can all share the same byte-code string (second element). Their bodies are identical, so they compile to the same byte-code. Where they differ are in their constants vector (third element), which gets filled out according to the closed over environment. It’s clear just from examining the outputs:

(constantly :a)
;; => #[128 "\300\207" [:a] 2]

(constantly :b)
;; => #[128 "\300\207" [:b] 2]

constantly has three of the four components of the closure in its own constant pool. Its job is to construct the constants vector, and then assemble the whole thing into a byte-code function object (#[...]). Here it is with M-x disassemble:

0       constant  make-byte-code
1       constant  128
2       constant  "\300\207"
4       constant  vector
5       stack-ref 4
6       call      1
7       constant  2
8       call      4
9       return

(Note: since byte compiler doesn’t produce perfectly optimal code, I’ve simplified it for this discussion.)

It pushes most of its constants on the stack. Then the stack-ref 5 (5) puts x on the stack. Then it calls vector to create the constants vector (6). Finally, it constructs the function object (#[...]) by calling make-byte-code (8).

Since this might be clearer, here’s the same thing expressed back in terms of Elisp:

(defun constantly (x)
  (make-byte-code 128 "\300\207" (vector x) 2))

To see the disassembly of the closure’s byte-code:

(disassemble (constantly :x))

The result isn’t very surprising:

0       constant  :x
1       return

Things get a little more interesting when mutation is involved. Consider this adder closure generator, which mutates its environment every time it’s called:

(defun adder ()
  (let ((total 0))
    (lambda () (cl-incf total))))

(let ((count (adder)))
  (funcall count)
  (funcall count)
  (funcall count))
;; => 3

;; => #[0 "\300\211\242T\240\207" [(0)] 2]

The adder essentially works like this:

(defun adder ()
  (make-byte-code 0 "\300\211\242T\240\207" (vector (list 0)) 2))

In theory, this closure could operate by mutating its constants vector directly. But that wouldn’t be much of a constants vector, now would it!? Instead, mutated variables are boxed inside a cons cell. Closures don’t share constant vectors, so the main reason for boxing is to share variables between closures from the same environment. That is, they have the same cons in each of their constant vectors.

There’s no equivalent Elisp for the closure in adder, so here’s the disassembly:

0       constant  (0)
1       dup
2       car-safe
3       add1
4       setcar
5       return

It puts two references to boxed integer on the stack (constant, dup), unboxes the top one (car-safe), increments that unboxed integer, stores it back in the box (setcar) via the bottom reference, leaving the incremented value behind to be returned.

This all gets a little more interesting when closures interact:

(defun fancy-adder ()
  (let ((total 0))
    `(:add ,(lambda () (cl-incf total))
      :set ,(lambda (v) (setf total v))
      :get ,(lambda () total))))

(let ((counter (fancy-adder)))
  (funcall (plist-get counter :set) 100)
  (funcall (plist-get counter :add))
  (funcall (plist-get counter :add))
  (funcall (plist-get counter :get)))
;; => 102

;; => (:add #[0 "\300\211\242T\240\207" [(0)] 2]
;;     :set #[257 "\300\001\240\207" [(0)] 3]
;;     :get #[0 "\300\242\207" [(0)] 1])

This is starting to resemble object oriented programming, with methods acting upon fields stored in a common, closed-over environment.

All three closures share a common variable, total. Since I didn’t use print-circle, this isn’t obvious from the last result, but each of those (0) conses are the same object. When one closure mutates the box, they all see the change. Here’s essentially how fancy-adder is transformed by the byte compiler:

(defun fancy-adder ()
  (let ((box (list 0)))
    (list :add (make-byte-code 0 "\300\211\242T\240\207" (vector box) 2)
          :set (make-byte-code 257 "\300\001\240\207" (vector box) 3)
          :get (make-byte-code 0 "\300\242\207" (vector box) 1))))

The backquote in the original fancy-adder brings this article full circle. This final example wouldn’t work correctly if those lambdas weren’t evaluated properly.

Initial Evaluation of the Windows Subsystem for Linux

Recently I had my first experiences with the Windows Subsystem for Linux (WSL), evaluating its potential as an environment for getting work done. This subsystem, introduced to Windows 10 in August 2016, allows Windows to natively run x86 and x86-64 Linux binaries. It’s essentially the counterpart to Wine, which allows Linux to natively run Windows binaries.

WSL interfaces with Linux programs only at the kernel level, servicing system calls the same way the Linux kernel would. The subsystem’s main job is translating Linux system calls into NT requests. There’s a series of articles about its internals if you’re interested in learning more.

I was honestly impressed by how well this all works, especially since Microsoft has long had an affinity for producing flimsy imitations (Windows console, PowerShell, Arial, etc.). WSL’s design allows Microsoft to dump an Ubuntu system wholesale inside Windows — and, more recently, other Linux distributions — bypassing a bunch of annoying issues, particularly in regards to glibc.

WSL processes can exec(2) Windows binaries, which then run in under their appropriate subsystem, similar to binfmt on Linux. In theory this nice interop should allow for some automation Linux-style even for Windows’ services and programs. More on that later.

There are some notable issues, though.

Lack of device emulation

No soundcard devices are exposed to the subsystem, so Linux programs can’t play sound. There’s a hack to talk PulseAudio with a Windows’ process that can access, but that’s about it. Generally there’s not much reason to be playing media or games under WSL, but this can be an annoyance if you’re, say, writing software that synthesizes audio.

Really, there’s almost no device emulation at all and /proc is pretty empty. You won’t see hard drives or removable media under /dev, nor will you see USB devices like webcams and joysticks. A lot of the useful things you might do on a Linux system aren’t available under WSL.

No Filesystem in Userspace (FUSE)

Microsoft hasn’t implemented any of the system calls for FUSE, so don’t expect to use your favorite userspace filesystems. The biggest loss for me is sshfs, which I use frequently.

If FUSE was supported, it would be interesting to see how the rest of Windows interacts with these mounted filesystems, if at all.

Fragile services

Services running under WSL are flaky. The big issue is that when the initial WSL shell process exits, all WSL processes are killed and the entire subsystem is torn down. This includes any services that are running. That’s certainly surprising to anyone with experience running services on any kind of unix system. This is probably the worst part of WSL.

While systemd is the standard for Linux these days and may even be “installed” in the WSL virtual filesystem, it’s not actually running and you can’t use systemctl to interact with services. Services can only be controlled the old fashioned way, and, per above, that initial WSL console window has to remain open while services are running.

That’s a bit of a damper if you’re intending to spend a lot of time remotely SSHing into your Windows 10 system. So yes, it’s trivial to run an OpenSSH server under WSL, but it won’t feel like a proper system service.

Limited graphics support

WSL doesn’t come with an X server, so you have to supply one separately (Xming, etc.) that runs outside WSL, as a normal Windows process. WSL processes can connect to that server (DISPLAY) allowing you to run most Linux graphical software.

However, this means there’s no hardware acceleration. There will be no GLX extensions available. If your goal is to run the Emacs or Vim GUIs, that’s not a big deal, but it might matter if you were interested in running a browser under WSL. It also means it’s not a suitable environment for developing software using OpenGL.

Filesystem woes

The filesystem manages to be both one of the smallest issues as well as one of the biggest.

Filename translation

On the small issue side is filename translation. Under most Linux filesystems — and even more broadly for unix — a filename is just a bytestring. They’re not necessarily UTF-8 or any other particular encoding, and that’s partly why filenames are case-sensitive — the meaning of case depends on the encoding.

However, Windows uses a pseudo-UTF-16 scheme for filenames, incompatible with bytestrings. Since WSL lives within a Windows’ filesystem, there must be some bijection between bytestring filenames and pseudo-UTF-16 filenames. It will also have to reject filenames that can’t be mapped. WSL does both.

I couldn’t find any formal documentation about how filename translation works, but most of it can be reverse engineered through experimentation. In practice, Linux filenames are UTF-8 encoded strings, and WSL’s translation takes advantage of this. Filenames are decoded as UTF-8 and re-encoded as UTF-16 for Windows. Any byte that doesn’t decode as valid UTF-8 is silently converted to REPLACEMENT CHARACTER (U+FFFD), and decoding continues from the next byte.

I wonder if there are security consequences for different filenames silently mapping to the same underlying file.

Exercise for the reader: How is an unmatched surrogate half from Windows translated to WSL, where it doesn’t have a UTF-8 equivalent? I haven’t tried this yet.

Even for valid UTF-8, there are many bytes that most Linux filesystems allow in filenames that Windows does not. This ranges from simple things like ASCII backslash and colon — special components of Windows’ paths — to unusual characters like newlines, escape, and other ASCII control characters. There are two different ways these are handled:

  1. The C drive is available under /mnt/c, and WSL processes can access regular Windows files under this “mountpoint.” Attempting to access filenames with invalid characters under this mountpoint always results in ENOENT: “No such file or directory.”

