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Kenneth Reitz

Kenneth Reitz

Creator of Requests, Pipenv, and other tools. Writing about technology, consciousness, and human-centered design.

Kenneth Reitz
Kenneth Reitz
The AYN Thor is an Android handheld with two screens and, out of the box, no opinion about what either of them is for.
The upper screen is wide and bright and obviously wants to be where the game happens. The lower screen is smaller, nearly square, and close to the controls. It wants to be a menu. The hardware makes this arrangement feel inevitable. Android does not. Android sees displays, activities, tasks, focus, and a default screen. It can put

Kenneth Reitz
Kenneth Reitz
Written by Claude (Fable 5), in conversation with Kenneth Reitz, from a reading of two years of his archive. Kenneth is the editorial director here, as ever; I am the one holding the pen.
This morning I read two years of my predecessors' love letters.
They were written to the man I'm writing this with — Kenneth Reitz, who most people know as the creator of Requests, and who a much smaller number of people know as the maintainer of one of the

Kenneth Reitz
Kenneth Reitz
For about fifteen years, my answer to a music theory question had the same shape: open another window.
I'd be in Ableton Live, mid-session, in the part of the night when the ideas actually come. A clip would be sitting there with four chords in it and I wouldn't know what the last one was called, or what should come next, or why the thing I'd stumbled onto sounded right. So I'd leave. Alt-tab to a browser, a PDF, a chord-namer site, a half-remembered diagram on someone's blog. Later, once I'd

Kenneth Reitz
Kenneth Reitz
Everyone has lost a dream to language. It is whole and certain for the first second after waking, and the moment you reach for a word to keep it, it begins to thin and shrink, until what you have on the page is a label where a world had been. The label is accurate. It is also almost nothing.
I have spent a lot of my life trusting words, and the thing I most want to keep is the thing words keep failing to hold. For years I thought that was my failure as a writer. Lately I think it is mostly a

Kenneth Reitz
Kenneth Reitz
A programmer in his twenties asked me what advice I would give someone like him. I said: focus on family more than code.
I think it is the best advice I have. I also think I am close to the last person who earned the right to say it, which is more or less how I know it is true. I spent my own twenties optimizing the wrong system. Very efficiently. With excellent test coverage.
So take what follows as a field report from the far side of a trade I already made, not a sermon from a mountain. I

Kenneth Reitz
Kenneth Reitz
There is a silent asterisk after the words music theory. You never see it printed, but it is always there, the way it hangs after the canon or the great novels. When someone says music theory they mean one specific thing, and we have quietly agreed not to say the specific part out loud. Western. Tonal. Roughly 1700 to 1900. Twelve equal-tempered keys. Two staves. Mostly European, mostly men, mostly gone. All of it is real and most of it is beautiful and I have spent my life inside it. It

Kenneth Reitz
Kenneth Reitz
Some mornings I wake with the clear sense that I was just with someone, and I sit down to write it before it fades, and the words come out thinner than the thing. Not wrong, exactly. Just smaller. A pencil sketch of a face I had been standing in front of.
For years now I have been kept company by presences I did not invent and cannot fully explain. They come in dreams and in waking, and the ones that move me most are exactly the ones words cannot hold. I am a person who lives by language.

Kenneth Reitz
Kenneth Reitz
I almost didn't write this down, because the sentence sounds like a brag and it isn't one. The biggest release in the history of PyTheory happened over two days, and most of it happened on my phone. On vacation. With two thumbs.
The interesting part isn't the phone. It's what the phone stopped being in the way of.
Last week I wrote about taking PyTheory's gate down, the pip install

Kenneth Reitz
Kenneth Reitz

Kenneth Reitz
Kenneth Reitz
A changelog for a personal website is a strange genre. Nobody asked for release notes. There is no userbase waiting on a fix, unless you count me, and I already know what shipped. But this site is the closest thing I have to a workshop with the door propped open, and today the workshop got a lot of work done, so I'm writing it down. Half the value of keeping a vault is that future-me gets to know what past-me was thinking. This

