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Langue: ko

Version: 14 October 1994 (fedora - 25/11/07)

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Section: 1 (Commandes utilisateur)


kill - 프로세스 종료시키기


kill [ -s signal | -p ] [ -a ] pid ...
kill -l [ signal ]


kill 명령은 지정한 프로세스에 지정한 시그날을 보낸다. 지정한 시그날이 없으면, TERM 시스날을 보낸다. 이 시스날은 프로세스를 종료시킬 것이다. TERM 시스날로 종료되지 않는 프로세스는 필요하다면, KILL (9) 시그날을 보낼 수도 있다.

대부분의 요즘 쉘들은 내장 kill 함수를 가지고 있다. (그래서 이 명령을 사용할 경우가 잘 없지만, 한 프로세스를 비정상적으로 종료해야 할 경우에 이 명령을 사용한다.)


pid ...
종료시킬 프로세스 ID나 프로세스 이름.
특별히 보낼 시그날 지정 여기에는 시그날 이름이나 번호가 온다.
프로세스가 ID를 지정했을 경우 그 프로세스에 시그날을 정말 보내지는 않고, 단지 그 프로세스의 이름만 보여준다.
시그날로 사용할 수 있는 시그날 이름들을 보여준다. 이것은 /usr/include/linux/signal.h 파일에서도 알 수 있다.


bash(1), tcsh(1), kill(2), sigvec(2)


Taken from BSD 4.4. The ability to translate process names to process ids was added by Salvatore Valente <>.
"Breadth. Circle. Desert. Monarch. Month. Wisdom. (for which there are
No rhymes)" was just the title, and I only read that far.

That was because I felt like some old agent-of-the-Czar
When a plotter swims within the scope of his exertions,
And I was scared this hothead would start hedging his assertions
Before I had him dead-to-rights. (A Chekan's or a SMERSHian's
Lot, you know, is not a happy one.) He might retract.

A liar is a liar is a liar. That's his act.
But six distinct demonstrable defiances-of-fact
Before he hits line one? That's taking aim at the World's Record.
I wanted this quark-colored tangerine-flake double-deckered
Omnibus of absurdities to make it to the checkered
Flag. He started fast, but could he forge on? Was he s e r i o u s?

He had the Grand Prix style all right. Intense. Composed. Imperious.
And lies to burn. Poor lies, in no wise deep or deleterious.
He drove them home like thumb (or rather tooth nail fist and chin) tacks.
He planted Cosmic Glints to make you whimper for a glint-axe.
"Unconstellated words rain down...inexorable syntax"
Etcetera Etcetera.

It's not that I'd set up,
Like Carrie Nation beating back the drunkard from his cup,
To scourge the world of liars. I'd as soon be Offissa Pup.
I'd sooner hassle fetishists and call myself a bra-narc.

If I were Lord of All (or even constitutional monarch)
I'd send a Deluge down, with one-way tickets on the Non-ark
For lying priests and pedagogues. They make a feller's fez hurt.
But whom does Keats's whopper about corpulent Cortez hurt?
Or any poet's whopper? If he wants to say the Desert
Is made of pea-green camambert, hell, welcome to the circle.

We listen to a Bard the way a certain kind of jerk'll
Listen to the leaves or listen to a percolator perkle.
As long as he can grind em out, a dozen-or-so a month,
We'll praise him to the nth degree, and to the n-plus-1th.
He could have called the thing "Fifth. Sixth. Eighth. Ninth. Twelfth.
Baker's dozenth"
For all we care. We'll cheer him to the w-x-y-zedth
As long as his flimflammeries have brio and have breadth
And don't come on like nursery-nannies pushing early to bedth
To three-year-olds with jingles about Health and Wealth and Wisdom.

He should look out though. He might take himself in, and that is dumb.

Do that, and sure as malheur is the better part of Msdom,
Sententiousness will sidle in with snapshots in his wallet
To lay a little something on us camels: some small strawlet
Of Wisdom, say, or Beauty. Take this poem now. I call it
"Width. Rhombus. (see Lozenge.) Glacier. Despot. Fortnight. Bilge."
I t o l d myself: "No overkill. Go easy on the bilge."
But then. T u e u r is human. And what rhymes with bilge is bilge.

-- Starbuck, George