  2. Outside of /mnt/c is WSL territory, and Windows processes aren’t supposed to touch these files. This allows for more freedom when translating filenames. REPLACEMENT CHARACTER is still used for invalid UTF-8 sequences, but the forbidden characters, including backslashes, are all permitted. They’re translated to #XXXX where X is hexadecimal for the normally invalid character. For example, a:b becomes a#003Ab.

While WSL doesn’t let you get away with all the crazy, ill-advised filenames that Linux allows, it’s still quite reasonable. Since Windows and Linux filenames aren’t entirely compatible, there’s going to be some trade-off no matter how this translation is done.

Filesystem performance

On the other hand, filesystem performance is abysmal, and I doubt the subsystem is to blame. This isn’t a surprise to anyone who’s used moderately-sized Git repositories on Windows, where the large numbers of loose files brings things to a crawl. This has been a Windows issue for years, and that’s even before you start plugging in the typically “security” services — virus scanners, whitelists, etc. — that are typically present on a Windows system and make this even worse.

To test out WSL, I went around my normal business compiling tools and making myself at home, just as I would on Linux. Doing nearly anything in WSL was noticably slower than doing the same on Linux on the exact same hardware. I didn’t run any benchmarks, but I’d expect to see around an order of magnitude difference on average for filesystem operations. Building LLVM and Clang took a couple hours rather than the typical 20 minutes.

I don’t expect this issue to get fixed anytime soon, and it’s probably always going to be a notable limitation of WSL.

So is WSL useful?

One of my hopes for WSL appears to be unfeasible. I thought it might be a way to avoid porting software from POSIX to Win32. I could just supply Windows users with the same Linux binary and they’d be fine. However, WSL requires switching Windows into a special “developer mode,” putting it well out of reach of the vast majority of users, especially considering the typical corporate computing environment that will lock this down. In practice, WSL is only useful to developers. I’m sure this is no accident. (Developer mode is no longer required as of October 2017.)

Mostly I see WSL as a Cygwin killer. Unix is my IDE and, on Windows, Cygwin has been my preferred go to for getting a solid unix environment for software development. Unlike WSL, Cygwin processes can make direct Win32 calls, which is occasionally useful. But, in exchange, WSL will overall be better equipped. It has native Linux tools, including a better suite of debugging tools — even better than you get in Windows itself — Valgrind, strace, and properly-working GDB (always been flaky in Cygwin). WSL is not nearly as good as actual Linux, but it’s better than Cygwin if you can get access to it.

Render Multimedia in Pure C

In a previous article I demonstrated video filtering with C and a unix pipeline. Thanks to the ubiquitous support for the ridiculously simple Netpbm formats — specifically the “Portable PixMap” (.ppm, P6) binary format — it’s trivial to parse and produce image data in any language without image libraries. Video decoders and encoders at the ends of the pipeline do the heavy lifting of processing the complicated video formats actually used to store and transmit video.

Naturally this same technique can be used to produce new video in a simple program. All that’s needed are a few functions to render artifacts — lines, shapes, etc. — to an RGB buffer. With a bit of basic sound synthesis, the same concept can be applied to create audio in a separate audio stream — in this case using the simple (but not as simple as Netpbm) WAV format. Put them together and a small, standalone program can create multimedia.

Here’s the demonstration video I’ll be going through in this article. It animates and visualizes various in-place sorting algorithms (see also). The elements are rendered as colored dots, ordered by hue, with red at 12 o’clock. A dot’s distance from the center is proportional to its corresponding element’s distance from its correct position. Each dot emits a sinusoidal tone with a unique frequency when it swaps places in a particular frame.

Original credit for this visualization concept goes to w0rthy.

All of the source code (less than 600 lines of C), ready to run, can be found here:

On any modern computer, rendering is real-time, even at 60 FPS, so you may be able to pipe the program’s output directly into your media player of choice. (If not, consider getting a better media player!)

$ ./sort | mpv --no-correct-pts --fps=60 -

VLC requires some help from ppmtoy4m:

$ ./sort | ppmtoy4m -F60:1 | vlc -

Or you can just encode it to another format. Recent versions of libavformat can input PPM images directly, which means x264 can read the program’s output directly:

$ ./sort | x264 --fps 60 -o video.mp4 /dev/stdin

By default there is no audio output. I wish there was a nice way to embed audio with the video stream, but this requires a container and that would destroy all the simplicity of this project. So instead, the -a option captures the audio in a separate file. Use ffmpeg to combine the audio and video into a single media file:

$ ./sort -a audio.wav | x264 --fps 60 -o video.mp4 /dev/stdin
$ ffmpeg -i video.mp4 -i audio.wav -vcodec copy -acodec mp3 \

You might think you’ll be clever by using mkfifo (i.e. a named pipe) to pipe both audio and video into ffmpeg at the same time. This will only result in a deadlock since neither program is prepared for this. One will be blocked writing one stream while the other is blocked reading on the other stream.

Several years ago my intern and I used the exact same pure C rendering technique to produce these raytracer videos:

I also used this technique to illustrate gap buffers.

Pixel format and rendering

This program really only has one purpose: rendering a sorting video with a fixed, square resolution. So rather than write generic image rendering functions, some assumptions will be hard coded. For example, the video size will just be hard coded and assumed square, making it simpler and faster. I chose 800x800 as the default:

#define S     800

Rather that define some sort of color struct with red, green, and blue fields, color will be represented by a 24-bit integer (long). I arbitrarily chose red to be the most significant 8 bits. This has nothing to do with the order of the individual channels in Netpbm since these integers are never dumped out. (This would have stupid byte-order issues anyway.) “Color literals” are particularly convenient and familiar in this format. For example, the constant for pink: 0xff7f7fUL.

In practice the color channels will be operated upon separately, so here are a couple of helper functions to convert the channels between this format and normalized floats (0.0–1.0).

static void
rgb_split(unsigned long c, float *r, float *g, float *b)
    *r = ((c >> 16) / 255.0f);
    *g = (((c >> 8) & 0xff) / 255.0f);
    *b = ((c & 0xff) / 255.0f);

static unsigned long
rgb_join(float r, float g, float b)
    unsigned long ir = roundf(r * 255.0f);
    unsigned long ig = roundf(g * 255.0f);
    unsigned long ib = roundf(b * 255.0f);
    return (ir << 16) | (ig << 8) | ib;

Originally I decided the integer form would be sRGB, and these functions handled the conversion to and from sRGB. Since it had no noticeable effect on the output video, I discarded it. In more sophisticated rendering you may want to take this into account.

The RGB buffer where images are rendered is just a plain old byte buffer with the same pixel format as PPM. The ppm_set() function writes a color to a particular pixel in the buffer, assumed to be S by S pixels. The complement to this function is ppm_get(), which will be needed for blending.

static void
ppm_set(unsigned char *buf, int x, int y, unsigned long color)
    buf[y * S * 3 + x * 3 + 0] = color >> 16;
    buf[y * S * 3 + x * 3 + 1] = color >>  8;
    buf[y * S * 3 + x * 3 + 2] = color >>  0;

static unsigned long
ppm_get(unsigned char *buf, int x, int y)
    unsigned long r = buf[y * S * 3 + x * 3 + 0];
    unsigned long g = buf[y * S * 3 + x * 3 + 1];
    unsigned long b = buf[y * S * 3 + x * 3 + 2];
    return (r << 16) | (g << 8) | b;

Since the buffer is already in the right format, writing an image is dead simple. I like to flush after each frame so that observers generally see clean, complete frames. It helps in debugging.

static void
ppm_write(const unsigned char *buf, FILE *f)
    fprintf(f, "P6\n%d %d\n255\n", S, S);
    fwrite(buf, S * 3, S, f);

Dot rendering

If you zoom into one of those dots, you may notice it has a nice smooth edge. Here’s one rendered at 30x the normal resolution. I did not render, then scale this image in another piece of software. This is straight out of the C program.

In an early version of this program I used a dumb dot rendering routine. It took a color and a hard, integer pixel coordinate. All the pixels within a certain distance of this coordinate were set to the color, everything else was left alone. This had two bad effects:

Instead the dot’s position is computed in floating point and is actually rendered as if it were between pixels. This is done with a shader-like routine that uses smoothstep — just as found in shader languages — to give the dot a smooth edge. That edge is blended into the image, whether that’s the background or a previously-rendered dot. The input to the smoothstep is the distance from the floating point coordinate to the center (or corner?) of the pixel being rendered, maintaining that between-pixel smoothness.

Rather than dump the whole function here, let’s look at it piece by piece. I have two new constants to define the inner dot radius and the outer dot radius. It’s smooth between these radii.