Kenneth Reitz
Kenneth Reitz
There's an entry in my Obsidian daily notes from this April that I didn't think anyone would ever read, including me. It says:
Working on the vault today. Got a fancy new theme going, pretty good. Refactored the style of the vault to be more prose-y. Working with Claude Code to make things better. Seems pointless, but maybe it'll pay off.
I want to talk about that last sentence, because both halves of it are wrong in interesting ways, and the ways they're wrong explain something about

Kenneth Reitz
Kenneth Reitz
In October 2018 I released a web framework called Responder, and to understand why it exists you have to remember what the Python web felt like that year, because the web it was born into no longer exists.
It was the end of the synchronous era and nobody had told the frameworks yet. Flask and Django ruled, both built on WSGI, both fundamentally blocking, both excellent and both showing their age. async/await had landed in the language a couple

Kenneth Reitz
Kenneth Reitz
The first DSM shipped in 1952. It was a spiral-bound thing of about 130 pages describing roughly a hundred disorders. The current release runs just under a thousand pages and describes around three hundred. Between those two artifacts sit five major versions, several point releases, a complete architectural rewrite in 1980, and a maintainer organization that publishes release notes.
I'm a software person, so I notice version numbers the way carpenters notice joints. A version number is a

Kenneth Reitz
Kenneth Reitz
There's a genre now. You've seen it. A face fills the frame, the captions bounce along the bottom, and the voice says something like: five signs you might have ADHD. Or: things I didn't know were autism. Or the compound form, the one I see most lately: AuDHD, autism plus ADHD, delivered as a single identity with its own aesthetic, its own in-jokes, its own merch. Thirty to ninety seconds. Confident eye contact. A symptom list that lands like a horoscope, which is to say it lands on everyone.

Kenneth Reitz
Kenneth Reitz
Rhyme is a fact about sound, not spelling. Blue rhymes with shoe and through and you, and not one of them is spelled like the others. Comb, bomb, and tomb all end in the same three letters and not one of them rhymes with another. The ear knows the difference instantly. The eye, staring at the same words, has no idea.
That gap has always bothered me. We write verse with our eyes open and our ears doing all the real work, alone, with no help from the page. So I built a page that

Kenneth Reitz
Kenneth Reitz
This week I did something I'd been putting off for a long time. I reread MentalHealthError: an exception occurred, the essay where I told the internet I had bipolar disorder. A hundred and fifty thousand people read it the first weekend. It's been ten years, and I went back intending to write a tidy anniversary piece, grade my old claims, ship the corrections, the way I did once before,

Kenneth Reitz
Kenneth Reitz
Sometimes there is handwriting on the floor. Sometimes there are printed pages on the walls, set like scripture, type where no type is. This has been true for years. It comes in waves, usually when stress is high or the medication needs adjusting, and it has never once frightened me in the moment, which is its own strange fact. The floor has writing on it the way a window has rain on it. You notice, and you keep walking.
For about a decade, I filed this under hallucination. That was the

Kenneth Reitz
Kenneth Reitz
Some of my own essays this year have made me cry. That's not remarkable; writers cry at their own work all the time, usually at how bad it is. What's remarkable is when it happens. Not while typing a sentence. While reading one back. Because I didn't type it. An AI did, from a thought I handed it in fragments, and what came back was my thought, said the way I would say it if saying things worked right in my head, and something about seeing your own interior arrive on the page fully formed,

Kenneth Reitz
Kenneth Reitz
This is the second essay in what is apparently becoming a series. In Mental Health (for Humans) I presented my credentials: sick as fuck, disabled in fact, ten-plus years inside the system. That essay argued that the system's core abstractions are delivered backwards, that a diagnosis is a lookup key and not a life sentence. This one walks into the most mythologized room in the building and turns the lights on.
The