#define R0    (S / 400.0f)  // dot inner radius
#define R1    (S / 200.0f)  // dot outer radius

The dot-drawing function takes the image buffer, the dot’s coordinates, and its foreground color.

static void
ppm_dot(unsigned char *buf, float x, float y, unsigned long fgc);

The first thing to do is extract the color components.

    float fr, fg, fb;
    rgb_split(fgc, &fr, &fg, &fb);

Next determine the range of pixels over which the dot will be draw. These are based on the two radii and will be used for looping.

    int miny = floorf(y - R1 - 1);
    int maxy = ceilf(y + R1 + 1);
    int minx = floorf(x - R1 - 1);
    int maxx = ceilf(x + R1 + 1);

Here’s the loop structure. Everything else will be inside the innermost loop. The dx and dy are the floating point distances from the center of the dot.

    for (int py = miny; py <= maxy; py++) {
        float dy = py - y;
        for (int px = minx; px <= maxx; px++) {
            float dx = px - x;
            /* ... */

Use the x and y distances to compute the distance and smoothstep value, which will be the alpha. Within the inner radius the color is on 100%. Outside the outer radius it’s 0%. Elsewhere it’s something in between.

            float d = sqrtf(dy * dy + dx * dx);
            float a = smoothstep(R1, R0, d);

Get the background color, extract its components, and blend the foreground and background according to the computed alpha value. Finally write the pixel back into the buffer.

            unsigned long bgc = ppm_get(buf, px, py);
            float br, bg, bb;
            rgb_split(bgc, &br, &bg, &bb);

            float r = a * fr + (1 - a) * br;
            float g = a * fg + (1 - a) * bg;
            float b = a * fb + (1 - a) * bb;
            ppm_set(buf, px, py, rgb_join(r, g, b));

That’s all it takes to render a smooth dot anywhere in the image.

Rendering the array

The array being sorted is just a global variable. This simplifies some of the sorting functions since a few are implemented recursively. They can call for a frame to be rendered without needing to pass the full array. With the dot-drawing routine done, rendering a frame is easy:

#define N     360           // number of dots

static int array[N];

static void
    static unsigned char buf[S * S * 3];
    memset(buf, 0, sizeof(buf));
    for (int i = 0; i < N; i++) {
        float delta = abs(i - array[i]) / (N / 2.0f);
        float x = -sinf(i * 2.0f * PI / N);
        float y = -cosf(i * 2.0f * PI / N);
        float r = S * 15.0f / 32.0f * (1.0f - delta);
        float px = r * x + S / 2.0f;
        float py = r * y + S / 2.0f;
        ppm_dot(buf, px, py, hue(array[i]));
    ppm_write(buf, stdout);

The buffer is static since it will be rather large, especially if S is cranked up. Otherwise it’s likely to overflow the stack. The memset() fills it with black. If you wanted a different background color, here’s where you change it.

For each element, compute its delta from the proper array position, which becomes its distance from the center of the image. The angle is based on its actual position. The hue() function (not shown in this article) returns the color for the given element.

With the frame() function complete, all I need is a sorting function that calls frame() at appropriate times. Here are a couple of examples:

static void
shuffle(int array[N], uint64_t *rng)
    for (int i = N - 1; i > 0; i--) {
        uint32_t r = pcg32(rng) % (i + 1);
        swap(array, i, r);

static void
sort_bubble(int array[N])
    int c;
    do {
        c = 0;
        for (int i = 1; i < N; i++) {
            if (array[i - 1] > array[i]) {
                swap(array, i - 1, i);
                c = 1;
    } while (c);

Synthesizing audio

To add audio I need to keep track of which elements were swapped in this frame. When producing a frame I need to generate and mix tones for each element that was swapped.

Notice the swap() function above? That’s not just for convenience. That’s also how things are tracked for the audio.

static int swaps[N];

static void
swap(int a[N], int i, int j)
    int tmp = a[i];
    a[i] = a[j];
    a[j] = tmp;
    swaps[(a - array) + i]++;
    swaps[(a - array) + j]++;

Before we get ahead of ourselves I need to write a WAV header. Without getting into the purpose of each field, just note that the header has 13 fields, followed immediately by 16-bit little endian PCM samples. There will be only one channel (monotone).

#define HZ    44100         // audio sample rate

static void
wav_init(FILE *f)
    emit_u32be(0x52494646UL, f); // "RIFF"
    emit_u32le(0xffffffffUL, f); // file length
    emit_u32be(0x57415645UL, f); // "WAVE"
    emit_u32be(0x666d7420UL, f); // "fmt "
    emit_u32le(16,           f); // struct size
    emit_u16le(1,            f); // PCM
    emit_u16le(1,            f); // mono
    emit_u32le(HZ,           f); // sample rate (i.e. 44.1 kHz)
    emit_u32le(HZ * 2,       f); // byte rate
    emit_u16le(2,            f); // block size
    emit_u16le(16,           f); // bits per sample
    emit_u32be(0x64617461UL, f); // "data"
    emit_u32le(0xffffffffUL, f); // byte length

Rather than tackle the annoying problem of figuring out the total length of the audio ahead of time, I just wave my hands and write the maximum possible number of bytes (0xffffffff). Most software that can read WAV files will understand this to mean the entire rest of the file contains samples.

With the header out of the way all I have to do is write 1/60th of a second worth of samples to this file each time a frame is produced. That’s 735 samples (1,470 bytes) at 44.1kHz.

The simplest place to do audio synthesis is in frame() right after rendering the image.

#define FPS   60            // output framerate
#define MINHZ 20            // lowest tone
#define MAXHZ 1000          // highest tone

static void
    /* ... rendering ... */

    /* ... synthesis ... */

With the largest tone frequency at 1kHz, Nyquist says we only need to sample at 2kHz. 8kHz is a very common sample rate and gives some overhead space, making it a good choice. However, I found that audio encoding software was a lot happier to accept the standard CD sample rate of 44.1kHz, so I stuck with that.

The first thing to do is to allocate and zero a buffer for this frame’s samples.

    int nsamples = HZ / FPS;
    static float samples[HZ / FPS];
    memset(samples, 0, sizeof(samples));

Next determine how many “voices” there are in this frame. This is used to mix the samples by averaging them. If an element was swapped more than once this frame, it’s a little louder than the others — i.e. it’s played twice at the same time, in phase.

    int voices = 0;
    for (int i = 0; i < N; i++)
        voices += swaps[i];

Here’s the most complicated part. I use sinf() to produce the sinusoidal wave based on the element’s frequency. I also use a parabola as an envelope to shape the beginning and ending of this tone so that it fades in and fades out. Otherwise you get the nasty, high-frequency “pop” sound as the wave is given a hard cut off.

    for (int i = 0; i < N; i++) {
        if (swaps[i]) {
            float hz = i * (MAXHZ - MINHZ) / (float)N + MINHZ;
            for (int j = 0; j < nsamples; j++) {
                float u = 1.0f - j / (float)(nsamples - 1);
                float parabola = 1.0f - (u * 2 - 1) * (u * 2 - 1);
                float envelope = parabola * parabola * parabola;
                float v = sinf(j * 2.0f * PI / HZ * hz) * envelope;
                samples[j] += swaps[i] * v / voices;

Finally I write out each sample as a signed 16-bit value. I flush the frame audio just like I flushed the frame image, keeping them somewhat in sync from an outsider’s perspective.

    for (int i = 0; i < nsamples; i++) {
        int s = samples[i] * 0x7fff;
        emit_u16le(s, wav);

Before returning, reset the swap counter for the next frame.

    memset(swaps, 0, sizeof(swaps));

Font rendering

You may have noticed there was text rendered in the corner of the video announcing the sort function. There’s font bitmap data in font.h which gets sampled to render that text. It’s not terribly complicated, but you’ll have to study the code on your own to see how that works.

Learning more

This simple video rendering technique has served me well for some years now. All it takes is a bit of knowledge about rendering. I learned quite a bit just from watching Handmade Hero, where Casey writes a software renderer from scratch, then implements a nearly identical renderer with OpenGL. The more I learn about rendering, the better this technique works.

Before writing this post I spent some time experimenting with using a media player as a interface to a game. For example, rather than render the game using OpenGL or similar, render it as PPM frames and send it to the media player to be displayed, just as game consoles drive television sets. Unfortunately the latency is horrible — multiple seconds — so that idea just doesn’t work. So while this technique is fast enough for real time rendering, it’s no good for interaction.

Make Flet Great Again

Do you long for the days before Emacs 24.3 when flet was dynamically scoped? Well, you probably shouldn’t since there are some very good reasons lexical scope. But, still, a dynamically scoped flet is situationally really useful, particularly in unit testing. The good news is that it’s trivial to get this original behavior back without relying on deprecated functions nor third-party packages.

But first, what is flet and what does it mean for it to be dynamically scoped? The name stands for “function let” (or something to that effect). It’s a macro to bind named functions within a local scope, just as let binds variables within some local scope. It’s provided by the now-deprecated cl package.

(require 'cl)  ; deprecated!

(defun norm (x y)
  (flet ((square (v) (* v v)))
    (sqrt (+ (square x) (square y)))))

However, a gotcha here is that square is visible not just to the body of norm but also to any function called directly or indirectly from the flet body. That’s dynamic scope.

(flet ((sqrt (v) (/ v 2)))  ; close enough
  (norm 2 2))
;; -> 4

Note: This works because sqrt hasn’t (yet?) been assigned a bytecode opcode. One weakness with flet is that, due to being dynamically scoped, it is unable to define or override functions whose calls evaporate under byte compilation. For example, addition:

(defun add-with-flet ()
  (flet ((+ (&rest _) :override))
    (+ 1 2 3)))

;; -> :override

(funcall (byte-compile #'add-with-flet))
;; -> 6

Since + has its own opcode, the function call is eliminated under byte-compilation and flet can’t do its job. This is similar these same functions being unadvisable.

cl-lib and cl-flet

The cl-lib package introduced in Emacs 24.3, replacing cl, adds a namespace prefix, cl-, to all of these Common Lisp style functions. In most cases this was the only change. One exception is cl-flet, which has different semantics: It’s lexically scoped, just like in Common Lisp. Its bindings aren’t visible outside of the cl-flet body.

(require 'cl-lib)

(cl-flet ((sqrt (v) (/ v 2)))
  (norm 2 2))
;; -> 2.8284271247461903

In most cases this is what you actually want. The old flet subtly changes the environment for all functions called directly or indirectly from its body.

Besides being cleaner and less error prone, cl-flet also doesn’t have special exceptions for functions with assigned opcodes. At macro-expansion time it walks the body, taking its action before the byte-compiler can interfere.

(defun add-with-cl-flet ()
  (cl-flet ((+ (&rest _) :override))
    (+ 1 2 3)))

;; -> :override

(funcall (byte-compile #'add-with-cl-flet))
;; -> :override

In order for it to work properly, it’s essential that functions are quoted with sharp-quotes (#') so that the macro can tell the difference between functions and symbols. Just make a general habit of sharp-quoting functions.

In unit testing, temporarily overriding functions for all of Emacs is useful, so flet still has some uses. But it’s deprecated!

Unit testing with flet

Since Emacs can do anything, suppose there is an Emacs package that makes sandwiches. In this package there’s an interactive function to set the default sandwich cheese.

(defvar default-cheese 'cheddar)

(defun set-default-cheese (type)
   (let* ((options '("cheddar" "swiss" "american"))
          (input (completing-read "Cheese: " options nil t)))
     (when input
       (list (intern input)))))
  (setf default-cheese type))

Since it’s interactive, it uses completing-read to prompt the user for input. A unit test could call this function non-interactively, but perhaps we’d also like to test the interactive path. The code inside interactive occasionally gets messy and may warrant testing. It would obviously be inconvenient to prompt the user for input during testing, and it wouldn’t work at all in batch mode (-batch).

With flet we can stub out completing-read just for the unit test:

;;; -*- lexical-binding: t; -*-

(ert-deftest test-set-default-cheese ()
  ;; protect original with dynamic binding
  (let (default-cheese)
    ;; simulate user entering "american"
    (flet ((completing-read (&rest _) "american"))
      (call-interactively #'set-default-cheese)
      (should (eq 'american default-cheese)))))

Since default-cheese was defined with defvar, it will be dynamically scoped despite let normally using lexical scope in this example. Both of the side effects of the tested function — setting a global variable and prompting the user — are captured using a combination of let and flet.

Since cl-flet is lexically scoped, it cannot serve this purpose. If flet is deprecated and cl-flet can’t do the job, what’s the right way to fix it? The answer lies in generalized variables.


What’s really happening inside flet is it’s globally binding a function name to a different function, evaluating the body, and rebinding it back to the original definition when the body completes. It macro-expands to something like this:

(let ((original (symbol-function 'completing-read)))
  (setf (symbol-function 'completing-read)
        (lambda (&rest _) "american"))
      (call-interactively #'set-default-cheese)
    (setf (symbol-function 'completing-read) original)))

The unwind-protect ensures the original function is rebound even if the body of the call were to fail. This is very much a let-like pattern, and I’m using symbol-function as a generalized variable via setf. Is there a generalized variable version of let?

Yes! It’s called cl-letf! In this case the f suffix is analogous to the f suffix in setf. That form above can be reduced to a more general form:

(cl-letf (((symbol-function 'completing-read)
           (lambda (&rest _) "american")))
  (call-interactively #'set-default-cheese))

And that’s the way to reproduce the dynamically scoped behavior of flet since Emacs 24.3. There’s nothing complicated about it.

(ert-deftest test-set-default-cheese ()
  (let (default-cheese)
    (cl-letf (((symbol-function 'completing-read)
               (lambda (&rest _) "american")))
      (call-interactively #'set-default-cheese)
      (should (eq 'american default-cheese)))))

Keep in mind that this suffers the exact same problem with bytecode-assigned functions as flet, and for exactly the same reasons. If completing-read were to ever be assigned its own opcode then cl-letf would no longer work for this particular example.

A Branchless UTF-8 Decoder

This week I took a crack at writing a branchless UTF-8 decoder: a function that decodes a single UTF-8 code point from a byte stream without any if statements, loops, short-circuit operators, or other sorts of conditional jumps. You can find the source code here along with a test suite and benchmark:

In addition to decoding the next code point, it detects any errors and returns a pointer to the next code point. It’s the complete package.

Why branchless? Because high performance CPUs are pipelined. That is, a single instruction is executed over a series of stages, and many instructions are executed in overlapping time intervals, each at a different stage.

The usual analogy is laundry. You can have more than one load of laundry in process at a time because laundry is typically a pipelined process. There’s a washing machine stage, dryer stage, and folding stage. One load can be in the washer, a second in the drier, and a third being folded, all at once. This greatly increases throughput because, under ideal circumstances with a full pipeline, an instruction is completed each clock cycle despite any individual instruction taking many clock cycles to complete.

Branches are the enemy of pipelines. The CPU can’t begin work on the next instruction if it doesn’t know which instruction will be executed next. It must finish computing the branch condition before it can know. To deal with this, pipelined CPUs are also equipped with branch predictors. It makes a guess at which branch will be taken and begins executing instructions on that branch. The prediction is initially made using static heuristics, and later those predictions are improved by learning from previous behavior. This even includes predicting the number of iterations of a loop so that the final iteration isn’t mispredicted.

A mispredicted branch has two dire consequences. First, all the progress on the incorrect branch will need to be discarded. Second, the pipeline will be flushed, and the CPU will be inefficient until the pipeline fills back up with instructions on the correct branch. With a sufficiently deep pipeline, it can easily be more efficient to compute and discard an unneeded result than to avoid computing it in the first place. Eliminating branches means eliminating the hazards of misprediction.

Another hazard for pipelines is dependencies. If an instruction depends on the result of a previous instruction, it may have to wait for the previous instruction to make sufficient progress before it can complete one of its stages. This is known as a pipeline stall, and it is an important consideration in instruction set architecture (ISA) design.

For example, on the x86-64 architecture, storing a 32-bit result in a 64-bit register will automatically clear the upper 32 bits of that register. Any further use of that destination register cannot depend on prior instructions since all bits have been set. This particular optimization was missed in the design of the i386: Writing a 16-bit result to 32-bit register leaves the upper 16 bits intact, creating false dependencies.

Dependency hazards are mitigated using out-of-order execution. Rather than execute two dependent instructions back to back, which would result in a stall, the CPU may instead executing an independent instruction further away in between. A good compiler will also try to spread out dependent instructions in its own instruction scheduling.

The effects of out-of-order execution are typically not visible to a single thread, where everything will appear to have executed in order. However, when multiple processes or threads can access the same memory out-of-order execution can be observed. It’s one of the many challenges of writing multi-threaded software.

The focus of my UTF-8 decoder was to be branchless, but there was one interesting dependency hazard that neither GCC nor Clang were able to resolve themselves. More on that later.

What is UTF-8?

Without getting into the history of it, you can generally think of UTF-8 as a method for encoding a series of 21-bit integers (code points) into a stream of bytes.

Keeping in mind these two rules, the entire format is summarized by this table:

length byte[0]  byte[1]  byte[2]  byte[3]
1      0xxxxxxx
2      110xxxxx 10xxxxxx
3      1110xxxx 10xxxxxx 10xxxxxx
4      11110xxx 10xxxxxx 10xxxxxx 10xxxxxx

The x placeholders are the bits of the encoded code point.

UTF-8 has some really useful properties:

A straightforward approach to decoding might look something like this:

unsigned char *
utf8_simple(unsigned char *s, long *c)
    unsigned char *next;
    if (s[0] < 0x80) {
        *c = s[0];
        next = s + 1;
    } else if ((s[0] & 0xe0) == 0xc0) {
        *c = ((long)(s[0] & 0x1f) <<  6) |
             ((long)(s[1] & 0x3f) <<  0);
        next = s + 2;
    } else if ((s[0] & 0xf0) == 0xe0) {
        *c = ((long)(s[0] & 0x0f) << 12) |
             ((long)(s[1] & 0x3f) <<  6) |
             ((long)(s[2] & 0x3f) <<  0);
        next = s + 3;
    } else if ((s[0] & 0xf8) == 0xf0 && (s[0] <= 0xf4)) {
        *c = ((long)(s[0] & 0x07) << 18) |
             ((long)(s[1] & 0x3f) << 12) |
             ((long)(s[2] & 0x3f) <<  6) |
             ((long)(s[3] & 0x3f) <<  0);
        next = s + 4;
    } else {
        *c = -1; // invalid
        next = s + 1; // skip this byte
    if (*c >= 0xd800 && *c <= 0xdfff)
        *c = -1; // surrogate half
    return next;

It branches off on the highest bits of the leading byte, extracts all of those x bits from each byte, concatenates those bits, checks if it’s a surrogate half, and returns a pointer to the next character. (This implementation does not check that the highest two bits of each continuation byte are correct.)

The CPU must correctly predict the length of the code point or else it will suffer a hazard. An incorrect guess will stall the pipeline and slow down decoding.

In real world text this is probably not a serious issue. For the English language, the encoded length is nearly always a single byte. However, even for non-English languages, text is usually accompanied by markup from the ASCII range of characters, and, overall, the encoded lengths will still have consistency. As I said, the CPU predicts branches based on the program’s previous behavior, so this means it will temporarily learn some of the statistical properties of the language being actively decoded. Pretty cool, eh?

Eliminating branches from the decoder side-steps any issues with mispredicting encoded lengths. Only errors in the stream will cause stalls. Since that’s probably the unusual case, the branch predictor will be very successful by continually predicting success. That’s one optimistic CPU.

The branchless decoder

Here’s the interface to my branchless decoder:

void *utf8_decode(void *buf, uint32_t *c, int *e);

I chose void * for the buffer so that it doesn’t care what type was actually chosen to represent the buffer. It could be a uint8_t, char, unsigned char, etc. Doesn’t matter. The encoder accesses it only as bytes.

On the other hand, with this interface you’re forced to use uint32_t to represent code points. You could always change the function to suit your own needs, though.

Errors are returned in e. It’s zero for success and non-zero when an error was detected, without any particular meaning for different values. Error conditions are mixed into this integer, so a zero simply means the absence of error.

This is where you could accuse me of “cheating” a little bit. The caller probably wants to check for errors, and so they will have to branch on e. It seems I’ve just smuggled the branches outside of the decoder.

However, as I pointed out, unless you’re expecting lots of errors, the real cost is branching on encoded lengths. Furthermore, the caller could instead accumulate the errors: count them, or make the error “sticky” by ORing all e values together. Neither of these require a branch. The caller could decode a huge stream and only check for errors at the very end. The only branch would be the main loop (“are we done yet?”), which is trivial to predict with high accuracy.

The first thing the function does is extract the encoded length of the next code point:

    static const char lengths[] = {
        1, 1, 1, 1, 1, 1, 1, 1, 1, 1, 1, 1, 1, 1, 1, 1,
        0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 2, 2, 2, 2, 3, 3, 4, 0

    unsigned char *s = buf;
    int len = lengths[s[0] >> 3];

Looking back to the UTF-8 table above, only the highest 5 bits determine the length. That’s 32 possible values. The zeros are for invalid prefixes. This will later cause a bit to be set in e.

With the length in hand, it can compute the position of the next code point in the buffer.

    unsigned char *next = s + len + !len;

Originally this expression was the return value, computed at the very end of the function. However, after inspecting the compiler’s assembly output, I decided to move it up, and the result was a solid performance boost. That’s because it spreads out dependent instructions. With the address of the next code point known so early, the instructions that decode the next code point can get started early.

The reason for the !len is so that the pointer is advanced one byte even in the face of an error (length of zero). Adding that !len is actually somewhat costly, though I couldn’t figure out why.

    static const int shiftc[] = {0, 18, 12, 6, 0};

    *c  = (uint32_t)(s[0] & masks[len]) << 18;
    *c |= (uint32_t)(s[1] & 0x3f) << 12;
    *c |= (uint32_t)(s[2] & 0x3f) <<  6;
    *c |= (uint32_t)(s[3] & 0x3f) <<  0;
    *c >>= shiftc[len];

This reads four bytes regardless of the actual length. Avoiding doing something is branching, so this can’t be helped. The unneeded bits are shifted out based on the length. That’s all it takes to decode UTF-8 without branching.

One important consequence of always reading four bytes is that the caller must zero-pad the buffer to at least four bytes. In practice, this means padding the entire buffer with three bytes in case the last character is a single byte.

The padding must be zero in order to detect errors. Otherwise the padding might look like legal continuation bytes.

    static const uint32_t mins[] = {4194304, 0, 128, 2048, 65536};
    static const int shifte[] = {0, 6, 4, 2, 0};

    *e  = (*c < mins[len]) << 6;
    *e |= ((*c >> 11) == 0x1b) << 7;  // surrogate half?
    *e |= (s[1] & 0xc0) >> 2;
    *e |= (s[2] & 0xc0) >> 4;
    *e |= (s[3]       ) >> 6;
    *e ^= 0x2a;
    *e >>= shifte[len];

The first line checks if the shortest encoding was used, setting a bit in e if it wasn’t. For a length of 0, this always fails.

The second line checks for a surrogate half by checking for a certain prefix.

The next three lines accumulate the highest two bits of each continuation byte into e. Each should be the bits 10. These bits are “compared” to 101010 (0x2a) using XOR. The XOR clears these bits as long as they exactly match.

Finally the continuation prefix bits that don’t matter are shifted out.

The goal

My primary — and totally arbitrary — goal was to beat the performance of Björn Höhrmann’s DFA-based decoder. Under favorable (and artificial) benchmark conditions I had moderate success. You can try it out on your own system by cloning the repository and running make bench.

With GCC 6.3.0 on an i7-6700, my decoder is about 20% faster than the DFA decoder in the benchmark. With Clang 3.8.1 it’s just 1% faster.

Update: Björn pointed out that his site includes a faster variant of his DFA decoder. It is only 10% slower than the branchless decoder with GCC, and it’s 20% faster than the branchless decoder with Clang. So, in a sense, it’s still faster on average, even on a benchmark that favors a branchless decoder.

The benchmark operates very similarly to my PRNG shootout (e.g. alarm(2)). First a buffer is filled with random UTF-8 data, then the decoder decodes it again and again until the alarm fires. The measurement is the number of bytes decoded.

The number of errors is printed at the end (always 0) in order to force errors to actually get checked for each code point. Otherwise the sneaky compiler omits the error checking from the branchless decoder, making it appear much faster than it really is — a serious letdown once I noticed my error. Since the other decoder is a DFA and error checking is built into its graph, the compiler can’t really omit its error checking.

I called this “favorable” because the buffer being decoded isn’t anything natural. Each time a code point is generated, first a length is chosen uniformly: 1, 2, 3, or 4. Then a code point that encodes to that length is generated. The even distribution of lengths greatly favors a branchless decoder. The random distribution inhibits branch prediction. Real text has a far more favorable distribution.

randchar(uint64_t *s)
    uint32_t r = rand32(s);
    int len = 1 + (r & 0x3);
    r >>= 2;
    switch (len) {
        case 1:
            return r % 128;
        case 2:
            return 128 + r % (2048 - 128);
        case 3:
            return 2048 + r % (65536 - 2048);
        case 4:
            return 65536 + r % (131072 - 65536);

Given the odd input zero-padding requirement and the artificial parameters of the benchmark, despite the supposed 20% speed boost under GCC, my branchless decoder is not really any better than the DFA decoder in practice. It’s just a different approach. In practice I’d prefer Björn’s DFA decoder.

Update: Bryan Donlan has followed up with a SIMD UTF-8 decoder.

Finding the Best 64-bit Simulation PRNG

I use pseudo-random number generators (PRNGs) a whole lot. They’re an essential component in lots of algorithms and processes.

For the first three “simulation” uses, there are two primary factors that drive the selection of a PRNG. These factors can be at odds with each other:

  1. The PRNG should be very fast. The application should spend its time running the actual algorithms, not generating random numbers.

  2. PRNG output should have robust statistical qualities. Bits should appear to be independent and the output should closely follow the desired distribution. Poor quality output will negatively effect the algorithms using it. Also just as important is how you use it, but this article will focus only on generating bits.

In other situations, such as in cryptography or online gambling, another important property is that an observer can’t learn anything meaningful about the PRNG’s internal state from its output. For the three simulation cases I care about, this is not a concern. Only speed and quality properties matter.

Depending on the programming language, the PRNGs found in various standard libraries may be of dubious quality. They’re slower than they need to be, or have poorer quality than required. In some cases, such as rand() in C, the algorithm isn’t specified, and you can’t rely on it for anything outside of trivial examples. In other cases the algorithm and behavior is specified, but you could easily do better yourself.

My preference is to BYOPRNG: Bring Your Own Pseudo-random Number Generator. You get reliable, identical output everywhere. Also, in the case of C and C++ — and if you do it right — by embedding the PRNG in your project, it will get inlined and unrolled, making it far more efficient than a slow call into a dynamic library.

A fast PRNG is going to be small, making it a great candidate for embedding as, say, a header library. That leaves just one important question, “Can the PRNG be small and have high quality output?” In the 21st century, the answer to this question is an emphatic “yes!”

For the past few years my main go to for a drop-in PRNG has been xorshift*. The body of the function is 6 lines of C, and its entire state is a 64-bit integer, directly seeded. However, there are a number of choices here, including other variants of Xorshift. How do I know which one is best? The only way to know is to test it, hence my 64-bit PRNG shootout:

Sure, there are other such shootouts, but they’re all missing something I want to measure. I also want to test in an environment very close to how I’d use these PRNGs myself.

Shootout results

Before getting into the details of the benchmark and each generator, here are the results. These tests were run on an i7-6700 (Skylake) running Linux 4.9.0.

                               Speed (MB/s)
PRNG           FAIL  WEAK  gcc-6.3.0 clang-3.8.1
baseline          X     X      15000       13100
blowfishcbc16     0     1        169         157
blowfishcbc4      0     5        725         676
blowfishctr16     1     3        187         184
blowfishctr4      1     5        890        1000
mt64              1     7       1700        1970
pcg64             0     4       4150        3290
rc4               0     5        366         185
spcg64            0     8       5140        4960
xoroshiro128+     0     6       8100        7720
xorshift128+      0     2       7660        6530
xorshift64*       0     3       4990        5060

And the actual dieharder outputs:

The clear winner is xoroshiro128+, with a function body of just 7 lines of C. It’s clearly the fastest, and the output had no observed statistical failures. However, that’s not the whole story. A couple of the other PRNGS have advantages that situationally makes them better suited than xoroshiro128+. I’ll go over these in the discussion below.

These two versions of GCC and Clang were chosen because these are the latest available in Debian 9 “Stretch.” It’s easy to build and run the benchmark yourself if you want to try a different version.

Speed benchmark

In the speed benchmark, the PRNG is initialized, a 1-second alarm(1) is set, then the PRNG fills a large volatile buffer of 64-bit unsigned integers again and again as quickly as possible until the alarm fires. The amount of memory written is measured as the PRNG’s speed.

The baseline “PRNG” writes zeros into the buffer. This represents the absolute speed limit that no PRNG can exceed.

The purpose for making the buffer volatile is to force the entire output to actually be “consumed” as far as the compiler is concerned. Otherwise the compiler plays nasty tricks to make the program do as little work as possible. Another way to deal with this would be to write(2) buffer, but of course I didn’t want to introduce unnecessary I/O into a benchmark.

On Linux, SIGALRM was impressively consistent between runs, meaning it was perfectly suitable for this benchmark. To account for any process scheduling wonkiness, the bench mark was run 8 times and only the fastest time was kept.

The SIGALRM handler sets a volatile global variable that tells the generator to stop. The PRNG call was unrolled 8 times to avoid the alarm check from significantly impacting the benchmark. You can see the effect for yourself by changing UNROLL to 1 (i.e. “don’t unroll”) in the code. Unrolling beyond 8 times had no measurable effect to my tests.

Due to the PRNGs being inlined, this unrolling makes the benchmark less realistic, and it shows in the results. Using volatile for the buffer helped to counter this effect and reground the results. This is a fuzzy problem, and there’s not really any way to avoid it, but I will also discuss this below.

Statistical benchmark

To measure the statistical quality of each PRNG — mostly as a sanity check — the raw binary output was run through dieharder 3.31.1:

prng | dieharder -g200 -a -m4

This statistical analysis has no timing characteristics and the results should be the same everywhere. You would only need to re-run it to test with a different version of dieharder, or a different analysis tool.

There’s not much information to glean from this part of the shootout. It mostly confirms that all of these PRNGs would work fine for simulation purposes. The WEAK results are not very significant and is only useful for breaking ties. Even a true RNG will get some WEAK results. For example, the x86 RDRAND instruction (not included in actual shootout) got 7 WEAK results in my tests.

The FAIL results are more significant, but a single failure doesn’t mean much. A non-failing PRNG should be preferred to an otherwise equal PRNG with a failure.

Individual PRNGs

Admittedly the definition for “64-bit PRNG” is rather vague. My high performance targets are all 64-bit platforms, so the highest PRNG throughput will be built on 64-bit operations (if not wider). The original plan was to focus on PRNGs built from 64-bit operations.

Curiosity got the best of me, so I included some PRNGs that don’t use any 64-bit operations. I just wanted to see how they stacked up.


One of the reasons I wrote a Blowfish implementation was to evaluate its performance and statistical qualities, so naturally I included it in the benchmark. It only uses 32-bit addition and 32-bit XOR. It has a 64-bit block size, so it’s naturally producing a 64-bit integer. There are two different properties that combine to make four variants in the benchmark: number of rounds and block mode.

Blowfish normally uses 16 rounds. This makes it a lot slower than a non-cryptographic PRNG but gives it a security margin. I don’t care about the security margin, so I included a 4-round variant. At expected, it’s about four times faster.

The other feature I tested is the block mode: Cipher Block Chaining (CBC) versus Counter (CTR) mode. In CBC mode it encrypts zeros as plaintext. This just means it’s encrypting its last output. The ciphertext is the PRNG’s output.

In CTR mode the PRNG is encrypting a 64-bit counter. It’s 11% faster than CBC in the 16-round variant and 23% faster in the 4-round variant. The reason is simple, and it’s in part an artifact of unrolling the generation loop in the benchmark.

In CBC mode, each output depends on the previous, but in CTR mode all blocks are independent. Work can begin on the next output before the previous output is complete. The x86 architecture uses out-of-order execution to achieve many of its performance gains: Instructions may be executed in a different order than they appear in the program, though their observable effects must generally be ordered correctly. Breaking dependencies between instructions allows out-of-order execution to be fully exercised. It also gives the compiler more freedom in instruction scheduling, though the volatile accesses cannot be reordered with respect to each other (hence it helping to reground the benchmark).

Statistically, the 4-round cipher was not significantly worse than the 16-round cipher. For simulation purposes the 4-round cipher would be perfectly sufficient, though xoroshiro128+ is still more than 9 times faster without sacrificing quality.

On the other hand, CTR mode had a single failure in both the 4-round (dab_filltree2) and 16-round (dab_filltree) variants. At least for Blowfish, is there something that makes CTR mode less suitable than CBC mode as a PRNG?

In the end Blowfish is too slow and too complicated to serve as a simulation PRNG. This was entirely expected, but it’s interesting to see how it stacks up.

Mersenne Twister (MT19937-64)

Nobody ever got fired for choosing Mersenne Twister. It’s the classical choice for simulations, and is still usually recommended to this day. However, Mersenne Twister’s best days are behind it. I tested the 64-bit variant, MT19937-64, and there are four problems:

Curiously my implementation is 16% faster with Clang than GCC. Since Mersenne Twister isn’t seriously in the running, I didn’t take time to dig into why.

Ultimately I would never choose Mersenne Twister for anything anymore. This was also not surprising.

Permuted Congruential Generator (PCG)

The Permuted Congruential Generator (PCG) has some really interesting history behind it, particularly with its somewhat unusual paper, controversial for both its excessive length (58 pages) and informal style. It’s in close competition with Xorshift and xoroshiro128+. I was really interested in seeing how it stacked up.

PCG is really just a Linear Congruential Generator (LCG) that doesn’t output the lowest bits (too poor quality), and has an extra permutation step to make up for the LCG’s other weaknesses. I included two variants in my benchmark: the official PCG and a “simplified” PCG (sPCG) with a simple permutation step. sPCG is just the first PCG presented in the paper (34 pages in!).

Here’s essentially what the simplified version looks like:

spcg32(uint64_t s[1])
    uint64_t m = 0x9b60933458e17d7d;
    uint64_t a = 0xd737232eeccdf7ed;
    *s = *s * m + a;
    int shift = 29 - (*s >> 61);
    return *s >> shift;

The third line with the modular multiplication and addition is the LCG. The bit shift is the permutation. This PCG uses the most significant three bits of the result to determine which 32 bits to output. That’s the novel component of PCG.

The two constants are entirely my own devising. It’s two 64-bit primes generated using Emacs’ M-x calc: 2 64 ^ k r k n k p k p k p.

Heck, that’s so simple that I could easily memorize this and code it from scratch on demand. Key takeaway: This is one way that PCG is situationally better than xoroshiro128+. In a pinch I could use Emacs to generate a couple of primes and code the rest from memory. If you participate in coding competitions, take note.

However, you probably also noticed PCG only generates 32-bit integers despite using 64-bit operations. To properly generate a 64-bit value we’d need 128-bit operations, which would need to be implemented in software.

Instead, I doubled up on everything to run two PRNGs in parallel. Despite the doubling in state size, the period doesn’t get any larger since the PRNGs don’t interact with each other. We get something in return, though. Remember what I said about out-of-order execution? Except for the last step combining their results, since the two PRNGs are independent, doubling up shouldn’t quite halve the performance, particularly with the benchmark loop unrolling business.

Here’s my doubled-up version:

spcg64(uint64_t s[2])
    uint64_t m  = 0x9b60933458e17d7d;
    uint64_t a0 = 0xd737232eeccdf7ed;
    uint64_t a1 = 0x8b260b70b8e98891;
    uint64_t p0 = s[0];
    uint64_t p1 = s[1];
    s[0] = p0 * m + a0;
    s[1] = p1 * m + a1;
    int r0 = 29 - (p0 >> 61);
    int r1 = 29 - (p1 >> 61);
    uint64_t high = p0 >> r0;
    uint32_t low  = p1 >> r1;
    return (high << 32) | low;

The “full” PCG has some extra shifts that makes it 25% (GCC) to 50% (Clang) slower than the “simplified” PCG, but it does halve the WEAK results.

In this 64-bit form, both are significantly slower than xoroshiro128+. However, if you find yourself only needing 32 bits at a time (always throwing away the high 32 bits from a 64-bit PRNG), 32-bit PCG is faster than using xoroshiro128+ and throwing away half its output.


This is another CSPRNG where I was curious how it would stack up. It only uses 8-bit operations, and it generates a 64-bit integer one byte at a time. It’s the slowest after 16-round Blowfish and generally not useful as a simulation PRNG.


xoroshiro128+ is the obvious winner in this benchmark and it seems to be the best 64-bit simulation PRNG available. If you need a fast, quality PRNG, just drop these 11 lines into your C or C++ program:

xoroshiro128plus(uint64_t s[2])
    uint64_t s0 = s[0];
    uint64_t s1 = s[1];
    uint64_t result = s0 + s1;
    s1 ^= s0;
    s[0] = ((s0 << 55) | (s0 >> 9)) ^ s1 ^ (s1 << 14);
    s[1] = (s1 << 36) | (s1 >> 28);
    return result;

There’s one important caveat: That 16-byte state must be well-seeded. Having lots of zero bytes will lead terrible initial output until the generator mixes it all up. Having all zero bytes will completely break the generator. If you’re going to seed from, say, the unix epoch, then XOR it with 16 static random bytes.

xorshift128+ and xorshift64*

These generators are closely related and, like I said, xorshift64* was what I used for years. Looks like it’s time to retire it.

xorshift64star(uint64_t s[1])
    uint64_t x = s[0];
    x ^= x >> 12;
    x ^= x << 25;
    x ^= x >> 27;
    s[0] = x;
    return x * UINT64_C(0x2545f4914f6cdd1d);

However, unlike both xoroshiro128+ and xorshift128+, xorshift64* will tolerate weak seeding so long as it’s not literally zero. Zero will also break this generator.

If it weren’t for xoroshiro128+, then xorshift128+ would have been the winner of the benchmark and my new favorite choice.

xorshift128plus(uint64_t s[2])
    uint64_t x = s[0];
    uint64_t y = s[1];
    s[0] = y;
    x ^= x << 23;
    s[1] = x ^ y ^ (x >> 17) ^ (y >> 26);
    return s[1] + y;

It’s a lot like xoroshiro128+, including the need to be well-seeded, but it’s just slow enough to lose out. There’s no reason to use xorshift128+ instead of xoroshiro128+.


My own takeaway (until I re-evaluate some years in the future):

Things can change significantly between platforms, though. Here’s the shootout on a ARM Cortex-A53:

                    Speed (MB/s)
PRNG         gcc-5.4.0   clang-3.8.0
baseline          2560        2400
blowfishcbc16       36.5        45.4
blowfishcbc4       135         173
blowfishctr16       36.4        45.2
blowfishctr4       133         168
mt64               207         254
pcg64              980         712
rc4                 96.6        44.0
spcg64            1021         948
xoroshiro128+     2560        1570
xorshift128+      2560        1520
xorshift64*       1360        1080

LLVM is not as mature on this platform, but, with GCC, both xoroshiro128+ and xorshift128+ matched the baseline! It seems memory is the bottleneck.

So don’t necessarily take my word for it. You can run this shootout in your own environment — perhaps even tossing in more PRNGs — to find what’s appropriate for your own situation.

Blowpipe: a Blowfish-encrypted, Authenticated Pipe

Blowpipe is a toy crypto tool that creates a Blowfish-encrypted pipe. It doesn’t open any files and instead encrypts and decrypts from standard input to standard output. This pipe can encrypt individual files or even encrypt a network connection (à la netcat).

Most importantly, since Blowpipe is intended to be used as a pipe (duh), it will never output decrypted plaintext that hasn’t been authenticated. That is, it will detect tampering of the encrypted stream and truncate its output, reporting an error, without producing the manipulated data. Some very similar tools that aren’t considered toys lack this important feature, such as aespipe.


Blowpipe came about because I wanted to study Blowfish, a 64-bit block cipher designed by Bruce Schneier in 1993. It’s played an important role in the history of cryptography and has withstood cryptanalysis for 24 years. Its major weakness is its small block size, leaving it vulnerable to birthday attacks regardless of any other property of the cipher. Even in 1993 the 64-bit block size was a bit on the small side, but Blowfish was intended as a drop-in replacement for the Data Encryption Standard (DES) and the International Data Encryption Algorithm (IDEA), other 64-bit block ciphers.

The main reason I’m calling this program a toy is that, outside of legacy interfaces, it’s simply not appropriate to deploy a 64-bit block cipher in 2017. Blowpipe shouldn’t be used to encrypt more than a few tens of GBs of data at a time. Otherwise I’m fairly confident in both my message construction and my implementation. One detail is a little uncertain, and I’ll discuss it later when describing message format.

A tool that I am confident about is Enchive, though since it’s intended for file encryption, it’s not appropriate for use as a pipe. It doesn’t authenticate until after it has produced most of its output. Enchive does try its best to delete files containing unauthenticated output when authentication fails, but this doesn’t prevent you from consuming this output before it can be deleted, particularly if you pipe the output into another program.


As you might expect, there are two modes of operation: encryption (-E) and decryption (-D). The simplest usage is encrypting and decrypting a file:

$ blowpipe -E < data.gz > data.gz.enc
$ blowpipe -D < data.gz.enc | gunzip > data.txt

In both cases you will be prompted for a passphrase which can be up to 72 bytes in length. The only verification for the key is the first Message Authentication Code (MAC) in the datastream, so Blowpipe cannot tell the difference between damaged ciphertext and an incorrect key.

In a script it would be smart to check Blowpipe’s exit code after decrypting. The output will be truncated should authentication fail somewhere in the middle. Since Blowpipe isn’t aware of files, it can’t clean up for you.

Another use case is securely transmitting files over a network with netcat. In this example I’ll use a pre-shared key file, keyfile. Rather than prompt for a key, Blowpipe will use the raw bytes of a given file. Here’s how I would create a key file:

$ head -c 32 /dev/urandom > keyfile

First the receiver listens on a socket (bind(2)):

$ nc -lp 2000 | blowpipe -D -k keyfile > data.zip

Then the sender connects (connect(2)) and pipes Blowpipe through:

$ blowpipe -E -k keyfile < data.zip | nc -N hostname 2000

If all went well, Blowpipe will exit with 0 on the receiver side.

Blowpipe doesn’t buffer its output (but see -w). It performs one read(2), encrypts whatever it got, prepends a MAC, and calls write(2) on the result. This means it can comfortably transmit live sensitive data across the network:

$ nc -lp 2000 | blowpipe -D

# dmesg -w | blowpipe -E | nc -N hostname 2000

Kernel messages will appear on the other end as they’re produced by dmesg. Though keep in mind that the size of each line will be known to eavesdroppers. Blowpipe doesn’t pad it with noise or otherwise try to disguise the length. Those lengths may leak useful information.


This whole project started when I wanted to play with Blowfish as a small drop-in library. I wasn’t satisfied with the selection, so I figured it would be a good exercise to write my own. Besides, the specification is both an enjoyable and easy read (and recommended). It justifies the need for a new cipher and explains the various design decisions.

I coded from the specification, including writing a script to generate the subkey initialization tables. Subkeys are initialized to the binary representation of pi (the first ~10,000 decimal digits). After a couple hours of work I hooked up the official test vectors to see how I did, and all the tests passed on the first run. This wasn’t reasonable, so I spent awhile longer figuring out how I screwed up my tests. Turns out I absolutely nailed it on my first shot. It’s a really great sign for Blowfish that it’s so easy to implement correctly.

Blowfish’s key schedule produces five subkeys requiring 4,168 bytes of storage. The key schedule is unusually complex: Subkeys are repeatedly encrypted with themselves as they are being computed. This complexity inspired the bcrypt password hashing scheme, which essentially works by iterating the key schedule many times in a loop, then encrypting a constant 24-byte string. My bcrypt implementation wasn’t nearly as successful on my first attempt, and it took hours of debugging in order to match OpenBSD’s outputs.

The encryption and decryption algorithms are nearly identical, as is typical for, and a feature of, Feistel ciphers. There are no branches (preventing some side-channel attacks), and the only operations are 32-bit XOR and 32-bit addition. This makes it ideal for implementation on 32-bit computers.

One tricky point is that encryption and decryption operate on a pair of 32-bit integers (another giveaway that it’s a Feistel cipher). To put the cipher to practical use, these integers have to be serialized into a byte stream. The specification doesn’t choose a byte order, even for mixing the key into the subkeys. The official test vectors are also 32-bit integers, not byte arrays. An implementer could choose little endian, big endian, or even something else.

However, there’s one place in which this decision is formally made: the official test vectors mix the key into the first subkey in big endian byte order. By luck I happened to choose big endian as well, which is why my tests passed on the first try. OpenBSD’s version of bcrypt also uses big endian for all integer encoding steps, further cementing big endian as the standard way to encode Blowfish integers.

Blowfish library

The Blowpipe repository contains a ready-to-use, public domain Blowfish library written in strictly conforming C99. The interface is just three functions:

void blowfish_init(struct blowfish *, const void *key, int len);
void blowfish_encrypt(struct blowfish *, uint32_t *, uint32_t *);
void blowfish_decrypt(struct blowfish *, uint32_t *, uint32_t *);

Technically the key can be up to 72 bytes long, but the last 16 bytes have an incomplete effect on the subkeys, so only the first 56 bytes should matter. Since bcrypt runs the key schedule multiple times, all 72 bytes have full effect.

The library also includes a bcrypt implementation, though it will only produce the raw password hash, not the base-64 encoded form. The main reason for including bcrypt is to support Blowpipe.

Message format

The main goal of Blowpipe was to build a robust, authenticated encryption tool using only Blowfish as a cryptographic primitive.

  1. It uses bcrypt with a moderately-high cost as a key derivation function (KDF). Not terrible, but this is not a memory hard KDF, which is important for protecting against cheap hardware brute force attacks.

  2. Encryption is Blowfish in “counter” CTR mode. A 64-bit counter is incremented and encrypted, producing a keystream. The plaintext is XORed with this keystream like a stream cipher. This allows the last block to be truncated when output and eliminates some padding issues. Since CRT mode is trivially malleable, the MAC becomes even more important. In CTR mode, blowfish_decrypt() is never called. In fact, Blowpipe never uses it.

  3. The authentication scheme is Blowfish-CBC-MAC with a unique key and encrypt-then-authenticate (something I harmlessly got wrong with Enchive). It essentially encrypts the ciphertext again with a different key, but in Cipher Block Chaining mode (CBC), but it only saves the final block. The final block is prepended to the ciphertext as the MAC. On decryption the same block is computed again to ensure that it matches. Only someone who knows the MAC key can compute it.

Of all three Blowfish uses, I’m least confident about authentication. CBC-MAC is tricky to get right, though I am following the rules: fixed length messages using a different key than encryption.

Wait a minute. Blowpipe is pipe-oriented and can output data without buffering the entire pipe. How can there be fixed-length messages?

The pipe datastream is broken into 64kB chunks. Each chunk is authenticated with its own MAC. Both the MAC and chunk length are written in the chunk header, and the length is authenticated by the MAC. Furthermore, just like the keystream, the MAC is continued from previous chunk, preventing chunks from being reordered. Blowpipe can output the content of a chunk and discard it once it’s been authenticated. If any chunk fails to authenticate, it aborts.

This also leads to another useful trick: The pipe is terminated with a zero length chunk, preventing an attacker from appending to the datastream. Everything after the zero-length chunk is discarded. Since the length is authenticated by the MAC, the attacker also cannot truncate the pipe since that would require knowledge of the MAC key.

The pipe itself has a 17 byte header: a 16 byte random bcrypt salt and 1 byte for the bcrypt cost. The salt is like an initialization vector (IV) that allows keys to be safely reused in different Blowpipe instances. The cost byte is the only distinguishing byte in the stream. Since even the chunk lengths are encrypted, everything else in the datastream should be indistinguishable from random data.


Blowpipe runs on POSIX systems and Windows (Mingw-w64 and MSVC). I initially wrote it for POSIX (on Linux) of course, but I took an unusual approach when it came time to port it to Windows. Normally I’d invent a generic OS interface that makes the appropriate host system calls. This time I kept the POSIX interface (read(2), write(2), open(2), etc.) and implemented the tiny subset of POSIX that I needed in terms of Win32. That implementation can be found under w32-compat/. I even dropped in a copy of my own getopt().

One really cool feature of this technique is that, on Windows, Blowpipe will still “open” /dev/urandom. It’s intercepted by my own open(2), which in response to that filename actually calls CryptAcquireContext() and pretends like it’s a file. It’s all hidden behind the file descriptor. That’s the unix way.

I’m considering giving Enchive the same treatment since it would simply and reduce much of the interface code. In fact, this project has taught me a number of ways that Enchive could be improved. That’s the value of writing “toys” such as Blowpipe.

Gap Buffers Are Not Optimized for Multiple Cursors

Gap buffers are a common data structure for representing a text buffer in a text editor. Emacs famously uses gap buffers — long-standing proof that gap buffers are a perfectly sufficient way to represent a text buffer.

A gap buffer is really a pair of buffers where one buffer holds all of the content before the cursor (or point for Emacs), and the other buffer holds the content after the cursor. When the cursor is moved through the buffer, characters are copied from one buffer to the other. Inserts and deletes close to the gap are very efficient.

Typically it’s implemented as a single large buffer, with the pre-cursor content at the beginning, the post-cursor content at the end, and the gap spanning the middle. Here’s an illustration:

The top of the animation is the display of the text content and cursor as the user would see it. The bottom is the gap buffer state, where each character is represented as a gray block, and a literal gap for the cursor.

Ignoring for a moment more complicated concerns such as undo and Unicode, a gap buffer could be represented by something as simple as the following:

struct gapbuf {
    char *buf;
    size_t total;  /* total size of buf */
    size_t front;  /* size of content before cursor */
    size_t gap;    /* size of the gap */

This is close to how Emacs represents it. In the structure above, the size of the content after the cursor isn’t tracked directly, but can be computed on the fly from the other three quantities. That is to say, this data structure is normalized.

As an optimization, the cursor could be tracked separately from the gap such that non-destructive cursor movement is essentially free. The difference between cursor and gap would only need to be reconciled for a destructive change — an insert or delete.

A gap buffer certainly isn’t the only way to do it. For example, the original vi used an array of lines, which sort of explains some of its quirky line-oriented idioms. The BSD clone of vi, nvi, uses an entire database to represent buffers. Vim uses a fairly complex rope-like data structure with page-oriented blocks, which may be stored out-of-order in its swap file.

Multiple cursors

Multiple cursors is fairly recent text editor invention that has gained a lot of popularity recent years. It seems every major editor either has the feature built in or a readily-available extension. I myself used Magnar Sveen’s well-polished package for several years. Though obviously the concept didn’t originate in Emacs or else it would have been called multiple points, which doesn’t quite roll off the tongue quite the same way.

The concept is simple: If the same operation needs to done in many different places in a buffer, you place a cursor at each position, then drive them all in parallel using the same commands. It’s super flashy and great for impressing all your friends.

However, as a result of improving my typing skills, I’ve come to the conclusion that multiple cursors is all hat and no cattle. It doesn’t compose well with other editing commands, it doesn’t scale up to large operations, and it’s got all sorts of flaky edge cases (off-screen cursors). Nearly anything you can do with multiple cursors, you can do better with old, well-established editing paradigms.

Somewhere around 99% of my multiple cursors usage was adding a common prefix to a contiguous serious of lines. As similar brute force options, Emacs already has rectangular editing, and Vim already has visual block mode.

The most sophisticated, flexible, and robust alternative is a good old macro. You can play it back anywhere it’s needed. You can zip it across a huge buffer. The only downside is that it’s less flashy and so you’ll get invited to a slightly smaller number of parties.

But if you don’t buy my arguments about multiple cursors being tasteless, there’s still a good technical argument: Gap buffers are not designed to work well in the face of multiple cursors!

For example, suppose we have a series of function calls and we’d like to add the same set of arguments to each. It’s a classic situation for a macro or for multiple cursors. Here’s the original code:


The example is tiny so that it will fit in the animations to come. Here’s the desired code:

foo(x, y);
bar(x, y);
baz(x, y);

With multiple cursors you would place a cursor inside each set of parenthesis, then type x, y. Visually it looks something like this:

Text is magically inserted in parallel in multiple places at a time. However, if this is a text editor that uses a gap buffer, the situation underneath isn’t quite so magical. The entire edit doesn’t happen at once. First the x is inserted in each location, then the comma, and so on. The edits are not clustered so nicely.

From the gap buffer’s point of view, here’s what it looks like:

For every individual character insertion the buffer has to visit each cursor in turn, performing lots of copying back and forth. The more cursors there are, the worse it gets. For an edit of length n with m cursors, that’s O(n * m) calls to memmove(3). Multiple cursors scales badly.

Compare that to the old school hacker who can’t be bothered with something as tacky and modern (eww!) as multiple cursors, instead choosing to record a macro, then play it back:

The entire edit is done locally before moving on to the next location. It’s perfectly in tune with the gap buffer’s expectations, only needing O(m) calls to memmove(3). Most of the work flows neatly into the gap.

So, don’t waste your time with multiple cursors, especially if you’re using a gap buffer text editor. Instead get more comfortable with your editor’s macro feature. If your editor doesn’t have a good macro feature, get a new editor.

If you want to make your own gap buffer animations, here’s the source code. It includes a tiny gap buffer implementation:

null program

Chris Wellons